everyone gets a pre-professional education… Me, I got a smattering of French and some biology, and bio-chemistry and elementary physics.”
“And English.” She nodded. “It’s a good idea.”
“And English, right. Only our English teacher was a nut—a Tennyson nut,” lied Mosby. “We had In Memoriam and The Idylls of the King until they came out of our ears. And The Lady of Shalott—
The sun came dazzling thro’ the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
—not bad for a retarded doctor up to his ankles in other people’s teeth, huh?” He grinned at Faith. “Even if it is lousy poetry.”
Audley cleared his throat; there was only one thing he wanted, and they seemed to be getting away from it. “And when did the light dawn on you—about Arthur?”
“When I got over here, not until then, to be honest.” Easy does it. “There was this pilot in the recon. support squadron, Di Davies. He was a real, expert—“
“For heaven’s sake, honey—show him the stuff,” snapped Shirley. “Let him make his own mind up.”
Mosby looked at her for a moment, as though undecided, and then shrugged. “Okay. Maybe you’re right at that. Seeing is believing, I guess.”
He brought the long shallow wooden box from its resting place on the oak chest by the door and placed it carefully on the coffee table.
Pandora’s box.
With his thumbs poised on the metal catches he raised his eyes to meet Audley’s. “You just take a look at this.”
He lifted the lid and stripped away the glass-fibre covering gingerly. “Glass fibre makes darn good packing, but it itches like hell if you get it on your skin,” he explained.
He watched Audley’s face intently for signs of the same sense of anti-climax which he in his ignorance had felt at finding Pandora’s box full of corroded scrap-metal. But no muscle twitched either with surprise or disappointment as the Englishman peered over his spectacles at the strange collection of objects nestling in their glass-fibre bed.
Then he leaned forward and gently lifted one of them.
“Brooch…” He squinted at it more closely. “A bronze brooch… Celtic maybe?”
“That’s very good.” Mosby didn’t have to simulate pleasure this time: it was still a relief to find that the assessment of Audley was on the button. “Go on.”
“That’s as far as I can guess.” Audley replaced the brooch as carefully as he’d lifted it. “There’s another brooch, much the same as that one.” He shook his head.
“Two Celtic brooches,” Mosby read from the specification, “one perannular, Plas Emrys type, with enamelled terminals; the other zoomorphic, R.A. Smith’s Welsh type. Both late fifth century, early sixth.”
He pointed to the next object.
“Obviously a sword, rusted to pieces,” said Audley. “Too big for a Roman sword, so I suppose it’s Anglo-Saxon.”
Mosby shook his head. “No, it is a late Roman sword—a spatha . Probably a cavalry sword.” He paused. “Try the coins.”
Audley pushed his spectacles up on to his forehead and brought his face to within six inches of the box. “I can’t really make out much detail—they’re very worn. But I guess they’re late Roman, except for the four very little ones, which must be sub-Roman.”
Mosby nodded at Faith. “He’s good, your husband is. They are late Roman: two maybe Theodosius. And the little ones are minims, ‘very debased radiate imitations’ the book says, only don’t ask me what it means. But similar ones have been dated late fifth century, early sixth.”
Audley straightened up, gesturing to his wife. “You have a go, love. I think I’d rather stop while I’m winning.” He looked down again, and then stiffened suddenly. “Except I know what that is.” He pointed towards an object in the extreme right-hand corner of the box.
“You do?” Mosby looked at him admiringly. “Now I’m impressed. To me that was the weirdest bit of all, you know.”
“It
“And English.” She nodded. “It’s a good idea.”
“And English, right. Only our English teacher was a nut—a Tennyson nut,” lied Mosby. “We had In Memoriam and The Idylls of the King until they came out of our ears. And The Lady of Shalott—
The sun came dazzling thro’ the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
—not bad for a retarded doctor up to his ankles in other people’s teeth, huh?” He grinned at Faith. “Even if it is lousy poetry.”
Audley cleared his throat; there was only one thing he wanted, and they seemed to be getting away from it. “And when did the light dawn on you—about Arthur?”
“When I got over here, not until then, to be honest.” Easy does it. “There was this pilot in the recon. support squadron, Di Davies. He was a real, expert—“
“For heaven’s sake, honey—show him the stuff,” snapped Shirley. “Let him make his own mind up.”
Mosby looked at her for a moment, as though undecided, and then shrugged. “Okay. Maybe you’re right at that. Seeing is believing, I guess.”
He brought the long shallow wooden box from its resting place on the oak chest by the door and placed it carefully on the coffee table.
Pandora’s box.
With his thumbs poised on the metal catches he raised his eyes to meet Audley’s. “You just take a look at this.”
He lifted the lid and stripped away the glass-fibre covering gingerly. “Glass fibre makes darn good packing, but it itches like hell if you get it on your skin,” he explained.
He watched Audley’s face intently for signs of the same sense of anti-climax which he in his ignorance had felt at finding Pandora’s box full of corroded scrap-metal. But no muscle twitched either with surprise or disappointment as the Englishman peered over his spectacles at the strange collection of objects nestling in their glass-fibre bed.
Then he leaned forward and gently lifted one of them.
“Brooch…” He squinted at it more closely. “A bronze brooch… Celtic maybe?”
“That’s very good.” Mosby didn’t have to simulate pleasure this time: it was still a relief to find that the assessment of Audley was on the button. “Go on.”
“That’s as far as I can guess.” Audley replaced the brooch as carefully as he’d lifted it. “There’s another brooch, much the same as that one.” He shook his head.
“Two Celtic brooches,” Mosby read from the specification, “one perannular, Plas Emrys type, with enamelled terminals; the other zoomorphic, R.A. Smith’s Welsh type. Both late fifth century, early sixth.”
He pointed to the next object.
“Obviously a sword, rusted to pieces,” said Audley. “Too big for a Roman sword, so I suppose it’s Anglo-Saxon.”
Mosby shook his head. “No, it is a late Roman sword—a spatha . Probably a cavalry sword.” He paused. “Try the coins.”
Audley pushed his spectacles up on to his forehead and brought his face to within six inches of the box. “I can’t really make out much detail—they’re very worn. But I guess they’re late Roman, except for the four very little ones, which must be sub-Roman.”
Mosby nodded at Faith. “He’s good, your husband is. They are late Roman: two maybe Theodosius. And the little ones are minims, ‘very debased radiate imitations’ the book says, only don’t ask me what it means. But similar ones have been dated late fifth century, early sixth.”
Audley straightened up, gesturing to his wife. “You have a go, love. I think I’d rather stop while I’m winning.” He looked down again, and then stiffened suddenly. “Except I know what that is.” He pointed towards an object in the extreme right-hand corner of the box.
“You do?” Mosby looked at him admiringly. “Now I’m impressed. To me that was the weirdest bit of all, you know.”
“It
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