A Fatal Frame of Mind

by William Rabkin

  “If it existed, it will be in Fox-Davies,” he said, carrying the tome back to his chair. Gus could make out the words Complete Guide to Heraldry on the cover. “Now, what color is the second lion?”

  Shawn squeezed his eyes, then blinked a couple of times. “Gold.”

  Kitteredge got up from his own chair to look over the back of Low’s as he paged through the book. “A golden lion,” he said. “That would have been the symbol for England, which meant it would have been on Arthur’s shield. But Arthur is on the throne, so he can’t be standing behind her. It simply wouldn’t make any sense.”

  Low flipped through page after page. “This is useless,” he said finally. “The lion is one of the most common symbols in heraldry. Without more details, we can’t tell a thing.”

  “Hold on a second,” Shawn said. “It’s not all gold.”

  “If it’s got a red tongue and claws, that’s no help at all,” Low said. “They all do.”

  “Well, the tongue and claws are red,” Shawn said. “But the spots are all black.”

  Kitteredge and Low stared at him. Gus didn’t understand what was happening, but it must have been important because Low nearly dropped the book.

  “Spots?” Kitteredge said.

  “Yeah, it’s got black spots all over,” Shawn said. “Does that mean anything?”

  “It means it’s not a lion,” Low said. “The only large cat with a spotted coat is a leopard.”

  “Although in heraldry, the animal was almost never painted with spots,” Kitteredge said.

  “It’s possible that Rossetti didn’t know that,” Low said. “Not everyone has your level of knowledge, Langston.”

  “He knew,” Kitteredge said, a tone of rising excitement in his voice. “The Pre-Raphaelites were extremely well versed in medieval decoration. If he put a spotted leopard on that knight’s shield, it’s because he wanted to make sure that someone viewing it would not mistake it for a lion.”

  “But why would that be so important?” Low said, flipping to another part of the book. “There are almost as many leopards in heraldic history as there are lions.”

  “But not in Arthurian legend,” Kitteredge said. “There was only one knight of the Round Table who wore a leopard on his shield.” His voice dropped to a whisper as he said the name. “Lancelot.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” Low said. “Lancelot is the one knight who couldn’t be in this scene. During Guenevere’s trial he was in exile, and mad with grief at the loss of his love and the betrayal of his king.”

  “When I was in third grade, I sat next to a kid named Bernie Schwartzman who drew airplanes all day long,” Shawn said. “Maybe Rossetti was like Bernie, only he painted leopards because airplanes hadn’t been invented yet.”

  Low weighed the book in his hand as if he wanted to hurl it at Shawn’s head. “That’s not a mistake Rossetti would have made casually.”

  “It’s not a mistake at all,” Kitteredge said. “It’s the message. There’s something about the placement of these two knights that contains a clue to Excalibur’s hiding place.”

  Shawn dropped his hands away from his head and opened his eyes. “Does this mean you’re done with the spirits for a while?” he said. “Because I still haven’t had dessert.”

  Kitteredge and Low ignored him. And while Gus was beginning to feel a slight rumble in his stomach he knew could best be silenced with chocolate, he did, too. This moment was thrilling. They were on the verge of unraveling a secret that had been hidden for over a hundred years.

  “What could Rossetti be telling us with this pairing?” Low said.

  “You have the most famous knight in literature next to one who’s mentioned only once, and then just in a list,” Kitteredge said. “Could it be something about high placement and low?”

  “Something both celebrated and unknown?” Low speculated. “What could that describe?”

  “When you think about it that way, it’s clear there’s only one answer,” Shawn said. “C. Thomas Howell. Famed far and wide as one more instance of teen heart-throb vanished into video obscurity, but who among us knows the real C. Thomas?”

  “You’re not helping,” Gus said.

  “You have to admit, it would be a great bit of symmetry,” Shawn said.

  Gus glanced over to see how Kitteredge and Low had taken this interruption. Fortunately, they were so wrapped up in their own theorizing that they seemed not to have heard any of it.

  “I have an idea,” Gus said.

