When Maidens Mourn (5 page)

Sebastian studied the artifacts proudly displayed against a black velvet background. “You found all this at Camlet Moat?”

“We did. The drawbridge and dungeon probably date to the time of the de Mandevilles and their descendants, who held the castle for the Crown in the late Middle Ages. But the site itself is older—much older. There was obviously a fort or villa there in
Roman times, which means that in all probability there was still something there during the days of Arthur, after the Romans pulled out.”

Sebastian regarded the other man’s flushed face and shining eyes. “Will you continue digging, now that Miss Tennyson is dead?”

All the excitement and animation seemed to drain out of Winthrop, leaving him pensive. “I don’t see how we can. She’s the one who knew what she was doing—and how to interpret what we were finding.”

“You couldn’t simply hire an antiquary through the British Museum?”

The banker gave a soft laugh. “Given that they all thought Miss Tennyson mad to be working with me on this, I can’t see anyone of stature being willing to risk his reputation by following in her footsteps. And with harvesttime upon us, we were about to quit anyway.”

“Any chance she could have come up yesterday to have a quiet look around the site by herself for some reason? Or perhaps to show it to someone?”

Sir Stanley appeared thoughtful. “I suppose it’s possible, although she generally devoted her Sundays to activities with the boys.”

Sebastian shook his head, not understanding. “What boys?”

“George and Alfred—sons of one of her cousins. I understand the mother’s having a difficult confinement and the father isn’t well himself, so Miss Tennyson invited the lads to spend the summer with her in London. They generally stayed home with their nurse when she came up to the island, but she liked to spend several days a week showing them around London. The Tower of London and the beasts at the Exchange—that sort of thing.”

“So she didn’t come every day when you were digging?”

“Not every day, no; she had some other research she was also pursuing. But she generally came three or four times a week, yes.”

“How would she get here?”

“Sometimes in her brother’s carriage, although she would frequently take the stage to Enfield and get someone at the livery there to drive her out to the moat. In that case, I always insisted she allow me to have one of the men drive her back to London in the afternoon.”

It wasn’t exactly unheard of for a gentlewoman to take the stage, especially for such a short, local trip. Maintaining a carriage, horses, and groom in London was prodigiously expensive; most families kept only one, if that.

“Her brother begrudged her the use of his carriage?”

“Quite the opposite, actually. It irked him to no end when she insisted on taking the common stage rather than using his carriage—said he was perfectly capable of taking a hackney or walking around London himself.”

“But she didn’t always listen?”

Winthrop’s wide mouth curled into a soft smile that faded away into something sad as he shook his head. “She was like that.”

“Like what?”

He went to stand at the long row of windows, his gaze on the scene outside. A few puffy white clouds had appeared on the horizon, but the sun still drenched the beds of roses with a dazzling golden light. The workmen were now bent over their shovels; Lady Winthrop was nowhere to be seen. “She was an unusual woman,” he said, watching the distant clouds. “Strong. Opinionated. Unafraid to challenge the conventions and assumptions of her world. And not given to suffering fools lightly.”

“In other words,” said Sebastian, “the kind of woman who could make enemies.”

Winthrop nodded, his gaze still on the scene beyond the glass.

“Anyone you know of in particular?”

The banker drew a deep breath that expanded his chest. “It seems somehow wrong to be mentioning these things now, when
the recollection of a few careless words uttered in anger could easily result in a man standing accused of murder.”

“Are you saying Miss Tennyson quarreled with someone recently?”

“I don’t know if I’d say they ‘quarreled,’ exactly.”

“So what did happen?”

“Well, when I saw her on Saturday…”

“Yes?” prompted Sebastian when the man hesitated.

“I knew something was troubling her as soon as she arrived at the site. She seemed…strained. Jumpy. At first she tried to pass it off as nothing more than a melancholy mood, but I wasn’t fooled.”

“Was she given to melancholy moods?”

“She was a Tennyson. They’re all melancholy, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know. Go on.”

