The Seventh Measure

Chapter One — A Genuine Fake

Elliot Marr was halfway through a smoked-salmon canapé when a woman asked whether King Arthur had really eaten his dinner off the enormous table hanging on the wall.

He had heard the question before. Rather a lot, actually. But there was something about asking it in Winchester’s Great Hall while pointing at a thirteenth-century piece of furniture displayed vertically that suggested a certain determination not to be inconvenienced by common sense.

“Not unless he had an unusually long neck,” Elliot said.

The woman frowned.

“Or a ladder. And even then, I suspect he’d have had trouble with the gravy.”

Mara, standing beside him, made the small, sharp sound through her nose that usually meant she was trying not to laugh in company where laughter might cost somebody a donation.

“I’m sorry,” Elliot said. “It’s a perfectly reasonable question. The table really is medieval. The painting isn’t nearly as old. The Tudors were rather keen on improving history.”

“Were they?”

“Enormously. Particularly when it improved them. Henry VIII had the table done up with a very flattering version of King Arthur. The principle survives today, mostly in political photography.”

“Elliot,” Mara murmured.“What?”“You’re meant to be charming.”“I am being charming. I haven’t mentioned the divorces.”

The woman laughed, to his surprise, and wandered off to inspect a display about historic timber.

From a working edition. The final published text may differ.