  This time the two older men did look up. Low only scowled at him and turned away again, but Kitteredge gave him the same welcoming smile he bestowed on any student willing to stand up and volunteer an opinion in class. “Yes?” he said.

  “I know Rossetti wanted to hide his message, but would he really get so symbolic that no one could figure it out?” he said. “Maybe it’s simpler than the most famous and the most unknown. Maybe it’s the name.”

  The contempt on Low’s face made Gus want to throw himself into the fireplace. “Although I am not as familiar with all the details of Rossetti’s life as my friend Langston, I know enough to be certain that he never encountered anyone named Lancelot Villyars.”

  But Kitteredge’s eyes had lit up with excitement. “Not the name, but possibly the initials. LV. What does that mean to you?”

  Gus cycled the letters through his head, but all the associations were too modern to be taken seriously—Louis Vuitton, Las Vegas.

  “It’s the Web site address ending for Latvia,” Shawn said. “Maybe he was trying to tell us that those Eastern European brides are never as pretty as the pictures in the advertisements.”

  Now it was Gus who wanted to hit Shawn with that book. Why couldn’t he see how exciting this was? “Did Rossetti know anyone with the initials LV? Was there a place? If there’s any way to bring down the number of possibilities so we could—”

  “That’s it!” Kitteredge said, clapping Gus on the back.

  “Good,” Gus said, trying to figure out what it was about his last sentence that could have solved anything. “Glad I could help.”

  Apparently Low wasn’t following Kitteredge any more than Gus. “What do you have, Langston?”

  “I need a copy of Morris’ poem,” Kitteredge said, scanning the shelves.

  Low jumped up and walked quickly across the room. “I’ve got the 1858 Bell and Daldy first edition,” he said, scanning the shelves. “And of course the Kelmscott.”

  “It shouldn’t matter,” Kitteredge said. “But bring me the earlier volume, just in case. Rossetti was dead by the time Morris founded the Kelmscott Press.”

  Low had the small volume in his hand before Kitteredge finished speaking. He brought it back and handed it to the professor. “What is it you’ve discovered?”

  “It was Gus who provided the clue,” Kitteredge said. “It was the word ‘number.’ ”

  Kitteredge let that statement hang as he leafed carefully through pages that were still white and supple after one hundred and fifty years. Gus tried to take pride in the assistance he’d lent his professor, but he still had no idea what he’d done.

  Low did, however. “LV!” he said. “Not initials but Roman numerals. Fifty-five.”

  “Which must refer to the line number in the poem,” Kitteredge said.

  “Unless he was just agreeing with Sammy Hagar,” Shawn said.

  Kitteredge found the appropriate place and read eagerly. But his face fell as he said the words. “Though still she stood right up, and never shrunk,” he quoted. “It means nothing. It has nothing to do with Excalibur.”

  The professor sank back into his chair, crushed. But Gus wasn’t ready to give up yet. Not after he’d provided the clue that had gotten them this far. He looked over Kitteredge’s shoulder down at the page. The poem was divided into stanzas of three lines each.

  “Maybe it’s not line fifty-five,” he said. “Maybe it’s the fifty-fifth verse.”

  Kitteredge looked up and smil
ed. “If only you’d stayed with the program,” he said. “What a credit you’d be to our profession today!”

  Kitteredge counted the stanzas until he came to the right one. When he read it out loud, his voice quavered with excitement. “Let not my rusting tears make your sword light! Ah! God of mercy, how he turns away! So, ever must I dress me to the fight.”

  “The sword of light,” Low said. “Is it possible?”

  “Is what possible?” Gus said.

  “There are those who have speculated that Excalibur is the same weapon that was wielded by Nuada, first king of Tuatha de Danaan in Middle Irish mythology,” Kitteredge said. “Also known as the Sword of Light. Rossetti is telling us where it lies.”

  “Where?” Shawn said.

  They all turned to stare at him.

  “Seriously,” Shawn said. “If that poem is giving us a hiding place, tell me where it is.”

  “It’s a clue, not a map,” Low said. “It needs to be deciphered.”

