Death at King Arthur's Court

by Forrest, Richard;

  Ernest’s small book-lined office was cluttered with Hemingway memorabilia. Photographs of the author in various stages of his career and marriages covered the walls. Lyon was grateful that the size of the small office precluded exhibitions of stuffed animal heads and mounted fish. The office was adjacent to the seminar, with a connecting door ajar between them. Lyon sat on a window sill near the open door, where he could watch Ernest pace the small conference room.

  The teacher was gesticulating excitedly with broad chopping motions. He had the entranced attention of five male and a single female student slouched around a circular table.

  ‘Thud!’ Ernest shouted loud enough to startle his small audience. His right fist smacked into an open palm with a loud splat. ‘Ugh!’ Ernest said. ‘That’s the way the masters write it. An eye for an eye. From the revenge of Odysseus upon the suitors to the gut-wrenching .45 shot into the belly of a naked woman in Mickey Spillane. Sword sweeps, dagger thrusts, eye-gouging, crotch kicks, and stomping to the death. Written violence,’ he shouted in conclusion, ‘is literature’s metaphor for man’s search for God!’

  This seemed to signal the end of the class. Chairs squeaked, rucksacks were tossed over shoulders, and the small procession filed from the room under Ernest’s benign gaze. The co-ed, dressed like her male counterparts in a loose white shirt and jeans torn at the knees, hung back behind the others. A tuft of streaked purple hair stuck straight up. Her fingers trailed lightly across Ernest’s arm. ‘I am enlightened,’ she said. ‘Thank you for sharing these insights with us, Dr Harnell.’ Her hand lingered a moment longer on the teacher’s arm and then she left. Lyon was convinced that she gave her bottom an extra wiggle as she preened under Ernest’s appreciative lechery.

  ‘You seem to have a true admirer, Doctor,’ Lyon said from his seat on the window sill.

  Ernest shrugged. ‘That comes from her complete immersion into the material of the course. She’s a very sensitive young woman. We can’t call them girls anymore, you know.’

  ‘So I’ve heard,’ Lyon said, and wondered how much immersion Ernest had in that particular student.

  ‘That’s an interesting class you were teaching,’ Lyon said as Ernest came into the office and leafed through a short list of phone messages. ‘Something new, I gather?’

  ‘Yes, it’s been moderately popular,’ the teacher said. ‘They made me tone down the course description for the catalog, but the truly interested students pick up on it through the underground grapevine. The high point of the syllabus was last week’s discussion: “The Marquis de Sade as the antecedent of non-violence.”’ He held up a message slip. ‘Here’s one. It’s a fax from Thomas at Yale turning down the Ashley chair. The wimp didn’t even have enough courtesy to talk to one of us in person. I guess that conveniently rules him out. I think, Mr Wentworth, that you just might be looking at the next chairman of the English department of Middleburg University.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be slightly premature to offer congratulations before the official vote, Ernest?’

  ‘It’s practically a foregone conclusion. The competition was only between me and Garth, and they certainly can’t give it to him, because of the morals question.’

  ‘Do you mean they’ll rule him out because of homosexuality?’

  ‘Hell, no! I’m talking pedophilia here. Morgan had the complete gen on the man. He had documented evidence that Garth was having sexual relations with underage male students, and that is a hanging offense. That skinny fag is a long drink of water drawn from a poisoned well. If we had him on safari in Africa he’d be shot in the bush.’

  ‘What’s happened to this documentation now that Morgan’s dead?’

  ‘It’s in his office. I know the locked file where he kept his budget recommendations and personnel files, and whatever else his viper brain wanted to hoard.’

  ‘Isn’t his office on this floor?’

  ‘Down the hall.’

  ‘Can we get in?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ernest nodded.

  ‘I’m surprised the police haven’t sealed it off.’

  ‘They called and said they were obtaining a warrant.’

  ‘Then we had better get inside before someone else does.’

