The Camelot Caper Read Free

standing still—in the doorway which was the sole exit from the room. Something in his very stance and the fixity of his gaze struck her with foreboding even before she recognized him. Medium height, medium frame, a beautifully tailored dark suit, brown hair…A mustache. Good heavens, yes—the bushy brown mustache, and the man in Southampton who had walked off with her suitcase!
    Jess had an excellent imagination, nourished frequently on solid doses of detective fiction. Often she had amused herself by noticing such coincidences, and building on them complicated plots of deadly intrigue. Sometimes her plots had been so good that she had half frightened herself.
    So she tried to convince herself now, combating a primitive instinct which sometimes is truer than reason; the world is not, actually, a very reasonable place. She rose, stiffly, from the hard stone bench; and the man shifted position, slightly but significantly.
    For a long moment they stared at each other across the curiously shaped room. Patterns of dim color from the pale stained glass carpeted portions of the floor and slid eerily across the man’s face as he moved slowly toward her.
    â€œI want to talk to you,” he said. “Nothing to be afraid of. Just a little talk.”
    His voice was as she remembered it, artificially husky, but the accent was impossible to hide. The clear, clipped consonants showed through.
    â€œWhat about?” Jess asked breathlessly.
    â€œNot here. Somewhere…more private.”
    Jess retreated, the edge of the stone bench pressing against the back of her knees. He couldn’t corner her here, she thought crazily there were lots of corners, but they were all wide angles.
    â€œLeave me alone, or I’ll call for help. We’ve nothing to talk about.”
    â€œThe ring. Where is it? You did bring it with you, didn’t you?”
    â€œThe ring…” Jess repeated stupidly.
    â€œThat’s all I want. If you’ll just—”
    He was still moving toward her, his arms lifted like those of a man trying to catch a playful dog. She didn’t like the way he moved his arms. Or his face. Or, in fact, anything about him.
    The lofty room was so empty, and so silent. From the cloister outside Jess could hear birds chirping, and a murmur which might have been distant voices. What had happened to thehordes of tourists? Just one little tourist, that was all she needed—one sweet old lady from Moorhead, Minnesota, one French student, one Dane….
    â€œIf I give you the ring, will you leave me alone?”
    â€œCertainly.” This time, in his eagerness, he forgot to disguise his voice; it rang clear and mellow, a pleasant baritone. Something else was clear, even in the single word. Jess knew, with a sureness that defied analysis, that he was lying.
    What would happen if she screamed? Would anyone hear her? The cathedral was too far away, cut off by massive doors, but there must be people in the cloisters. Yet she hesitated, not because she was not convinced of her danger, but because of the damning pressure of conformity. A well brought up young lady does not shriek in a church.
    She started, convulsively, as a vast clamor of sound burst through the door—the bells, high up in the spire, but sounding as if they were just outside. The bells of Salisbury Cathedral, ringing for the service.
    Later, Jess remembered that the man had also started at the sound, and realized that he must have been almost as nervous as she was. Even if she had been calm enough to note this at thetime, it would not have consoled her; according to the authorities on murder whom she had read, nervous criminals were the most dangerous.
    One reassuring point kept her from complete panic. What could the man do to her here? He seemed to have no weapon; surely he would have produced a gun or knife by this time. He couldn’t risk killing her in such a public spot, with the constant danger of