by C. S. Harris
Normally, the square would have been filled with children playing under the watchful eye of their nursemaids, their shouts and laughter carrying on the warm breeze. But today, the sunlit lawns and graveled walks lay silent and empty. Gabrielle's murder and the mysterious disappearance of the two boys had obviously spooked the city. Those mothers who could afford to do so were keeping their children safely indoors under nervous, watchful eyes.
`I was wondering,' said Hero, `where exactly were you yesterday?'
If Childe's cheeks had been pale before, they now flared red, his eyes wide with indignation, his pursed mouth held tight.
`If you mean to suggest that I could possibly have anything to do with that... that... !'
Hero returned his angry stare with a calculated look of bland astonishment. `I wasn't suggesting anything, Mr. Childe; I was merely hoping you might have some idea about Miss Tennyson's plans for Sunday.'
`Ah. Well, I'm afraid not. As it happens, I spend my Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays at Gough Hall. The late Richard Gough left his books and papers to the Bodleian Library, you see, and I have volunteered to sort through and organize them. It's a prodigious undertaking.'
She had heard of Richard Gough, the famous scholar and writer who had been director of the Society of Antiquaries for two decades and who had made the Arthurian legends one of his particular areas of interest. `Gough Hall is near Camlet Moat, is it not?'
`It is.'
`I wonder, did you ever take advantage of the opportunity offered by that proximity to visit the excavations on the isle?'
`I wouldn't waste my time,' said Childe loftily.
Hero tilted her head to one side, her gaze on his face, a coaxing smile on her lips. `So certain that Miss Tennyson was wrong about the island, are you?'
No answering smile touched the man's dour features.
`If a real character known as Arthur ever existed which is by no means certain he was in all likelihood a barbaric warrior chieftain from the wilds of Wales whose dimly remembered reality was seized upon by a collection of maudlin French troubadours with no understanding of or interest in the world he actually inhabited.'
`I take it you're not fond of medieval romances?'
She noticed he was staring, hard, at another handbill tacked up on the wall of the house at the corner. This one simply proclaimed, KING ARTHUR, SAVE US!
Hero said, `Who do you think killed her?'
Childe jerked his head around to look at her again, and for one unexpected moment, all the bombastic self-importance seemed to leach out of the man in a way that left him seeming unexpectedly vulnerable and considerably more likeable. `Believe me when I say that if I could help you in any way, I would. Miss Tennyson was...' His voice quivered and he broke off, his features pinched with grief. He swallowed and tried again. `She was a most remarkable woman, brilliant and high-spirited and full of boundless energy, even if her enthusiasms did at times lead her astray. But she was also very good at keeping parts of her life of herself secret.'
His words echoed so closely those of Hero's father that she felt a sudden, unexpected chill. `What sort of secrets are we talking about?'
`If I knew, they wouldn't be secrets, now, would they?' said Childe with a faintly condescending air.
Hero asked again, her voice more tart, `So who do you think killed her?'
Childe shook his head. `I don't know. But if I were intent on unmasking her killer, rather than focus on Miss Tennyson's associates and activities, I would instead ask myself, Who would benefit from the death of her young cousins?'
They had come full circle, so that they now stood on the footpath outside the Pied Piper. The door beside them opened, spilling voices and laughter and the yeasty scent of ale into the street as two gentlemen emerged blinking into the sunlight and crossed the street toward the museum.
`You mean, George and Arthur Tennyson?' said Hero.
She realized Childe was no longer looking at her but at something or someone beyond her. Throwing a quick glance over her shoulder, Hero found herself staring at the watercress girl from the square. The girl must have trailed behind them and now leaned wearily against a nearby lamppost, her wooden tray hanging heavy from its strap, a wilting bunch of greens clutched forlornly in one hand. She couldn't have been more than twelve or thirteen, with golden hair and large blue eyes in an elfin face. Already grown tall and leggy, she was still boy-thin, with only a hint of the breasts beginning to swell beneath the bodice of her ragged dress. And Childe was looking at her with his lips parted and his gray eyes hooded in a way that made Hero feel she was witnessing something unclean and obscene.
