The Camelot Caper by Elizabeth Peters Page A

otherwise be a position fraught with—”
    â€œWhy can’t we go back to the road? Someone must come along it eventually.”
    â€œSomeone is on it right now. Of the two, he’s the one I’d prefer not to meet.”
    â€œWe’ve been walking for hours,” Jess groaned.
    â€œBut we haven’t covered much distance. Still, I’d have thought we’d have reached some signs of habitation by now. This part of the country isn’t…Wait a minute. I think…Look over that way.”
    He dragged her to her feet and pointed. Jess squinted in the direction his outstretched arm indicated. On the horizon, she made out a regularly shaped silhouette which did not look like trees or hills.
    The sight seemed to restore David’s energy, though Jess was more skeptical; there were no lights visible in the oddly shaped structure, which could not, surely, be a house…. As she stumbled along, she found the silhouetted outline more baffling the nearer they got. A modern factory? Surely not here. A ruined castle? A ruin…Yes. Her footsteps faltered. David tugged at her, and she went stumbling along behind him, staring and staring…
    Clear against the darkened sky, silver-pale and ghostly, crowned by stars and a high white moon, was a cluster of immense monoliths, some single stones, some paired and topped bylintels to make huge hollow doorways. Once those empty doors had let into a space which, if never roofed, was nonetheless filled with something more than vacant air, when the faith that had—literally—moved small mountains was a living force, not a memory for students.
    She had read about the place, of course; it had been on her list of “Things to see in Salisbury,” for it was less than ten miles north of the town. That had been a long time ago; at least it seemed like a long time, before the insanity that had brought her to this muddy field in the dead of night, wet to the hips, tired to screaming point, being towed along by an equally muddy vagabond in his shirt sleeves…. But as the incredible stones lifted up above the horizon, she knew that the sight was almost worth the effort: Stonehenge by moonlight.
    The size of the place made its appearance deceptive: it was still a long way off, though it seemed to loom. David’s new energy petered out before they got close, and he stopped for another rest.
    â€œOne thing about you,” Jess said. “You do show me all the sights.”
    David glanced down at her. He lacked the strength to scowl, and she thought that she hadnever seen anyone look quite so disreputable. Dried blood and wet mud masked his face, his upstanding hair was filled with burrs and leaves and twigs, like the coiffure of a primitive maiden, and his shirt was torn in at least six places. Inevitably that thought made her hands move to her own hair. David, watching, produced a wan but malicious smile.
    â€œBelieve me, darling, I couldn’t care less what you look like. I’d much rather admire a telephone. I don’t know whether there’s caretaker in charge of that rock heap, but there’s sure to be a souvenir stall or shelter of some kind. If it’s locked, I shall break it open.”
    Now that they were nearing a goal which had seemed, for a long, mad period, to be nonexistent, Jessica’s sense of caution reawakened. There was no sign of Cousin John, but when she looked back she saw a flash of light where there should be none. David squeezed her arm.
    â€œTorch,” he said. “They’ve been signaling, haven’t you noticed?”
    â€œThe other one is still on the road?”
    â€œAlgernon? (I’ve decided we will call him Algernon.) Yes, he’s there. I know this whole performance has seemed unnecessarily boggy, but, you see, one of our problems is that wemust reach Salisbury well ahead of them. Otherwise they can simply meet us by my car. And we can’t leave the