battle.” He nodded towards Shirley. “Quite a guy.”
“Like Sir Lancelot.”
“Sir Lancelot…” As Audley repeated the name his glance settled on Mosby. “… now he would be more in your special field, I take it, Mr Sheldon?”
Mosby had the feeling he was being double-checked for any lingering sign of the Arthurian heresy.
“Not Lancelot, no,” he began warily. “He’s strictly twelfth century.”
“You surprise me. There aren’t many non-experts who could pin him down as a twelfth century addition to the legend. For most people he’s as important as King Arthur—or even more important.”
“For Queen Guinevere certainly,” murmured Faith drily.
“That’s right. The quest for the Holy Grail is a bit out of fashion; three-quarters of the population’s probably never heard of it. But they can recognise a sensational case of adultery when they see one, they understand that all right.” Audley paused. “But then you said you weren’t an admirer of Arthur’s, I remember now.”
The very obliqueness of the approach—the conveniently delayed memory of the final exchange in the car—confirmed Mosby’s conviction that the Englishman was hooked, and more than hooked: he was positively bursting with curiosity.
“I’m not. It’s the period around A.D. 500 I’m interested in—the real history.”
“The real history.” Audley repeated the words, and then fell silent, waiting for Mosby to continue.
“Uh-huh,” Mosby agreed unhelpfully. This time Audley was going to have to work for what he wanted. “It’s a fascinating period.”
Pause.
“But poorly documented.”
“That’s what makes it fascinating.”
Again Audley waited—in vain.
“The only new evidence is archaeological nowadays, and there isn’t a lot of that,” he said finally, with a hint of self-doubt in his voice.
“There sure isn’t,” agreed Mosby. “Our mutual ancestors weren’t exactly well-endowed with the world’s goods to leave behind.”
“No consumer durables,” said Shirley brightly.
Audley flashed her a microsecond’s worth of exasperation. Then he cracked. “You mentioned the battle of Badon Hill.”
“You mentioned a miracle,” said Faith. “That’s what interested me. My husband doesn’t believe in them—he’s got no romance in his soul, I’m afraid.”
Audley raised a finger. “I have never said I don’t believe in miracles, I’ve simply never seen one myself. But I do believe in percentages.”
“Percentages?” Shirley cocked her head on one side, questioningly.
“What most people call good luck or bad luck, depending on how it affects them.” He stared at Mosby. “I take it that you’ve had a slice of good luck.”
“A slice of good luck and a slice of bad luck… And maybe another slice of good luck now if you can help me.”
Audley pursed his lips doubtfully. “I’m not an expert on A.D. 500, if that’s what you’re hoping.”
“Okay—but we’ll see, huh?” Mosby shook his head. “You can’t be less of an expert than I am. I’ve read a lot of stuff—“ he gestured to the piles of books “—but that just tells me how little I know.”
“Well, just show him the stuff, honey,” exclaimed Shirley with a hint of weariness. “If it doesn’t mean anything to him, he’ll say so.” She smiled dazzlingly at Audley.
“All in good time, Shirl. Don’t rush me.” Mosby waved vaguely at her. “Fact is, David, I’ve always been interested by King Arthur—don’t get any ideas, that’s just the way it started—ever since I had to do an English course at College.”
“You have to do English as well as dentistry?” said Faith.
“This was in pre-dentistry. We don’t specialize as early as you British—pre-dentistry’s a liberal arts curriculum, because there’s a philosophy in the States says you shouldn’t go into medicine—or dentistry—which is very limiting, straight from secondary school. They figure it makes for limited people, so
“Like Sir Lancelot.”
“Sir Lancelot…” As Audley repeated the name his glance settled on Mosby. “… now he would be more in your special field, I take it, Mr Sheldon?”
Mosby had the feeling he was being double-checked for any lingering sign of the Arthurian heresy.
“Not Lancelot, no,” he began warily. “He’s strictly twelfth century.”
“You surprise me. There aren’t many non-experts who could pin him down as a twelfth century addition to the legend. For most people he’s as important as King Arthur—or even more important.”
“For Queen Guinevere certainly,” murmured Faith drily.
“That’s right. The quest for the Holy Grail is a bit out of fashion; three-quarters of the population’s probably never heard of it. But they can recognise a sensational case of adultery when they see one, they understand that all right.” Audley paused. “But then you said you weren’t an admirer of Arthur’s, I remember now.”
The very obliqueness of the approach—the conveniently delayed memory of the final exchange in the car—confirmed Mosby’s conviction that the Englishman was hooked, and more than hooked: he was positively bursting with curiosity.
“I’m not. It’s the period around A.D. 500 I’m interested in—the real history.”
“The real history.” Audley repeated the words, and then fell silent, waiting for Mosby to continue.
“Uh-huh,” Mosby agreed unhelpfully. This time Audley was going to have to work for what he wanted. “It’s a fascinating period.”
Pause.
“But poorly documented.”
“That’s what makes it fascinating.”
Again Audley waited—in vain.
“The only new evidence is archaeological nowadays, and there isn’t a lot of that,” he said finally, with a hint of self-doubt in his voice.
“There sure isn’t,” agreed Mosby. “Our mutual ancestors weren’t exactly well-endowed with the world’s goods to leave behind.”
“No consumer durables,” said Shirley brightly.
Audley flashed her a microsecond’s worth of exasperation. Then he cracked. “You mentioned the battle of Badon Hill.”
“You mentioned a miracle,” said Faith. “That’s what interested me. My husband doesn’t believe in them—he’s got no romance in his soul, I’m afraid.”
Audley raised a finger. “I have never said I don’t believe in miracles, I’ve simply never seen one myself. But I do believe in percentages.”
“Percentages?” Shirley cocked her head on one side, questioningly.
“What most people call good luck or bad luck, depending on how it affects them.” He stared at Mosby. “I take it that you’ve had a slice of good luck.”
“A slice of good luck and a slice of bad luck… And maybe another slice of good luck now if you can help me.”
Audley pursed his lips doubtfully. “I’m not an expert on A.D. 500, if that’s what you’re hoping.”
“Okay—but we’ll see, huh?” Mosby shook his head. “You can’t be less of an expert than I am. I’ve read a lot of stuff—“ he gestured to the piles of books “—but that just tells me how little I know.”
“Well, just show him the stuff, honey,” exclaimed Shirley with a hint of weariness. “If it doesn’t mean anything to him, he’ll say so.” She smiled dazzlingly at Audley.
“All in good time, Shirl. Don’t rush me.” Mosby waved vaguely at her. “Fact is, David, I’ve always been interested by King Arthur—don’t get any ideas, that’s just the way it started—ever since I had to do an English course at College.”
“You have to do English as well as dentistry?” said Faith.
“This was in pre-dentistry. We don’t specialize as early as you British—pre-dentistry’s a liberal arts curriculum, because there’s a philosophy in the States says you shouldn’t go into medicine—or dentistry—which is very limiting, straight from secondary school. They figure it makes for limited people, so
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