As if becoming aware of Hero's scrutiny, he brought his gaze back to her face and cleared his throat. `As I said. And now, Lady Devlin, you really must excuse me.' Turning on his heel, he strode into the Pied Piper and shut the door behind him with a snap.
Hero stood for a moment, her gaze on the closed door. Then, digging her purse from her reticule, she walked over to the watercress girl. `How much for all your bunches?'
The girl straightened with a jerk, her mouth agape. `M'lady?'
`You heard me. You've what? A dozen? Tell me, do you always sell your watercress here, by the museum?'
The girl closed her mouth and swallowed. `Here, or at Bloomsbury Square.'
Hero pressed three coins into the girl s palm. `There's a shilling for all your watercress and two more besides. But don't let me catch you around here again. Is that understood? From now on, you peddle your bundles only at Bloomsbury.'
The girl dropped a frightened, confused curtsy. `Yes, m'lady.'
`Go on. Get out of here.'
The girl took to her heels and fled, the ragged skirt of her dress swirling around her ankles, her tray thumping against her thin body, her fist clenched about the coins in her hand. She did not look back.
Hero watched until the girl turned the corner and the receding patter of her bare feet was lost in the rumble of the passing carriages and carts, the shouts of the costermongers, the distant wail of the hurdy-gurdy player from the square.
But the uneasiness within her remained.
She was about to turn back toward her carriage when she heard a familiar low-pitched voice behind her say, `I suppose I shouldn't be surprised to find you here, but I must confess that I am.'
Chapter 11
Sebastian stood with one shoulder propped against the brick wall of the pub, his arms crossed at his chest, and watched his wife pivot slowly to face him. The hot sun fell full across a face unusually pale but flawlessly composed.
`Devlin,' she said, adjusting the tilt of her parasol in a way that threw her features into shadow. `What brings you here?'
He pushed away from the wall. `I was hoping to find someone at the museum who could direct me to a certain unidentified antiquary who quarreled recently with Miss Tennyson. I take it that's the gentleman in question?'
`His name is Bevin Childe.' She stood still and let him walk up to her. `Post-Roman England is his specialty.'
`Ah, the Arthurian Age.'
`Yes. But I wouldn't let Childe hear you call it that. I suspect you'd get an earful.'
`Mr. Childe is not a fan of Camelot?'
`He is not.'
`How much do you know about him?'
They turned to walk together toward her waiting carriage. `Apart from the fact that he's a pompous ass?' she said with unladylike frankness.
Sebastian gave a startled laugh. `Is he?'
`Decidedly. As for what I know about him, I'm told his father is a Cambridge don. A doctor of divinity.'
`I wouldn't have expected such a man to have much to do with Miss Tennyson.'
He watched her brows draw together in a frown. `Meaning?' she asked.
`Meaning that however brilliant or accomplished she may have been, Miss Tennyson not only lacked a formal university education, but she was also female. And there's no need to scowl at me; I didn't say I agreed with that sort of prejudice, did I?'
`Tr
ue. I beg your pardon.'
`What about Childe himself? Is he a clergyman?'
`I believe he was once rather reluctantly destined for the church. But fortunately for Mr. Childe, a maternal uncle managed to acquire a fortune in India and then died without siring an heir. He left everything to Mr. Childe.'
`Fortuitous, indeed for both Mr. Childe and the church. How do you come to know so much about the gentleman?'
`From Gabrielle. Her brother was up at Cambridge with Childe, and the two men have remained friends ever since much to Gabrielle s disgust, given that she has heartily detested the man since she was still in the schoolroom.'
`Any particular reason why?'
`She said he was arrogant, opinionated, self-absorbed, pedantic, and strange.'
`Strange? Did she ever explain exactly what she meant by that?'
`No. I asked her once, but she just shrugged and said he made her uncomfortable.'
`Interesting. And precisely how large of a fortune did the arrogant and pedantic Mr. Childe inherit?'
