by C. S. Harris
`Are you asking for my help?'
Lovejoy met that strange, feral yellow stare, and held it.
`I am, my lord.'
Devlin pushed to his feet, his gaze shifting across the stretch of murky water to where the constables could be seen poking around the piles of fresh earth that edged Sir Stanley's series of exploratory trenches. In the misty, ethereal light of morning, the mounds of raw earth bore an unpleasant resemblance to rows of freshly dug graves. Lovejoy watched Devlin's lips press into a thin line, his nostrils flare on a painfully indrawn breath.
But the Viscount didn't say anything, and Lovejoy knew him well enough to be patient.
And wait for Devlin's reply.
Chapter 4
Sebastian turned to walk along the crest of the ancient rampart that rose beside the stagnant moat. The shade here was deep and heavy, the blue sky above nearly obliterated by the leafy branches of the stands of old-growth timber that met overhead. A tangle of bracken and fern edged the quiet waters of the moat and filled the air with the scent of wet earth and humus and the buzz of insects.
He'd heard that once this wild tract of woodland to the north of London had been known as Enfield Chase, a royal hunting ground that rang with the clatter of noble hoofbeats, the shrill blast of the huntsman's horn, the baying of royal hounds. Through these lands had swept King Henry VIII and Queen Elizabeth and a host of glittering, bejeweled courtiers, their velvet cloaks swirling in the mist, their voices raised in hearty halloos.
But all that had ended long ago. Briars and underbrush had grown up to choke the forest floor, while commoners from the nearby village had carted away the last tumbled stones of whatever grand manor or castle had once stood here. A quiet hush had fallen over the site, unbroken until a beautiful, brilliant, independent-minded young woman with a boundless curiosity about the past had come searching for the origins of a legend and died here.
He could remember meeting Miss Gabrielle Tennyson only once, a year or so earlier at a lecture on Roman London that he'd attended in the company of the Earl of Hendon. Sebastian recalled her as a striking, self-assured young woman with chestnut hair and an open, friendly smile. He hadn't been surprised to discover that she and Hero were friends. Despite their obvious differences, the two women were much alike. He found it difficult to think of such a strong, vital woman now lying on a surgeon's slab, robbed of her life and all the years of promise that had once stretched before her. Difficult to imagine the terror and despair that must have filled her eyes and congealed her heart when she looked her last on this quiet, secluded site.
He paused to stare again at the small wooded isle where a castle named Camelot had once stood. He was aware of Sir Henry Lovejoy drawing up beside him, his homely features pinched and tight, his hands clasped behind his back.
Sebastian glanced over at him. `You said she'd been stabbed?'
The magistrate nodded. `In the chest. Just once that I could see, although Dr. Gibson will be able to tell us with certainty once he's finished the postmortem.'
`And the murder weapon?'
`Has yet to be found.'
Sebastian eyed the murky water before them. If Gabrielle's murderer had thrown his knife into the moat, it might never be recovered.
Twisting around, he studied the narrow lane where his tiger, Tom, was walking the chestnuts up and down. `How the devil did she get out here? Any idea?'
Sir Henry shook his head. `We can only assume she must have arrived in the company of her killer.'
`No one in the neighborhood saw anything?'
`Nothing they're willing to admit. But then, the nearest village is several miles away, and there are only a few isolated houses in the area. Tessa Sawyer, the village girl who found her, came upon the body quite by chance, shortly before midnight.'
`And what was Tessa doing out in the middle of nowhere at night?'
`That is not entirely clear, I'm afraid, given the girl's garbled and rather evasive replies to our questions. However, I understand that yesterday was some sort of ancient pagan holy day...'
`Lammas.'
`Yes, that's it,' said Sir Henry. `Lammas. I'm told Camlet Moat has a reputation as a place of magic amongst the credulous. In addition to the apparition of a White Lady who is said to haunt the island, there's also the ghost of some unsavory Templar knight who is reputed to appear when provoked.'
`I assume you've heard there's also a tradition that this may be the ancient site of King Arthur's Camelot?'