  “If he wanted this sword to be found, why go through all this nonsense?” Shawn said. “I mean—I understand there’s no reason anyone would ever write a poem or paint a picture except to send secret messages, but why not just write a letter and stick it in a safe deposit box?”

  There was a long moment of silence in the room, broken only by the crackling of the fire. Finally Kitteredge spoke.

  “We are talking about one of the great treasures of the ages,” the professor said. “One with not only unimaginable monetary value but potentially a huge political impact. He needed to tailor his message so that only the right audience would understand it.”

  “And that’s us?” Shawn said.

  “It is now,” Low said. “Do you have a problem with this?”

  “Just an issue of time management,” Shawn said.

  “It’s still early, Mr. Spencer,” Low said. “We have plenty of time to discuss this.”

  Shawn ambled over to the window and glanced up at the full moon. “Do we?” he said. “What time does the sun set around here?”

  “This time of year, before six,” Low said.

  “And the moon rise?” Shawn said.

  “It varies,” Low said with rising impatience. “I believe tonight it was supposed to be around seven-thirty.”

  “Okay, one more question,” Shawn said. “What time do the blue and red stars come out?”

  Low started to answer, then stopped, confused.

  “Blue and red stars?” he said.

  “You know, the ones that are casting that lovely twinkling light on the ceiling,” Shawn said.

  Gus looked up to see what Shawn was talking about. Blue and red lights flashed between the oak beams on the high white ceiling.

  Before anyone could move, an amplified voice came from outside. “This is the police,” it said. “Langston Kitteredge, Shawn Spencer, and Burton Guster, come out with your hands raised.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  The tunnel was barely five feet high. Shawn and Gus had to keep their knees bent with every step to keep from hitting their heads on the ceiling. And for Kitteredge it was even worse. He’d be better off crawling, Gus thought as the professor slammed his forehead into another light fixture. If the bare bulbs hadn’t been caged in wire he would have smashed half of them and his scalp would have been shredded by glass.

  Only Malko didn’t have any trouble maneuvering his way through the narrow tunnel, and he led them at a pace that suggested it had never occurred to him that anyone else would.

  “What is this tunnel?” Gus whispered to Shawn.

  “Apparently one of the benefits of having a bootlegger for a father,” Shawn said.

  “Smugglers have long used tunnels for storing and transporting their goods,” Kitteredge said. “For example, in the small hamlet of Hayle in Cornwall, there is a seventeenth-century smugglers’ tunnel that runs for hundreds of yards. Of course, the seventeenth century was when smuggling really took off across Europe, thanks to huge taxes imposed by governments to pay for a series of financially crippling wars and—”

  There was a dull thud as Kitteredge smacked his head into another light.

  Gus wanted to turn back to see if Kitteredge was all right, but the tunnel was too narrow. “Professor?” Gus asked.

  “I’m fine,” Kitteredge said. “Although perhaps I should focus on the present moment for a while.”

  “There’s a plan,” Shawn said.

  Gus had to agree. The present was the time to focus on. Partly because the past was becoming a blur in his sleep-addled and stress-befuddled brain, but mostly because the future was increasingly obvious. It involved arrest, incarceration, and, after some number of decades, an unmarked grave in a prison cemetery.

  That had become evident once everyone realized that the blue and red lights on the dining room ceiling were the flashers from a squad of police cars. Almost immediately after the amplified voice had boomed through the house, there was a pounding on the front door. It was only fists, but Gus knew that was just an opening gambit. If Low didn’t open it fast, they’d be using a battering ram.

  Low knew it, too. Grabbing Kitteredge by the arm, he led them quickly out of the dining room through a long, high-ceilinged hall, and then left into a smaller corridor. Behind them, Malko scurried to keep up. Halfway down the hallway, Low stopped and threw open a door.

  “Get in,” Low said.

  Gus and Shawn peered into the room. It was four feet wide and four feet deep. Mops and brooms hung on one wall, and the shelves on the other side were stocked with cleaning supplies.

  “It’s a broom closet,” Shawn said. “Don’t get me wrong—it’s a perfectly nice broom closet, and if we had a couple extra hours to clean this place up, we’d be really happy to see it. But if you’re thinking this would be a good place to hide from the police, I’ve got to tell you I’ve been at lots of crime scenes, and they almost never forget to check in the closets.”