`A comfortable enough independence that he is now able to devote himself entirely to scholarship. I gather he currently divides his time between research here at the museum and a project he has undertaken for the Bodleian Library, which entails cataloging the library and collections of the late Richard Gough.'
`That's significant,' said Sebastian, studying her face. `Why?'
`Because amongst other things, Mr. Gough made a particular study of the Arthurian legends. And his home, Gough Hall, is near Enfield.'
`And Camlet Moat?'
`Precisely.'
Sebastian frowned. `So where does Mr. Childe live?'
`I believe he has rooms in St. James's Street.'
`He's unmarried?'
`He is, yes. Gabrielle told me several weeks ago that he had become quite vocal in his disparagement of her conclusions about Camlet Moat. And Childe himself says that they quarreled over the issue again just last Friday. But he also made some rather vague references to Gabrielle's secrets that I found disturbing.'
`Secrets? What secrets?'
`He declined to elaborate.'
They had reached her carriage. Sebastian shook his head at the footman who was about to spring forward; the man stepped back, and Sebastian opened the carriage door himself. `Any chance Childe could have been referring to a certain French prisoner of war with whom Miss Tennyson was apparently friendly?'
Hero turned to face him, her expression one of mingled surprise and puzzlement. `What French prisoner of war?'
`She never talked about him?' Pausing with one elbow resting on the carriage's open window, he gave her a brief summary of what he'd learned from the servants in the Tennyson household. `You're certain she never mentioned such a man to you?'
`Not that I recall, no.'
Sebastian let his gaze rove over the shadowed features of her face, the smooth curve of her cheek, the strong, almost masculine angle of her jaw. Once, he would have said she was telling him the truth. But he knew her well enough by now to know that she was keeping something back from him.
He said, `When Bow Street brought word this morning of Gabrielle Tennyson's death, I was surprised that you had no wish to accompany me to Camlet Moat. In my naivety, I assumed it was because you knew Lovejoy would be discomfited by your presence. But you had another reason entirely, didn't you?'
She furled her parasol, her attention seemingly all for the task of securing the strap. Rather than answering him, she said, `We agreed when we married that we would respect each other's independence.'
`We did. Yet your purpose in this is the same as mine, is it not? To discover what happened to Gabrielle Tennyson and her young cousins? Or is something else going on here of which I am not aware?'
She looked up at him, the light falling full on her face, and he saw there neither guile nor subterfuge, but only a tense concern.
`You've heard the authorities discovered the boys are missing?'
Sebastian nodded silently.
`When I asked Childe who he thought killed Gabrielle, he said that rather than focusing on Gabrielle's associates, I ought to consider who would benefit from the elimination of the children.'
Sebastian was silent for a moment, remembering a boy's flowing copperplate and armies of tin soldiers marching silently across a sunlit nursery floor. He refused to accept that the two little boys were dead too. But all he said was, `You've met them?'
`Her cousins? Several times, yes. I'm not one of those women who dote mindlessly on children, but George and Alfred are something special. They're so extraordinarily bright and curious and full of enthusiasm for learning about the world around them that they're a delight to be with. The thought that something might have happened to them too...' She broke off, and he saw the rare glaze of unshed tears in her eyes. Then she cleared her throat and looked away, as if embarrassed to be seen giving way to her emotions.
`Something that's done and more undone,' he quoted softly. `Are only the dead so bold?'
Hero shook her head, not understanding. `What?'
`It's from a poem George Tennyson wrote. He showed it to her. Does it mean anything to you?'
She read through the short stanza. `No. But George was always writing disjointed scraps of poetry like that. I doubt it means anything.'
`I'm told the boy's father has been ill for a long time. Do you have any idea with what?'
`No. But then, I don't know that much about Miss Tennyson's family. Her parents died before I knew her. Her brother is a pleasant enough chap, although rather typically preoccupied with his legal practice. He has a small estate down in Kent, which is where he is now. It has always been my understanding that he and Gabrielle were comfortably situated, although no more than that. Yet I believe there may be substantial wealth elsewhere in the family. Recent wealth.'