“She said she didn’t want to talk about it. Perhaps I pressed her more than I should have, but in the end she admitted she was troubled by an encounter she’d had the previous day, on Friday. She tried to laugh it off—said it was nothing. But it was obviously considerably more than ‘nothing.’ I don’t believe I’d ever seen her so upset.”

The sound of a distant door opening echoed through the house.

“An encounter with whom?” asked Sebastian.

“I couldn’t tell you his name. Some antiquary known for his work on the post-Roman period of English history.”

“And this fellow disagreed with Miss Tennyson’s belief that your Camlet Moat was the site of King Arthur’s Camelot?”

Winthrop’s jaw tightened in a way that caused the powerful muscles in his cheeks to bunch and flex. For the first time, Sebastian caught a glimpse of the steely ruthlessness that had enabled the banker to amass a fortune in the course of twenty years of war. “I gather he is of the opinion that King Arthur is a figment of the collective British imagination—a product of both our romantic wish
for a glorious, heroic past and a yearning for a magical savior who will return to lead us once more to victory and glory.”

“And was this disagreement the reason for Friday’s ‘encounter’?”

“She led me to believe so.”

“But you suspect she was being less than open with you?”

“In a word? Yes.”

L
uick footsteps sounded in the hall, and Winthrop turned as his wife entered the room. She drew up abruptly at the sight of Sebastian, her expression more one of haughty indignation than welcome. It was obvious she knew exactly why he was there.

“Ah, there you are, my dear,” said the banker. “You’ve met Lord Devlin?”

“I have.” She made no move to offer him her hand.

“We met at a dinner at Lord Liverpool’s, I believe,” said Sebastian, bowing. “Last spring.”

“So we did.” It was obvious Lady Winthrop had not found the encounter a pleasure. But then, Sebastian did have something of a reputation for dangerous and scandalous living. She said, “You’re here because of the death of the Tennyson woman, are you? I told Sir Stanley no good would come of this Camelot nonsense.”

Sebastian cast a glance at her husband, but Winthrop’s face remained a pleasant mask. If he was embarrassed by his wife’s boorish behavior, he gave no sign of it.

“I take it you don’t share Sir Stanley’s enthusiasm for the investigation of Camlet Moat?” said Sebastian, draining his wine.

“I do not.”

Winthrop moved to close the lid on the glass case. “My wife is a God-fearing woman who worries that any interest in the island shown by their betters will merely increase the unfortunate predilection of the locals to fall victim to ancient and dangerous superstitions.”

Lady Winthrop threw her husband a quick, veiled look.

“Have you visited the excavations yourself, Lady Winthrop?” Sebastian asked.

“I see no utility in poking about the rubbish of some long-vanished buildings. What’s gone is gone. It’s the fate of mankind that should concern us, not his past. Everything we need to know is written in the Good Lord’s book or in the learned works of theology and morality penned by his inspired servants. It is his intentions that should be the object of our study, not some forgotten piles of stones and broken pots.”

Winthrop said, his voice bland, “May I offer you some more wine, Lord Devlin?”

“Thank you, but no.” Sebastian set aside his glass. “I must be going.”

Neither his host nor his hostess urged him to stay. “I’ll send a servant for your carriage,” said Lady Winthrop.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t have been of more assistance,” said Winthrop a few moments later as he walked with Sebastian to the door and out into the blazing sunshine.

Sebastian paused at the top of the broad steps. “Tell me, Sir Stanley: Do you think it possible that Miss Tennyson’s death could have something to do with your work at Camlet Moat?”

“I don’t see how it could,” said Winthrop, his face turned away, his gaze on the gravel sweep where Tom was just drawing up.

“Yet you are familiar with the legend that Arthur is only sleeping on the isle of Avalon, and that in England’s gravest hour of need he will arise again to lead us to victory.”

The two men walked down the steps. “I find legends endlessly fascinating; tales of noble heroes and beautiful maidens have entranced mankind through the ages. But as an inspiration to murder? I don’t see it.”

Sebastian leapt up to the curricle’s high seat and gathered the reins. “Anything powerful can also be dangerous.”