  Ernest blanched. ‘I hadn’t considered that someone might get in those files. Jesus, if anything happened to that dirt on Garth …’

  ‘Let’s check it out,’ Lyon said. They hurried down the hall toward the front of the building and Morgan’s corner office.

  As soon as Ernest opened the office door with a master key, it was apparent that the office had been ransacked. The drawers of three file cabinets along the far wall were pulled out and their contents strewn across the floor. The desk had been crudely forced open, and the drawers were pulled from the frame and overturned. Their contents left a messy paper trail across the room.

  ‘I’ll be damned!’ Ernest said. ‘Look.’ He pointed to a spot on the wall behind the desk, where the unmistakable outline of a sword marred the wall.

  ‘Where was the locked cabinet with the personal files?’ Lyon asked.

  ‘Behind his desk. The one with the front pried open.’

  The dented front and sides clearly indicated that a sharp instrument, perhaps a chisel, had been inserted with enough force to pop the sheet metal away from the frame. The box was completely empty.

  ‘Someone took the entire contents of the top drawer,’ Lyon said as he turned to face Ernest.

  ‘That was the one with the important stuff in it.’

  ‘And yet the office outer door wasn’t forced. Who has a key to this place?’ Lyon asked.

  ‘Jesus, Lyon, half the town of Middleburg. Garth for openers, and the department secretary. Then there’s maintenance, and of course security. I suppose a couple of the deans would have access. Who knows?’

  ‘Where were you when Morgan was killed?’ Lyon asked.

  ‘Home,’ Ernest whispered. ‘After I left your place, I went directly home … alone … My sister was already asleep. For the rest of the night no one saw me until I came to work the next morning.’

  Nine

  Bea Wentworth despised shopping malls in direct proportion to their size and the amount of time she was required to spend in them. Occasionally this feeling created a faint twinge of jingoistic guilt as it seemed slightly un-American, a trifle antisocial, and a bit inconvenient. She had finally forced herself to accept these suburban behemoths peopled with bored teenage clerks and recognize that they had irrevocably replaced individually owned local stores staffed by owners who knew their products.

  Her worst mall fear was interception by predatory constituents. Voters who tracked you were usually motivated to a feeding frenzy by some obsessive cause. They were able to detect the faintest of legislative spoors as they pursued their prey.

  Her mall attackers were usually white males of the Korean War generation. They were often life members of the American Legion with a vaguely assigned responsibility to run her to ground. Contrary to any provisions of the United States Constitution, recent supreme court rulings, or common decency, this breed of constituent demanded immediate legislation concerning school prayer (put back), sex education programs (take out), or welfare cheats (kill soon).

  As a consequence, during her absolutely necessary shopping forays, she wore dark glasses and a floppy hat that obscured most of her face. Her movements consisted of furtive darts from store to store, similar to the avoidance trail made by a small scurrying rodent.

  New garden gloves and a small trowel led today’s shopping list. Sears was the store of choice for those items, but she must be careful to make a wide circle around the power tools section, which was a popular holding area for the American Legion contingent.

  It was going to be intriguing to watch the look on Senator Beatrice Wentworth’s face as she died. A silent method would best serve the day. Such close work would require a minor disguise. Broad sunglasses, nondescript clothing, and a hat tilted over the face should be adequate. Recognition m
ight come in her last seconds, but then it would be too late.

  The handle of the rolled umbrella separated to reveal a long stiletto-like knife blade. The fatal blow would be a quick thrust to the left of the sternum with the knife pointed to the shoulder. Once the blade had fully penetrated, it would be rotated until the steel ripped the ventricular muscle of the heart. Blood would be rapidly pumped into the thoracic cavity rather than the aorta. She would be conscious long enough to see the blade enter, realize the implication of the act and then fall into an agonizing unconsciousness so quickly she would only utter a single sound of protest. The knife would be reinserted into the umbrella.

  The complete murder sequence would take seconds. Wentworth would die curled on some shop floor under a counter of women’s handbags. The body would quickly be surrounded by a mix of the curious, morbidly interested, and the horrified. The majority of the onlookers would be acne-infected teenagers whose reaction to the death would be a slight increase in their gum-chewing rate. The knife would have been withdrawn and reinserted into the umbrella. The gathering crowd would make an excellent escape screen.