The magistrate sniffed. `A fanciful notion, no doubt. But yes, I understand Sir Stanley Winthrop became intrigued by the possibility after he purchased the estate last year and discovered Miss Tennyson's research on the history of the site.'
`You think her murder could in some way be connected to the legends of the island's past?'
Sir Henry blew out a long, agitated breath. `I wish I knew. We're not even certain how long Miss Tennyson's body was lying here before it was discovered. Her brother, Mr. Hildeyard Tennyson, has been out of town for the better part of a fortnight. I've sent a constable to interview her servants, but I fear they may not be able tell us much of anything. Yesterday was Sunday, after all.'
`Bloody hell,' said Sebastian softly. `What does Sir Stanley Winthrop have to say about all this?'
`He claims he last saw Miss Tennyson when she left the excavations for home on Saturday afternoon.'
Something in the magistrate's tone caught Sebastian's attention. `But you don't believe him?'
`I don't know what to believe. He tells us he can't imagine what she might have been doing up here yesterday. They don't work the excavations on Sundays.'
Sebastian said, `Perhaps she came up to look around by herself.'
Lovejoy frowned. `Yes, I suppose that's possible. She may well have surprised some trespasser, and in a panic, he killed her.'
`And then stole her carriage and kidnapped her coachman?'
Lovejoy pulled a face. `There is that.'
Sebastian adjusted the tilt of his beaver hat. `Her brother is still out of town?'
Lovejoy nodded. `We've sent word to his estate, but I doubt he'll make it back to London before nightfall at the earliest.'
`Then I think I'll start with Sir Stanley Winthrop,' said Sebastian, and turned back toward his curricle.
Lovejoy fell into step beside him. `Does this mean you're willing to assist Bow Street with the case?'
`Did you honestly think I would not?'
Sir Henry gave one of his rare half smiles, tucked his chin against his chest, and shook his head.
Chapter 5
`There you are, Jarvis,' exclaimed the Prince Regent, his face flushed, his voice rising in a petulant whine as he clenched a sheet of cheap, ink-smeared paper in his fist. `Look at this!' He thumped the offending broadsheet with one plump, beringed hand. 'Just look at it.'
His Royal Highness George, Prince Regent of Great Britain and Ireland, lay beside the fireplace in his dressing room, his heavy legs draped off the edge of a gilt fainting couch contrived in the shape of a crocodile upholstered in scarlet velvet. Despite the heat of the day, a fire burned brightly on the hearth, for the Prince had a morbid fear of taking chill.
Having been stricken while still in the midst of his toilet, he wore only a pair of exquisitely fitted yellow unmentionables and a shirt ruffled with an extravagant cascade of lace. It was a style of linen that belonged more to the previous century, but the Prince still occasionally indulged his taste for it, perhaps because it reminded him of the golden years of his youth, when he'd been handsome and carefree and beloved by his people. These days, he needed a corset to contain his ever-increasing girth, the people who'd once cheered him now booed him openly in the streets, and shadowy radicals published seditious broadsheets bemoaning the lost days of Camelot and calling for King Arthur to return from the mists of Avalon and save Britain from the benighted rule of the House of Hanover.
So great had been the Prince's distress at the reading of this particular broadsh
eet that his valet had sent for the Prince's doctor. The doctor, in turn, took one look at the offending verbiage and requested the attendance of the Prince's powerful and infinitely wise cousin, Charles, Lord Jarvis.
`Calm yourself, Your Highness,' said Jarvis, catching the eye of the Prince's doctor, who stood nearby. The doctor nodded discreetly and turned away.
`But have you seen this?' wailed the Prince.
`They want Arthur to come back and get rid of me!'
Jarvis carefully loosed the broadsheet from the Regent's clutches. `I have seen it, Your Highness.' Personally, Jarvis suspected the caricature accompanying the tract which portrayed George as a grossly fat, drunken, overdressed buffoon with the ears of an ass offended the Prince more than anything. But it was the implications of the appeal for Arthur's messianic return that concerned Jarvis. Whoever is responsible for this will be dealt with.
