Our Man in Camelot Read Online Free PDF Page A

time that he had never been able to escape that hideous diminutive.
    “Mosby,” echoed Shirley, flashing him a malicious smile. “Mosby Singleton Sheldon the Third—he doesn’t like anyone to get the idea that ‘Mose’ is short for ‘Moses’ but he still answers to it if I smile nicely.”
    The Englishwoman smiled. “Well, I’m Faith Audley, and this is my husband David.”
    “Hi, David,” said Shirley.
    “Hullo.” Audley nodded to Mosby. “It’s very kind of you to come to our rescue, Mr Sheldon.”
    Smiles all round, ice broken, small talk in the afternoon sunshine: Hi, David—call me Shirley… Hi, Faith—call me Mosby.
    Meet your friendly neighbours from the CIA.
    They rode in silence for a few moments, while Mosby manoeuvred the big car round the worst of the pot-holes to reach the beginning of the track. But silence was okay at this point; the hook was well and truly fixed, only the fish was a big one and needed careful handling still or it might break the line and get clear away. This was the time to let a sense of obligation and good manners combine to override that self-confessed national defect and force one of them to make the running.
    “Mosby?” Naturally it was Faith who spoke first. “That’s an unusual Christian name—obviously a family name.”
    “Yes, ma’am. At least, it’s become one.”
    Shirley gave a short laugh, half derisive and half affectionate. “Actually it’s a piece of genuine American history. But you’ll never have heard of the original Mosby, I’ll bet.”
    She was good, she was real good, thought Mosby with admiration. Good and quick to turn an opportunity into an opening the subject would find irresistible. Even that last ‘I’ll bet’ was a shrewd piece of psychology aimed at the target.
    “American history?” The challenge roused Audley.
    “Uh-huh, American history,” she led him on lightly.
    “Mosby… Mosby…” Audley repeated the name, frowning. “I seem to remember there was a Mosby—in fact a John S. Mosby. If that ‘S’ stood for ‘Singleton’ that would be the one, I take it?”
    “Why, you’re absolutely right!” Shirley clapped her hands in admiration. “Well, fancy your having heard of him. Isn’t that something, Mose? You’re famous even over here.”
    Faith Audley turned towards her husband. “And who was John Mosby, darling?”
    “Colonel John S. Mosby.” Audley looked at Mosby with obvious interest. “American Civil War. He was a celebrated Confederate guerrilla leader. Played merry hell with General Grant’s lines of communication. That right, Mr Sheldon?”
    Mosby grimaced. “Well, not a guerrilla leader—that’s damn Yankee propaganda. He was a regular horse soldier, 1st Virginia Cavalry, and then a scout to old Jeb Stuart himself. And what the Yankees called guerrillas were Mosby’s Rangers— 43rd Battalion of the Virginia Cavalry.”
    “I do beg your pardon.” Audley’s eyes lit with pleasure. “And the 43rd’s pardon too.”
    “Aw, honey, they were guerrillas,” exclaimed Shirley, coming to Audley’s rescue. “Why, the Yankees even hanged some of them. And they put a price on Mosby’s head too—what was it, $5,000?” She grinned at Audley. “So he wasn’t all that expensive.”
    “Honey, five thousand bucks was good money in those days,” Mosby disagreed. “Come to that, I could use five thousand bucks now… But that doesn’t make him a guerrilla, anyway—it’s like David said: he played hell with Yankee communications. Burnt their bridges, blew up their trains, grabbed their payrolls—“
    “Huh!” Shirley goaded him, entering the spirit of the game with more than a suggestion of sincerity.
    “—which he sent back to Richmond, every last dollar accounted for,” Mosby overrode her scorn. “And no one ever collected on him either, I can tell you. Not one dollar.”
    “And he was your ancestor?” Faith Audley inquired quickly, as though trying to nip a new historical-marital