  Yes, that was the way it would be. A quick knife thrust followed by a virtual disappearance. Now, the only detail remaining was to find the opportune place. It was fitting that this interfering woman’s death would be by a different method than the others. Her murder while in the center of a crowd would be appropriate.

  Bea found new meaning in the term ‘horns of a dilemma’. When the store’s elevator door swished shut behind her, she saw Ralston Proman directly ahead. Ralston was a professional Korean War Veteran whose mission in life was the creation of a state memorial to his war.

  His spiel was a repetitious ten-minute harangue. This speech always seemed to segue into sexual innuendoes culminating with an invitation to the legion post bar for a couple of quick pops.

  The only avenue of escape was down a side aisle where Martha Herbert was browsing at a perfume counter. Martha’s concentration on an examination of a small bottle of Red might allow Bea to slip by behind her. Martha, for unknown reasons, had been cool lately, but a possible slight by her was preferable to an overwhelming onslaught by former PFC Ralston Proman. Making a decision, she began a skulking slither past the perfume counter.

  She had nearly slipped past when Martha decided to sample. She held a small vial of Red in her hand as she peered into the counter mirror to spray a daub behind her ear. Bea’s reflection startled her and her reflexive turn made the perfume atomizer point at Bea like a threatening can of mace.

  Bea held up her hands. ‘Hi, don’t shoot.’

  Martha squinted in surprise and broke eye contact to look past Bea at the person behind them in the aisle. Bea stepped aside as the umbrella bearer swept past the counter and continued through the store.

  ‘Have time for coffee?’ Bea asked.

  ‘There’s a gourmet coffee shop down the way a bit,’ Martha said softly.

  They sat at a small marble table with demitasse cups of Swiss chocolate almond coffee. ‘Since this mall opened it’s revolutionized my shopping life and destroyed our budget,’ Martha said in a valiant attempt to steer their meeting to a light area.

  Bea knew that a recapitulation of her feelings about shopping malls and their destruction of downtown centers would appear to be an affront to Martha. ‘Filene’s seems to have some good sales,’ she finally dredged from some remote part of her mind.

  It was possible to see into the coffee shop from the heavy wooden bench against the rail in the mall’s upper walkway. The oblique line of sight meant that the observer was unseen.

  The two women inside the shop appeared to be talking intimately over their coffee. That reoriented the situation and required a slightly different mode of attack. The original assumption had Bea Wentworth alone in a crowd. It was assumed that she would not be known by anyone in the immediate murder area. This chance meeting with a friend altered that.

  It would be impossible to kill both women simultaneously with the umbrella blade. A delay of even seconds between the first and second knife thrust created a dangerous situation. That interval was long enough for a potential reaction. There could be time for a scuffle, or a scream that might alert security guards and focus the attention of a crowd.

  Another form of attack must be planned. That woman could not be allowed to live.

  Martha looked over the rim of her cup. ‘I hope everything is working out about that Morgan mess and Lyon.’

  ‘I’m sure it will,’ Bea answered. ‘One thing that bothers me is that crazy idea your brother has concerning my relationship with Morgan.’

  Martha seemed to give a start. ‘Probably just some unfounded gossip.’

  ‘Yes, something like that.’ Pieces began to fall into place. ‘I don’t suppose the talk could have possibly started with someone you know?’

  ‘Does it really matter now that he’s dead?’

  ‘It matters a great deal to me. I’d like to find out where it started,’ Bea answered. ‘And why.’

  The umbrella weapon had been replaced by two thin knives. They nestled in special easy-draw sheaths sewn into deep side pockets of the khaki raincoat. The two women in the coffee shop were still deep in conversation and seemed to have hardly moved since the round-trip to the parking lot to obtain the knives.

