A Fatal Frame of Mind

Chapter Thirty

While Malko cleared away the dinner dishes, the others moved on to Low’s library, a massive room with oak-beamed ceilings and a fireplace the size of Gus’ first apartment. Paintings covered the dark wood walls between the vast shelves of antique books, and while the past days’ exposure to Professor Kitteredge had not greatly expanded Gus’ knowledge of art history, he thought they seemed to be in the same general style as the one he’d glimpsed so briefly in the museum.

Flaxman Low settled himself in a large leather armchair facing the fire, a sketchpad across his knees and a pencil poised above the paper.

“Although he never pursued it, Flaxman is a superlative artist,” Kitteredge said. “Whatever you describe he can duplicate.”

“I’ll bet,” Shawn said.

Low glowered at Shawn, then turned to his pad. “The painting,” he said. “If you can really see it.”

Shawn nodded, then pressed his fingertips to his temples and closed his eyes. “I see a marble hallway,” he said. “It seems to lead on forever. And a crowd of people pushing to get through.”

Kitteredge looked stricken. “A marble hallway? I don’t remember that.”

Shawn didn’t seem to hear him. “And there’s something on the wall. A sign. Suggested donation twenty dollars.” His eyes flashed open. “What does that mean, anyway? If you walk into the museum without following their ‘suggestion,’ the guards are going to haul you out.”

Low looked ready to jam his pencil into Shawn’s eye.

“Sometimes the spirits are not as precise as you want them to be,” Gus said hurriedly, then glared at Shawn. “Or as we need them to be. Right now.”

Shawn shrugged and closed his eyes again. “Okay, we’re traveling down that hallway. Traveling, traveling. Pass through a door. Okay, we’re in the gallery. Good thing we got here early, so there aren’t any tour groups fussing around the picture. We’ve got a clear view.”

Kitteredge leaned forward in his chair. Low, although he looked dubious, pressed his pencil to the paper.

“In the center of the picture there’s a woman,” Shawn said. “She’s got long curly red hair and a sharp nose.”

“That’s Jane Burden,” Kitteredge said excitedly. “Morris’ wife and Rossetti’s favorite model.”

Low hadn’t yet started drawing. “Go on,” he said.

“She’s standing in the middle of this enormous room. It looks like it must be in a castle,” Shawn said. “The walls are stone where they’re not covered with tapestries. She’s wearing this big drapey dress, and she’s got her arms outstretched to someone who’s sitting in a big chair. Can’t see him, though-just the back of the chair.”

“That would be King Arthur,” Kitteredge said. “He is sitting in judgment of his wife, who has committed adultery with Sir Lancelot. In Morris’ poem she is defiantly stating her own defense.”

Now Low was sketching quickly. “Was the throne on her right or her left?”

Shawn squeezed his eyes shut even more tightly for a moment. “Left.”

Low blocked that in.

“What else?” Kitteredge said.

“There are a bunch of servants or pages or something on her right and two knights standing behind her to the left,” Shawn said. “At least I assume they’re knights. They’re wearing chain mail and holding shields.”

Low looked up sharply. He and Kitteredge exchanged an excited look. “Just two?” Low said. “Are you sure?”

“I’m pretty good at counting,” Shawn said. “At least as far as two. Once we get past six it’s a little tricky, but we’re definitely on safe ground here.”

Gus tried to figure out why Kitteredge and Low suddenly seemed so fascinated. “Is that important?” he said.

“In the poem, the entire Round Table has assembled for the trial,” Kitteredge said. “If Rossetti painted only two knights, that’s a major change and unsupported by any literary account of the event. I can’t believe I didn’t notice that detail, but there was so much to see. This could well be the key to the message he was trying to send.” He turned eagerly to Shawn. “Are their shields marked in any way?”

“The shorter guy on the right-he’s got a silver lion standing up on its hind legs on his shield,” Shawn said. “And a gold crown.”

Low filled in the shape of the shield with the images and lifted the paper for Shawn to see. “Like that?”

“Pretty much,” Shawn said.

Kitteredge and Low exchanged a significant look.

“Does that mean something?” Gus said.

“The lion rampant and crown d’or,” Kitteredge said, trying to put pieces together in his mind. Then they seemed to snap into place. “That’s the crest of George Villiers, first Duke of Buckingham.”

“That can’t be what it means,” Low said. “Villiers died early in the seventeenth century. Why would Rossetti place him in Camelot?”

Kitteredge thought for a moment, then broke out in a smile. “I think it’s a little pun,” he said. “In Morte d’Arthur, Malory mentions there was a knight called Sir Villyars at the Round Table. This is Rossetti’s way of labeling him.”

“But why Sir Villyars?” Low said. “Does he have any significance in the poem?”

“Morris doesn’t mention him at all,” Kitteredge said. “In fact, I believe the sole reference to him in all the Arthurian literature comes in Malory’s long list of Round Table knights.”

“Then maybe we’re looking at the joke the wrong way around,” Low said. “Perhaps Rossetti wanted to call attention to Villiers, but needed to find a way to reference a sixteenth-century courtier in a medieval picture.”

“Or possibly not the man, but his name,” Kitteredge said. “There is still a Villiers Street in London, near where York House used to stand.”

“If he was the Duke of Buckingham, couldn’t that mean Buckingham Palace?” Gus said, getting swept up in the excitement of the moment.

Before the others could answer, Shawn cleared his throat loudly. “Spirits have a message here,” he said. “They say one conversation at a time. These interether connections aren’t easy on any of us, you know.”

Low looked annoyed at the interruption, but Kitteredge was immediately apologetic. “Please, go on,” he said to Shawn, then turned to Low. “We’re trying to form a pattern from one piece of data. We need to know more.”

Low nodded his agreement, then picked up his pencil again. “What about the other knight?”

Shawn squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his fingers against his temples so hard it looked like they might break through his skull and meet in the middle. “He’s got a shield, too. And it’s got a lion on it, although that lion is sitting.”

Low and Kitteredge looked baffled. “Another lion? What can that mean?” Kitteredge said.

Low threw down the sketchpad and stalked across the vast library. He ran his hand along a shelf of books until he found what he was looking for and pulled out a large volume.

“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 smiled. “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.”