She shook her head. “There’s a new Reginald Hill novel that isn’t available in the States yet and I want to see if I can find it.”
The guide looked as if he had swallowed a frog. “Very well, then. I shall see all of you tomorrow.”
No one would give Rowan Rover the satisfaction of admitting that he was right, but shopping in St. Ives had not been the idyllic experience they had envisioned. Like most seaside tourist attractions, the village specialized in cheap, mass-produced merchandise intended as souvenirs for day-trippers. The group ended up buying very little. Even Susan had come away disappointed in her quest for Mr. Hill’s new novel.
By ten o’clock the next morning, they were aboard the coach once more, on a day of tours inspired by the legend of King Arthur. The first stop was the ruins of Tintagel, legendary birthplace of Arthur. It was located on the north coast of Cornwall, past Bodmin and Camelford, a longish drive, but nothing compared to the walk required to reach the ruins of the castle. From the picturesque little village of Tintagel, where Bernard parked the coach, they had to follow a dirt track for several miles through a fold of green hills before they could catch a glimpse of the ruins.
Fortunately for those whose bodies were set for the California climate, the day was perfect, convincing them that Cornwall’s nickname, the English Riviera, was well-deserved. The sun blazed in a brilliant blue sky without a wisp of cloud, and the weather rivaled the best day in July. They trotted along the dirt track in sunglasses and sleeveless shirts. “I don’t know why everyone complains about British weather,” said Kate Conway, inspecting the deepening tan on her arms.
“Come to Scotland,” said Elizabeth MacPherson. “That brown on your arms would be rust.”
The setting for the castle was romantic enough, isolated as it was on a windswept cliff high above a sapphire sea, but there was little left of the structure itself.
As they stood on the path looking out at the towering peninsula of rock, Emma Smith said, “This reminds me of a saying we had when I was on the archaeological dig. ‘One stone is a stone…’ ”
Elizabeth MacPherson, another veteran excavator, caught the reference, and chimed in, “Two stones a Roman wall…”
Together they chanted, “Three stones a ca-the-dral.”
“It isn’t as bad as that,” said Rowan. “You can see a few feet of wall still standing, and the foundations of buildings are evident here and there.”
“It’s a very beautiful place,” said Maud Marsh. “And you say King Arthur was born here?”
“I don’t know that I say that,” said Rowan, “but tradition maintains that belief. So far the archaeologists haven’t found a shred of proof. Those ruins date from a twelfth-century castle built by Reginald of Cornwall, a son of Henry the First. But if you look into the inlet you can see an opening in the rock known as Merlin’s Cave, so perhaps folklore knows best after all.”
Emma Smith was consulting a newly purchased guidebook. “It says here that recent excavations have found remnants of a fifth-century Celtic monastery here. That would be Arthur’s time, wouldn’t it?”
“Good heavens!” said Alice MacKenzie, pointing to the headland across the inlet from the ruins. “What is that monstrosity?” At the top of that windswept cliff stood a very solid-looking nineteenth-century stone building, incongruous with the rest of the landscape.
“That,” sighed Rowan, “is the King Arthur Castle Hotel, placed above the Barras Nose by the Great Western Railway. Descendants, no doubt, of Mordred.”
That afternoon on the way to the next Arthurian shrine, Elizabeth MacPherson said, “I discussed the Constance Kent case with Inspector Burgess the other night. He thinks she’s guilty, too. He says that there was insanity in her family.”
“You are referring to Constance’s mother, I presume? Certainly Mr. Kent said that she was insane. She did stay shut up in her room a good bit of the time-and was perhaps an invalid. Of course, considering the fact that the poor woman had borne nine children and that her husband left her in seclusion and turned over the running of the house to a high-spirited young governess of twenty-one, I think perhaps a bit of depression was in order, don’t you?”
“I think the wrong person was murdered,” muttered Elizabeth. “I suppose Mr. Kent was having an affair with the governess?”
Rowan grinned. “You would need a more trusting nature than I possess to doubt it. He married the spunky little governess when the first Mrs. Kent died of a mysterious bowel obstruction. Constance would have been ten or eleven at that time, I think.”
“So the governess was the mother of the murdered child? Francis?”
“Yes. Incidentally, the family called the child Savile, not Francis.”
“Teenage jealousy,” said Elizabeth. “No doubt the child by Mr. Kent’s new wife received much more attention than the older children. Perhaps Constance decided to punish everyone by killing the little usurper.”
“But was it the sort of crime a teenage girl would commit? Do you know the details of the murder and on what evidence she was suspected?”
“No,” Elizabeth admitted. “The crime book I read covered the case in about two paragraphs.”
“We’ll be staying in Bath for two nights,” Rowan reminded her. “The crime happened at Road Hill House, just a few miles south of the city, you know.”
“Do libraries over here keep microfilm copies of old newspapers?”
“I can’t vouch for Bath’s public library system, but you might try, if you really wish to pursue your little investigation.”
“I do,” said Elizabeth. “We’ll continue this discussion tomorrow night.”
It was nearly five o’clock before the coach arrived at their second Arthurian shrine: Glastonbury. Maud Marsh was looking eagerly out the window. “I have really been looking forward to coming here,” she announced. “I’ve read so much about the legends of King Arthur, and Glastonbury is one of the most mystical places in the world. The isle of Avalon! Do the boats run this late in the evening, Rowan?”
Rowan Rover blinked. “Boats?”
“Oh, yes!” cried Emma Smith. “I read The Mists of Avalon! Wasn’t it wonderful? You got into a little boat and if you just crossed the river-or whatever the water was-you ended up in Glastonbury, but if you got into the boat and said the magic words, you ended up on the magic island of Avalon!”
“It’s a very holy place for the Church, too,” said Rowan, postponing the answer to Maud’s question and the inevitable reaction. “Joseph of Arimathea is said to have brought the Holy Grail here, and when he planted his staff in the earth, it grew into the Holy Thorn of Glastonbury.”
“You might want to explain who Joseph of Arimathea was,” Elizabeth whispered to the guide.
“Nonsense!” said Rowan. “Everybody knows that!”
“They’re Californians,” said Elizabeth gently.
“Who was Joseph What’s-His-Name?” asked Kate Conway, looking blank and beautiful.
Rowan sighed. “He was the man who gave the tomb in which Jesus was buried after the Crucifixion. Legend has it that Joseph was in possession of the Holy Grail-that’s the cup used by Christ during the Last Supper, for those of you who didn’t see Paul Newman in The Silver Chalice.” By this time Bernard had found a public parking lot on the brick-lined high street of a small country town. He was pulling the coach into a space near a cluster of other tour vehicles. “Here we are,” he announced. “Abbey is just to the left there.”
Radiating astonishment, Maud Marsh peered out the window. “This is Glastonbury?” she demanded.
“Right.”
“It isn’t an island?”
“No.”
“Damned English. They lie about everything!”