When maidens mourn ssm-7 Page 3

  `Keep your ears open around the stables,' Sebastian told Tom as the tiger took the reins. `I'd be interested to hear what the servants are saying.'

  `Aye, gov'nor.'

  `Devlin,' called Sir Stanley, leaving the bricklayers to stroll toward him.

  He was a ruggedly handsome man, his chin square, his cheekbones prominent, his mouth wide and expressive. Despite his years, his body was still strong and powerful, and he had a head of thick, pale blond hair fading gradually to white, so that it formed a startling contrast to his unexpectedly sun-darkened features. The effect was more like what one would expect of a soldier or a nabob just returned from India than a banker.

  They said the man had begun his career as a lowly clerk, the son of a poor vicar with sixteen children and no connections. Sebastian had heard that his rise to wealth, power, and influence had been both rapid and brutal and owed its success to his wily intelligence, his driving ambition, and a clear-sighted, unflinching ruthlessness.

  `What brings you here?' asked Sir Stanley, pausing beside the curricle.

  `I've just come from Camlet Moat,' said Sebastian, dropping lightly to the ground.

  `Ah. I see.' The flesh of the man's face suddenly looked pinched, as if pulled too taut over the bones of his face. `Please,' he said, stretching a hand to indicate the broad white marble stairs that led up to the central, original section of the house. `Come in.'

  `Thank you.'

  `I was with Squire John when he discovered the body,' said Winthrop as they mounted the steps. `He's our local magistrate, you know. Seems some girl from the village showed up at the Grange in the middle of the night, babbling nonsense about white ladies and magic wells and a dead gentlewoman in the moat. The Squire was convinced it was all a hum actually apologized for coming to me at the crack of dawn but I said, No, no, let s go have a look.' He paused in the entrance hall, a quiver passing over his tightly held features. `The last thing I expected was to find Gabrielle.'

  Sebastian let his gaze drift around the vast, marble-floored entrance hall, with its towering, gilt-framed canvases of pastoral landscapes by Constable and Turner, its ornately plastered ceiling picked out in pastel shades evocative of a plate of petit fours. In an age when it was not uncommon for husbands and wives to call each other by their surnames or titles, Winthrop had just referred to Miss Tennyson by her first name.

  And Sebastian suspected the man was not even aware of his slip.

  `I'd never seen someone who'd been murdered,' the banker was saying. `I suppose you've had experience with it, but I haven't. I'm not ashamed to admit it was a shock.'

  `I'm not convinced anyone gets used to the sight of murder.'

  Sir Stanley nodded and turned toward the cavernous drawing room that opened to their left. `It may be frightfully early, but I could use a drink. How about you? May I offer you some wine?'

  `Yes, thank you. Sir Henry Lovejoy tells me you don't work on the island's excavations on Sundays,' said Sebastian as his host crossed to where a tray with a decanter and glasses waited on a gilded table beside a grouping of silk-covered settees.

  Winthrop splashed wine into two glasses. `My wife believes the Sabbath should be a day of rest. On the seventh day, the Lord rested, and so should all of his children.'

  `Commendable,' said Sebastian. Through a long bank of tall windows he could see an angular, bony woman he recognized as Lady Winthrop standing at the edge of an old-fashioned garden of box-edged parterres filled with roses. Despite the heat, she wore a long-sleeved sprigged muslin gown made high at the neck and trimmed with only a meager band of lace. She was younger than Winthrop by some fifteen or twenty years, a second wife as plain as her husband was handsome, her eyes small and protuberant and close set, her chin receding, her head thrust forward in a way that made her look forever inquisitive.

  Or aggressive.

  She was in the process of giving directions to a cluster of gardeners equipped with wheelbarrows and shovels. As Sebastian watched, she waved her arms in extravagant gestures as she delivered her instructions. Piles of rich dark earth and stacks of brick lay nearby; the Winthrops were obviously expanding their gardens as well as their new house. Watching her, Sebastian wondered if Lady Winthrop also referred to Miss Tennyson as Gabrielle. Somehow, he doubted it.

  Winthrop set aside the decanter to pick up the two glasses.

  `At first, in her naivety, my wife actually expected the brutes to be grateful. But she soon discovered how mistaken she was. All they do is grumble about being forced to go to church services.'

  `It's required?'

  `Of course.' Winthrop held out one of the glasses.

  `Religion is important to the order of society. It reconciles the lower classes to their lot in life and teaches them to respect their betters.'

  `So it does,' said Sebastian, studying the banker's faintly smiling face as he took the wine handed him. But he was unable to decide whether Winthrop agreed with his wife or quietly mocked her. `So, tell me, do you honestly believe you've found King Arthur's Camelot?' He took a sip of the wine. It was smooth and mellow and undoubtedly French.

  `Honestly?' The banker drained his own glass in two long pulls, then shook his head. `I don't know. But the site is intriguing, don't you agree? I mean, here we have a place long associated with the kings of England, a place whose name actually was Camelot. I'm told the word is of Celtic origin. It probably comes from Camulus, the Celtic god of war. Of course, Miss Tennyson says... said,' he amended hastily, correcting himself, `that it could also mean place of the crooked stream. Personally, I prefer to think it is named after the god of war.' Turning away to pour himself more wine, he raised the decanter in silent question to Sebastian.

  Sebastian shook his head. He had taken only the one sip.

  `The important thing,' said Winthrop, refreshing his own drink, `is that we know the name dates back to well before the time of William the Conqueror. The corruption of Camelot to Camlet is quite recent, within the last hundred years or so.'

  Sebastian studied the older man's handsome features. His manner could only be described as affable, even likeable. But Sebastian couldn't get past the knowledge that the previous owner of Trent Place had been forced to sell the estate to Winthrop at a steep loss and then blown his own brains out the next day.

  Sebastian took another sip of his wine. `How did you meet Miss Tennyson?'

  `By mere chance, actually, at a lecture presented by the Society of Antiquaries. She'd been doing research on the history of Camlet Moat and approached me when she learned I'd recently purchased the estate. Until then, I'd barely realized the moat existed. But the more I learned about it, the more intrigued I became.'

  `And you began the excavations when?'

  `A month ago now. We'd hoped to begin earlier, but the wet spring delayed things.'

  `Find anything interesting?'

  `Far more than I'd anticipated, certainly. Foundations of stone walls five feet thick. Remnants of a forty-foot drawbridge. Even an underground dungeon complete with chains still hanging on the walls.'

  `Dating to when?'

  `Judging from the coins and painted tiles we've come across, probably the thirteenth or fourteenth century, for most of it.'

  `I was under the impression King Arthur was supposed to have lived in the fifth or sixth century, after the Roman withdrawal from Britain that is, if he lived at all.'

  `True.' Winthrop turned away to reach for something, then held it out. `But look at this.'

  Sebastian found himself holding a corroded metal blade. `What is it?'

  `A Roman dagger.' Winthrop set aside his wine and went to open a large flat glass case framed in walnut that stood on its own table near the door. `And look at this.' He pointed with one blunt, long finger. `These pottery vessels are third- or fourth-century Roman. So is the glass vial. And see that coin? It's from the time of Claudius.'

  Sebastian studied the artifacts proudly displayed against a black velvet background. `You found all this at Camlet Moa
t?'

  `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.'

  Chapter 7

  Quick 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.'r />
  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?'