“Only to those who feel threatened by it.” Winthrop took a step back. “Good day, my lord.”

Sebastian waited until they were bowling away up the drive toward the park’s gateway before glancing over at his tiger and saying, “Well? Anything?”

“It’s a queer estate, this Trent Place,” said Tom, who possessed a knack for inspiring other servants to gossip. “Seems like it changes owners nearly every other year.”

“Not quite, but almost,” said Sebastian. It was typical of new estates. Ancient manors could stay in the same family for centuries, but the new wealth of merchants and bankers frequently went as easily and quickly as it came. “And what is the servants’ general opinion of the current owners?”

“There was some mutterin’ and queer looks, but nobody was willin’ to come out and say much o’ anything. If ye ask me, they’re afraid.”

“Of Sir Stanley? Or his wife?”

“Maybe both.”

“Interesting,” said Sebastian. “And what do they think of the excavations at Camlet Moat?”

“That’s a bit queer too. Some think it’s excitin’, but there’s others see it as a sacra—sacra—” Tom struggled with the word.

“A sacrilege?”

“Aye, that’s it.”

“Interesting.”

Sebastian guided the chestnuts through the park’s massive new gateway, then dropped his hands; the horses leapt forward to
eat up the miles back to London. He could see the heat haze roiling up from the hard-packed road, feel the sun blazing down hot on his shoulders. He was intensely aware of the fierce green of the chestnut trees shading a nearby brook, of the clear-noted poignancy of a lark’s song floating on the warm breeze. And he found himself unable to stop thinking of the vibrant, intelligent young woman whose pallid corpse awaited him on Paul Gibson’s cold granite slab, and to whom all the beauties of that morning—or any other morning—were forever lost.

By the time Sebastian drew up before Paul Gibson’s surgery on Tower Hill, the chestnuts’ coats were wet and dark with sweat.

“Take ’em home and baby ’em,” he said, handing Tom the reins.

“Aye, gov’nor.” Tom scrambled into the seat as Sebastian hopped down to the narrow footpath. “You want I should come back with the grays?”

Sebastian shook his head. “I’ll send for you if I need you.”

He stood for a moment, watching the lad expertly wind his way westward through the press of carts and coal wagons. Near the base of the hill, a ragged boy with a drum tapped a steady beat to attract customers to the street seller who stood beside him hawking fried fish. Nearby, a woman with a cart peddled eel jelly, while a thin man in a buff-colored coat watered a nondescript roan at an old fountain built against the wall of the corner house. Then, realizing he was only delaying the inevitable, Sebastian turned to cut through the noisome, high-walled passage that led to the unkempt yard behind Gibson’s surgery.

At the base of the yard lay a small stone outbuilding used by the surgeon both for his official postmortems and for a series of surreptitious dissections performed on cadavers snatched from the city’s graveyards under the cover of darkness by stealthy, dangerous men. As Sebastian neared the open door of the building, he could
see the remains of a woman lying on the cold, hard granite slab in the center of the single, high-windowed room.

Even in death, Miss Gabrielle Tennyson was a handsome woman, her features gracefully molded, her mouth generous, her upper lip short and gently cleft, her chestnut hair thick and luxuriously wavy. He paused in the doorway, his gaze on her face.

“Ah, there you are,” said Gibson, looking up. He set aside his scalpel with a clatter and reached for a rag to wipe his hands. “I thought I might be seeing you.”

A slim man of medium height in his early thirties, Paul Gibson had dark hair and green eyes bright with an irrepressible glint of mischief that almost but not quite hid the dull ache of chronic pain lurking in their nuanced depths. Irish by birth, he had honed his craft on the battlefields of Europe, learning the secrets of life and death from an endless parade of bodies slashed open and torn asunder. Then a French cannonball had shattered his own lower left leg, leaving him with a painful stump and a weakness for the sweet relief to be found in an elixir of poppies. He now divided his time between teaching anatomy to the medical students at St. Thomas’s Hospital and consulting with patients at his own private surgery here in the shadows of the Tower of London.