William Rabkin - A Fatal Frame of Mind

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.”