The Prince's valet and doctor exchanged quick, furtive glances, then looked away. There was a reason Jarvis was feared from one end of the Kingdom to the other. His network of spies and informants gave him an eerie omnipotence, while those he dealt with were seldom seen again.
The doctor stepped forward with a glass of cloudy liquid on a silver tray. `Here, Your Highness; drink this. You'll feel much better.'
`Who gave this broadsheet to the Prince?' Jarvis demanded in a harsh whisper to the Prince's valet as His Highness obediently gulped the doctor's brew.
The valet's plump, sweat-sheened face went pasty white.
`I've no notion, my lord. In truth, I do not know!'
Frowning, Jarvis tucked the seditious literature into his coat and bowed himself out of the royal presence.
He was crossing the anteroom of the Prince's chambers when a pimply, half-grown page sidled up to him and bowed low, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to speak. But all he succeeded in doing was pushing out a series of incoherent squeaks.
`For God s sake, boy, out with it,' snapped Jarvis. `As it happens I've already eaten, so you needn't fear I'll have you for breakfast.'
The boy's eyes bulged.
Jarvis suppressed a sigh. `Your message; say it.'
The boy swallowed and tried again, the words tumbling out in a rush. `It's your daughter, my lord. Miss J... I mean, Lady Devlin. She desired me to tell you that she wishes to speak with you, my lord. She awaits you in your chambers.'
No man in England was more powerful than Jarvis. His kinship with the King might be distant, but without Jarvis's ruthless brilliance and steady wisdom, the House of Hanover would have fallen long ago and the Hanovers knew it. Jarvis had dedicated his life to the preservation of the monarchy and the global extension of the might of England. Another man might have insisted on being named prime minister in return for his services. But Jarvis preferred to exercise his power from the shadows, unconstrained by either tradition or law. Prime ministers came and went.
Jarvis remained.
He found his daughter standing at the long window of the chambers reserved for his exclusive use overlooking Pall Mall. Once, Jarvis had possessed a son, an idealistic dreamer named David. But David had been lost years before to a watery grave. Now there was only Hero: brilliant, strong willed, and nearly as ruthless and enigmatic as Jarvis himself.
She wore a walking dress of dusky blue trimmed with moss green piping, and a jaunty hat with a broad brim turned up on one side and held in place with a silk posy. The sunlight streaming through the paned glass bathed her in a warm golden glow and touched her cheeks with color.
`You're looking good,' he said, closing the door behind him. `Marriage seems to agree with you.'
She turned to face him. `You're surprised?'
Rather than answer, he crossed the room to where a candlestick stood on a table beside a wing-back chair. The relationship between father and daughter had always been complicated. They were much alike, which meant she understood him as few others did. But that was not to say that she knew everything there was to know about him.
`What brings you here?' he asked, his attention seemingly all for the task of lighting the candle. He was aware of an air of constraint between them, for her recent marriage to Devlin had introduced a new element and subtly shifted the dynamic in a way neither had yet to confront or reveal.
`What makes you think I came for a purpose other than to see you?'
`Because if this were a gesture of familial affection, you wouldn't be at Carlton House. You would have come to Berkeley Square. Your mother is well, by the way, or perhaps I should say she is as well as she ever is. She's quite taken with the new companion you found for her.'
Refusing to be distracted, Hero said, `Gabrielle Tennyson was discovered murdered this morning, at Camlet Moat.' When he kept silent, she said, `You knew?'
He watched the wick of the candle catch, flare up bright. `There is little that happens in this Kingdom that I do not know about.'
`There is also little that happens in this Kingdom that you don't control.'
He glanced over at her. She stood with her back to the window, her hands curled so that her palms rested on the sill. Through the glass behind her he could see a heavy traffic of carriages, carts, and horses streaming up and down the Mall. He said, `Are you asking if I had her killed?'
`After what I overheard last Friday night, the thought naturally does occur to me.' When Jarvis remained silent, she added impatiently, `Well? Did you?'