  It would be a simultaneous double killing. Neither woman would have an opportunity to cry out. The attack would begin when they left the coffee shop and turned into the atrium’s walk. They would walk abreast. Both knives would be drawn together in a single fluid movement and plunged between their breasts at the same time.

  They would fall like spent rag dolls and tumble over each other in an intertwined heap of corpses. The incongruity of their appearance would attract instant horrified attention and make it a simple matter to walk the eight steps to the escalator and descend to the main floor. Mingling with the crowd in front of Burger King would be the necessary cloak before walking briskly to the parking lot and the waiting van.

  There was a certain satisfaction in committing a murder in front of a dozen witnesses and getting away with it. Bystanders were notoriously confused in their eyewitness identifications. It would be quite amusing to watch tonight’s television news of the slaying.

  Wait patiently. They would soon finish their coffees and step into the atrium to meet their fate.

  ‘I can’t help you,’ Martha said after a pause. ‘There’s nothing I can say. If I knew of anything between you and someone else, or heard a rumor, I would certainly tell you.’

  Bea wasn’t altogether sure that she believed Martha. She had known this woman for years, although they had never been close friends. There was something about the stiffness of her response, and her pronounced shift of attention, that signified an uncomfortable attitude. ‘I’m sorry you don’t feel free enough to share the information with me,’ Bea said.

  ‘I said I really don’t know anything, Beatrice.’ This time the response was rapid and immediate. ‘I know you don’t respect me very much, because I stayed home and took care of my child all these years while you went into the world and did politics and important things. I’m old-fashioned and that’s the way I’m made. And I am sorry you feel I’m a nothing. I am even sorrier that my husband thinks you’re some sort of goddess.’ Without a further word, Martha gathered her pocketbook and stiffly left the restaurant.

  Bea was stunned as she looked after the departing woman. Didn’t Martha remember that the child Bea would have looked after was killed in a bicycle accident ten long years ago?

  She paid the check and walked to the door to discover that the day was sliding downhill at a faster velocity than she had imagined. Ralston Proman, professional legionnaire and Korean War Veteran, slouched on a bench in the walkway. He sat next to a newspaper reader wearing a voluminous khaki raincoat. Even Ralston’s aging soldier eyes would spot her the moment she left the shop. Her capture would invariably lead to elbow grabbing and the commencement of the memorial har
angue.

  She knew from past experience in constituent escapes that there was an employee’s exit to the parking lot through the back room of the coffee shop. She hoped the staff wouldn’t mind her slipping out that way again.

  Lyon sat before his computer monitor and stared at the blank screen that was inhabited only by an impatiently blinking cursor. That damn flickering little light made him miss his ancient Underwood Number Five typewriter. That Underwood was a real writing machine. When you pounded keys into a pockety rhythm and slapped the return after the bell pinged, you knew you were really at work, and so did anyone else within a fifty-yard radius. The silent computer stared back with its brooding blink of light that served as a reproach for words not written.

  Morgan and Bambi, the incongruous dead lovers, seemed to stand on either side of the machine as quiet sentinels that forbad any creative work. His Wobbly creations would sleep until the dead were properly laid to rest.

  Lyon couldn’t see Nutmeg Hill’s long drive from the study window, but he heard a car spewing gravel as it braked to a stop near the front door. Only one person drove up the winding drive at that rate of speed. He knew that Rocco Herbert would shortly appear in the study doorway.

  It took several minutes before his grumpy friend arrived. Rocco slumped into the large leather chair. ‘I’m out here on another complaint. The project manager from the condo next door called again. More graffiti has been discovered, old top.’

  ‘Like what words of wisdom this time?’

  ‘How about, “Beyond here there be monsters”, spray painted in letters four feet tall along one wall.’

  ‘I like the ring to that.’

  ‘They know it’s you. I know it’s you, and we’re both going to get our ass in a sling if you don’t stop it.’

  ‘A couple of questions about the Morgan case. Were there any prints on the shell casing we found? Secondly, were they able to lift any prints from the shooter’s firing position in the unfinished unit across the lake from Clay’s place?’