`Good God,' said Sebastian. `Was Miss Tennyson in some way related to Charles Tennyson d'Eyncourt?'
`I believe they are first cousins. You know him?'
`He was several years behind me at Eton.'
His tone betrayed more than he'd intended it to. She smiled. `And you consider him a pretentious, toadying a...' She broke off to cast a rueful glance at the wooden faces of the waiting servants.
`Bore?' he suggested helpfully.
`That too.'
For one unexpectedly intimate moment, their gazes met and they shared a private smile. Then Sebastian felt his smile begin to fade.
For the past fifteen months, d'Eyncourt had served as a member of Parliament from Lincolnshire. A fiercely reactionary Tory, he had quickly managed to ingratiate himself with the block of parliamentarians controlled by Hero's own father, Lord Jarvis.
Sebastian said, `Why do I keep getting the distinct impression there's something you're not telling me?'
She took his offered hand and climbed the step into the waiting carriage. `Would I do that?' she asked.
`Yes.'
She gave a throaty chuckle and gracefully disposed the skirts of her dusky blue walking dress around her on the seat. `Will you tell the coachman to take me home, please?'
`Are you going home?'
`Are you?'
Smiling softly, he closed the door and nodded to the driver. He stood for a moment and watched as her carriage rounded the corner onto Tottenham Court. Then he went in search of the pretentious toadying bore who called himself Tennyson d'Eyncourt.
Chapter 12
Charles Tennyson d'Eyncourt was lounging comfortably in one of the leather tub chairs in the reading room of White's when Sebastian walked up to him.
The MP was considerably fairer than his cousin Gabrielle, slim and gracefully formed, with delicate features and high cheekbones and lips so thin as to appear nearly nonexistent. He had a glass of brandy on the table at his elbow and the latest copy of the conservative journal The Courier spread open before him. He glanced up, briefly, when Sebastian settled in the seat opposite him, then pointedly returned his attention to his reading.
> `My condolences on the death of your cousin, Miss Gabrielle Tennyson,' said Sebastian.
`I take it Bow Street has involved you in the investigation of this unfortunate incident, have they?' asked d'Eyncourt without looking up again.
`If by unfortunate incident you mean the murder of Miss Tennyson and the disappearance of the young children in her care, then the answer is yes.'
D'Eyncourt reached, deliberately, for his brandy, took a sip, and returned to his journal.
`I'm curious,' said Sebastian, signaling a passing waiter for a drink. `How close is the relationship between you and Miss Tennyson?'
`We are or I suppose I should say were first cousins.'
`So the two missing boys are?'
`My nephews.'
`Your brother's sons?'
`That is correct.'
`I must confess that, under the circumstances, I am rather surprised to find you lounging in your club calmly reading a journal.'
D'Eyncourt looked up at that, his thin nose quivering.
`Indeed? And what would you have me do instead, I wonder? Go charging into the countryside to thrash the underbrush of Enfield Chase like a beater hoping to flush game?'
`You think that's where the children are liable to be found? At Camlet Moat?'
`How the devil would I know?' snapped d'Eyncourt and returned once more to his reading.
Sebastian studied the other man's pinched profile. He couldn't recall many of the younger boys at Eton, but Sebastian remembered d'Eyncourt. As a lad, d'Eyncourt had been one of those ostentatiously earnest scholars who combined shameless toadying with nauseating displays of false enthusiasm to curry favor with the dons. But to his fellow students he was ruthless and vindictive, and quickly acquired a well-deserved reputation as someone who would do anything and say anything to get what he wanted.
In those days he'd simply been called Tennyson, the same as his cousin and missing nephews. But several years ago he had successfully petitioned the Home Secretary to have his name changed to the more aristocratic d'Eyncourt, the extinct patronym of one of his mother's ancestors, to which his claims were, to say the least, dubious. It was well-known that his ambition was to be made Lord d'Eyncourt before he was forty.