`I did not.' He drew the broadsheet from his pocket and thrust it into the candle flame. It blackened and smoked for an instant, then caught fire. `Now the question becomes, do you believe me?'
She held herself quite still, her gaze on his face. `I don't know. I've never been able to tell when you re lying.'
He tilted the paper as the flames took hold, then dropped it onto the cold, bare stones of the nearby hearth. `I take it Devlin has become involved in the investigation?'
`Lovejoy has asked for his assistance with the case, yes.'
`And will you tell your husband that he should add me to his list of suspects, and why?'
She pushed away from the window, her nostrils flaring with a sharp intake of breath. `I am here because Gabrielle was my friend, not as Devlin's agent.'
`Perhaps. But that doesn't exactly answer my question.'
Their gazes met. They'd both known this day would come, when she'd find herself caught between what she felt she owed her own family and what she owed her new husband. Only, he hadn't expected it to come quite so soon.
She said, `I have no intention of betraying you if you are telling me the truth.'
He found himself smiling. `But then, in that case, you wouldn't actually be betraying me, now, would you?' He tipped his head to one side. `And how will your rather headstrong and passionate young Viscount react, I wonder, when he discovers that you have been less than forthcoming with him?'
`I must be true to myself and to what I believe is right. My marriage in no way negates that.'
`And if he doesn't understand or fails to agree?'
She turned toward the door. `Then we will disagree.'
She said it evenly, in that way she had. He knew she had analyzed the situation and made her decision calmly and rationally. She was not the kind of woman to waste time agonizing or endlessly analyzing her choices. But that was not to say that the decision had been made lightly or that it would be without emotional consequences. For he had seen the troubled shadows that lurked in the depths of her fine gray eyes. And he knew an upsurge of renewed anger and resentment directed at Devlin, who had put them there.
After she left, he watched the broadsheet on the hearth burn itself out until nothing remained but a blackened ash. Then he went to stand where she had stood, his gaze on the courtyard below. He watched her exit the Palace, watched her climb the steps to her waiting carriage. He watched the carriage bowl away up Pall Mall toward the west, the clatter of her horses hooves lost in the tumult of drivers shouts and hawkers cries and the rattle of iron-rimmed wheels over cobbles.
>
Turning, he rang for his clerk.
`Send Colonel Urquhart to me,' he said curtly when the man appeared. `Now.'
Chapter 6
The abandoned isle once known as Camelot lay on the northern edge of Trent Place, a relatively new estate dating only to late in the previous century, when the ancient royal chase had been broken up and sold to help pay for the first round of George III s wars. The properties thus created had proved popular with the newly wealthy merchants and bankers of the city. Sir Stanley, Trent Place's latest owner, was a prosperous banker granted a baronetcy by the King in reward for his assistance in financing the country's long struggle against Napoléon.
`One o' them constables was tellin' me this Sir Stanley already 'as a 'ouse in Golden Square what makes the Queen's Palace look like a cottage,' said Sebastian's tiger, Tom, as they turned through massive new gates to a meticulously landscaped park. `So why'd he need to buy this place too, just a few miles from London?'
The boy was thirteen years old now, but still small and gap-toothed and scrappy, for he had been a homeless street urchin when Sebastian first discovered the lad's intense loyalty and sense of honor and natural affinity for horses. In a very real sense, Tom and Sebastian had saved each other. The ties that bound lord to servant and boy to man ran deep and strong.
Sebastian said, `The possession of an estate is the sine qua non for anyone aspiring to be a gentleman.'
`The seenkwawhat?'
`Sine qua non. It's Latin for a condition without which something cannot be.'
`You sayin' this Sir Stanley ain't always been a gentleman?'
`Something like that,' said Sebastian, drawing up before what had once been a graceful Italianate villa but was now in the process of being transformed into something quite different by the addition of two vast wings and a new roofline. The pounding of hammers and the clatter of lumber filled the air; near a half-constructed wall, a tall, elegantly tailored gentleman in his early fifties could be seen conferring with a group of brickmasons.