Don t tell me you believe this nonsense?
Arceneaux smiled. No. But that doesn t mean that other people don t.
Are you suggesting Gabrielle Tennyson might have been killed by a treasure hunter?
I know they had difficulty with someone digging at the site during the night and on Sundays too. The workmen would frequently arrive in the morning to find great gaping holes at various points around the island. She was particularly disturbed by some damage she discovered last week. She suspected the man behind it was Winthrop s own foreman a big, redheaded rogue named Rory Forster. But she had no proof.
She thought whoever was digging at the site was looking for de Mandeville s treasure?
The Frenchman nodded. My fear is that if she and the lads did decide to go up there again last Sunday, they may have chanced upon someone looking for de Mandeville s treasure. Someone who His voice trailed away, his features pinched tight with the pain of his thoughts.
When you went with Miss Tennyson to the site, how did you get there?
But I didn t he began, only to have Sebastian cut him off.
All right, let s put it this way: If you had visited the site last Sunday, how would you have traveled there?
The Frenchman gave a wry grin. In a hired gig. Why?
Because it s one of the more puzzling aspects of this murder Bow Street has yet to discover how Miss Tennyson traveled up to the moat the day she was killed. You have no ideas?
Arceneaux shook his head. I assumed she must have gone there in the company of whoever killed her.
As she did with you, Sebastian thought. Aloud, he said, I m curious: Why bring this tale to me? Why not take what you know to Bow Street?
A humorless smile twisted Arceneaux s lips. Have you seen today s papers? They re suggesting Gabrielle and the boys were killed by a Frenchman. Just this morning, two of my fellow officers were attacked by a mob calling them child murderers. They might well have been killed if a troop of the Third Volunteers hadn t chanced to come along and rescue them.
They drew up at the gate, where Tom was waiting with the curricle. Sebastian said, What makes you so certain I won t simply turn around and give your name to the authorities?
I am told you are a man of honor and justice.
Who told you that?
The Frenchman s cheeks hollowed and he looked away.
Sebastian said, You took a risk, approaching me; why?
Arceneaux brought his gaze back to Sebastian s face. He no longer looked like a young scholar but like a soldier who had fought and seen men die, and who had doubtless also killed. Because I want whoever did this dead. It s as simple as that.
The two men s gazes met and held. They had served under different flags, perhaps even unknowingly faced each other on some field of battle. But they had more in common with each other than with those who had never held the bloodied, shattered bodies of their dying comrades in their arms, who had never felt the thrum of bloodlust coursing through their own veins, who had never known the fierce rush of bowel-loosening fear or the calm courage that can come from the simple, unshrugging acceptance of fate.
The authorities will figure out who you are eventually, said Sebastian.
Yes. But it won t matter if you catch the man who actually did kill them, first. The Frenchman bowed, one hand going to his hip as if to rest on the hilt of a sword that was no longer there. My lord.
Sebastian stood beside his curricle and watched the Frenchman limp away toward the river, the scruffy brown and black dog trotting contentedly at his side.
Sebastian s first inclination was to dismiss the man s tale of ghosts, robber barons, and buried treasure as just so much nonsense. But he had a vague memory of Lovejoy saying something about a local legend linking some ancient Templar knight to the moat.
Was that the Frog ye been lookin for, gov nor? asked Tom.
Sebastian leapt up into the curricle s high seat. He says he is.
Ye don t believe im?
When it comes to murder, I m not inclined to believe anyone. Sebastian gathered his reins, then paused to look over at his tiger. Do you believe in ghosts, Tom?
Me? Get on wit ye, gov nor. The boy showed a gap-toothed grin. Ye sayin that Frog is a ghost?
No. But I m told some people do believe Camlet Moat is haunted.
By the lady what got erself killed there?
By a twelfth-century black knight.
Tom was silent for a moment. Then he said, Do you believe in ghosts, gov nor?
No. Sebastian turned the chestnuts heads toward the road north. But I think it s time we took another look at Camelot.
Chapter 19
Alistair St. Cyr, Earl of Hendon and Chancellor of the Exchequer, slammed his palm down on the pile of crude broadsheets on the table before him. I don t like this. I don t like it at all. These bloody things are all over town. And I tell you, they re having more of an effect than one could ever have imagined. Why, just this morning I overheard two of my housemaids whispering about King Arthur. Housemaids! We ve heard this nonsense before, about how the time has come for the once and future king to return from the mists of bloody Avalon and save England from both Boney and the House of Hanover. But this is different. This is more than just a few yokels fantasizing over their pints down at the local. Someone is behind this, and if you ask me, it s Napol on s agents.
Jarvis drew his snuffbox from his pocket and calmly flipped it open with one practiced finger. Of course it s the work of Napol on s agents.
Hendon looked at him from beneath heavy brows. Do you know who they are?
I believe so. Jarvis lifted a pinch of snuff to one nostril and sniffed. But at this point, it s more than a matter of simply closing down some basement printing press. The damage has been done; this appeal to a messianic hero from our glorious past has resonated with the people and taken on a life of its own.
How the bloody hell could something like this have aroused such a popular fervor?
I suppose one could with justification blame the success of the pulpit. When people fervently believe the Son of God will return someday to save them, it makes it easier to believe the same of King Arthur.
That s blasphemy.
I m not talking about religion. I m talking about credulity and habits of thought.
Hendon swung away to go stand beside the window and stare down at the Mall. I ll confess that at first I found it difficult to credit that there are people alive today who could actually believe that Arthur will return, literally. I had supposed these pamphlets were simply tapping into the population s yearning for an Arthur-like figure to appear and save England. But an appalling number of people do seem to genuinely believe Arthur is out there right now on the Isle of Avalon, just waiting for the right moment to come back.
Jarvis raised another pinch of snuff and inhaled with a sniff.
I fear the concept of metaphor is rather above the capacity of the hoi polloi.
Hendon turned to look at him over one shoulder. So what is to be done?
Jarvis closed his snuffbox and tucked it away with a bland smile.
We re working on that.
Sebastian had expected to find the moat overrun with parties of searchers eager for the chance to collect the reward posted by Gabrielle Tennyson s brother. Instead, he reined in beneath the thick, leafy canopy at the top of the ancient embankment to look out over an oddly deserted scene, the stagnant water disturbed only by a quick splash and the disappearing ripples left in the wake of some unseen creature. He could hear the searchers, but only faintly, the thickness of the wood muffling the distant baying of hounds and the halloos of the men beating the surrounding countryside. Here, all was quiet in the August heat.
Gor, whispered Tom. This place gives me the goosies, it does.