Read Death at King Arthur's Court for Free Online Page A

recall, no matter how inconsequential it might seem.’
    â€˜Early last night, while it was still light, I was on the patio having drinks with Ernest Harnell,’ Lyon said …

Four
    â€˜I’m Ernest Hemingway’s bastard son, but you know that.’ Ernest Harnell put one foot up on Nutmeg Hill’s low parapet and struck what he considered a heroic pose. He peered across the Connecticut River, which far below them meandered toward Long Island Sound.
    Lyon tilted a wrought-iron patio chair back on its legs as he braced his feet against the wall and socially lied. ‘No. Actually, I don’t believe you’ve ever mentioned it before.’ His companion’s jaw imperceptibly tightened without breaking his distant gaze. Lyon wondered if Ernest was checking Spanish Loyalist troop positions across the river, or watching long columns of the retreating Italian army at Caporetto. He couldn’t resist an impish impulse. ‘I see a lot of those Hemingway trucks on the Interstates. I would suppose that there would be a rather large estate involved if you were legitimized.’
    Ernest immediately broke off his posturing as he snapped his head around to glare down at Lyon. ‘I hardly meant that branch of the family. I speak of the writer. The Nobel Prize laureate.’
    â€˜In that case, I do see a marked family resemblance,’ Lyon agreed. He failed to add that it was more than a genetic familiarity of features. Ernest Harnell wore a short white beard and sprouted a round paunch cultivated to the exact dimensions familiar in the author’s later photographs. His round face mimicked a typical Hemingway set, which was usually accentuated by a baseball cap, although tonight’s head covering was the only slightly less usual safari hat. It was a studied imitation that created a close look-alike of the older writer.
    Harnell’s face brightened. ‘You do see it then?’
    â€˜It’s unmistakable. There’s a remarkably close similarity.’ Lyon looked up at a formation of scudding off-white clouds crossing directly overhead. He was rather surprised to see his two imaginary Wobblies fly in perfect formation to a position just below the cloud layer. To his further astonishment, the two benign monsters began flying extremely complex patterns of outside loops. They had both positioned their front paws at right angles to their bodies in an imitation of wings. Their hind feet were pressed closely together, with the claws acting as ailerons and their long tails as rudders. Their aerial acrobatics were perfectly executed. He reflected on these surprising maneuvers, since during all the years he had written about his monster creations, he had never before realized that they could actually fly. Perhaps this was only a temporary aberration.
    â€˜It doesn’t mean a damn thing to him,’ Ernest said with an unmistakable tone of deep belligerence.
    â€˜Well, that’s understandable,’ Lyon answered. ‘Hemingway’s been dead for a number of years now.’
    â€˜I don’t mean the writer. I mean Morgan.’ He gestured toward the driveway, where a long RV was parked. ‘When’s he coming out of his goddamn Trojan horse? Or could we be so lucky that he’s been entombed in there forever?’
    â€˜I haven’t seen him all day,’ Lyon said. ‘He told me yesterday that he had a journal deadline, so he’s probably sealed himself inside to get some work done. Another drink, Ernest?’
    â€˜Never ease off till the soldier’s dead.’ He reached for his empty glass balanced on the edge of the parapet and handed it to Lyon. ‘For Christ’s sake, build a man’s drink this time, Went. Fix one like they mix them at Sloppy Joe’s Bar in Key West.’
    Lyon stepped through the French doors into the living room and over to where the bar cart was parked. He smiled as he carefully mixed a potent double for