  “Get in, fool,” Malko growled. He shoved Shawn and Gus through the door. Then he gave Kitteredge a respectful bow. “Please, Professor.”

  Kitteredge looked dubious, but he stepped into the small space, taking up nearly every available square inch that didn’t already contain Shawn or Gus, and more than a couple that did.

  “I’ll hold the police off as long as I can,” Low said apologetically. “You just run. Follow Malko. He knows the way.”

  “Run?” Shawn said. “I can’t even lift my big toe.”

  Malko growled dismissively and then forced his way into the closet. Before Gus or Shawn could shove him out again, Low slammed the door. After a second there was a dreadful, final click. That could mean only one thing: Low had locked the door. There was no way out.

  Claustrophobia had never been one of Gus’ primary fears. Not that he wasn’t uncomfortable in tight spaces; it was just that there always seemed to be something better to be frightened of.

  But now, in this tiny coffin, gasping for a breath that hadn’t already been exhaled by one of the others, Gus suddenly realized that there was nothing more terrifying than the prospect of being buried alive. And if the burial happened not to be under six feet of dirt but pressed up against six feet plus of art history professor’s tweed, it was still the most horrible fate imaginable.

  At least it was until he felt something squirming against his legs. What kind of disgusting creatures had been breeding here in the eternal blackness? Gus had a vision of hairless creatures, half rat and half slug, with white blanks where eyes should be, reaching out with their scaly talons to feel their way through the world—and through Gus’ flesh, if it got in their way.

  Until he heard Malko’s angry whisper. “Get out of the way, you idiot. I’ve got to get past you.”

  Gus would have breathed a sigh of relief, but all the air had been pressed out of his lungs by Kitteredge’s bulk. He squeezed closer to the professor. Or thought he was squeezing closer; it was hard to tell. But he felt the scrabbling move across his legs, and Malko didn’t curs
e him out again, so he assumed he had done the right thing.

  “Anyone got ideas on what we should do to pass the time?” Shawn said. “I was thinking about a game of tennis.”

  Gus heard Malko mutter a curse under his breath. At least, he hoped that’s what he’d heard. If it wasn’t the hunchback, that meant there really was someone or something locked in the closet with them. And while Gus liked to think he was generally a level-headed person immune from irrational panic attacks, he couldn’t help recalling the scene from C.H. U.D. in which one of the cannibalistic humanoid underground dwellers reached up through a manhole and dragged an innocent passerby and her little dog to their unspeakable fate.

  “Panicking isn’t going to help,” Shawn said. “At least not panicking about C.H.U.D.s. Because you’re not going to find any here. We’re not underground. And I’ve never heard of a cannibalistic humanoid closet dweller. If you want to panic about something useful, panic about the fact that the police are going to open this door at any minute.”

  “I wasn’t panicking about C.H.U.D.s,” Gus said. “I wasn’t even thinking about them.”

  “Then you’d better get your facial muscles under control, because they’re sending out some seriously bad messages,” Shawn said.

  “Both of you, be silent,” Malko snapped from a corner of the closet.

  “I’ve got to tell you: the police are going to think to look in here even if we don’t say anything,” Shawn said. “If your boss lets them down this hallway, it’s all over.”

  Gus heard a noise from far above him, and he realized it was Kitteredge clearing his throat. “I’m sorry I got you two into this,” the professor said. “My own research has made me a target of the Cabal, and I’ve long accepted that prospect. But to drag in the two of you, when all you wanted to do was help—all I can say is I will do everything I can to take all the blame if we are captured.”

  “We won’t be, if you’ll all be silent,” Malko said.

  Gus heard a thunking noise from the back of the closet and suddenly felt the most wonderful sensation he’d ever experienced—a fresh breeze blowing in his face. The fact that it was only as fresh as the air from an unplugged refrigerator opened for the first time in a year didn’t concern him. It had oxygen in it, which put it far ahead of anything he’d been breathing since Low locked the closet door.