Tessa swallowed, her face becoming pinched. Just once.
Really? When was that?
Last week, sometime. I think maybe it was Sunday.
You mean, this past Sunday?
No. The Sunday before.
You saw her at the island?
Oh, no, sir. She came here, she did to Cockfosters.
Sebastian knew a flicker of surprise. Do you know why?
Tessa sucked her lower lip between her teeth and bit down on it, her gaze drifting away.
Tell me, said Sebastian.
She drew in a quick breath. She come here lookin fer Rory Forster. Lit into him somethin fierce, she did, just outside the smithy s.
Forster lives in the village?
On a farm, to the east of here. Didn t ye know? Sebastian s ignorance obviously shocked her.
Most o the men doin the diggin at the moat come from Trent Place. But Sir Stanley hired Rory on account of how he once worked for some famous gentleman down in Salisbury.
You mean, Sir Richard Colt Hoare? At Stonehenge?
The girl looked at him blankly. I wouldn t know about that.
And what precisely was Miss Tennyson s interest in Forster?
Tessa turned away and began pegging up the shirt. I weren t there for most of it.
But you did hear about it afterward, didn t you? Didn t you? Sebastian prodded when the girl remained mute.
Tessa smoothed her hands down over the worn cloth. Folks say she was mad at Forster for tearin out the linin of the island s well. They say somebody turned it into a muddy mess.
A well?
She nodded, her face hardening. He shouldn t have done that. It s a special place.
Special in what way?
She threw him a quick, sideways glance. You know what it s like when you sit in a really old church and you re all alone, and it s quiet and the sun s streamin through the stained-glass windows and you just feel this this kind of peace and joy settle over you? That s what it s like at the White Lady s well.
What White Lady?
The White Lady. I ve never seen her meself, but others have. She guards the well. She always has.
Sebastian studied the girl s fine-boned face, the wistful look in her big hazel eyes, and resisted the urge to point out that the White Lady of Camlet Moat had obviously failed to guard her well from some treasure hunter s shovel. He d heard of the well maidens, ancient nature spirits said to guard the sacred wells and springs of Britain and Ireland. Although belief in the well maidens predated Christianity, it had never completely disappeared, and small shrines to the well maidens could still be found scattered across the countryside. Somehow, it seemed all of a piece with everything else he d learned about the island that it should have a sacred well too. He realized Miss Tennyson must have come upon the destruction when she visited the island in the company of Arceneaux and the children.
He said, Did she drive to the village in a gig? With a man and two children?
Yes, sir.
Where would I find Forster?
Tessa sniffed and jerked her head back toward the crossroads.
He married the Widow Clark just last year. Her farm s on the edge of the old chase.
Sebastian touched his hat and swept the girl an elegant bow.
Thank you, Miss Sawyer. Good day.
Turning away, he was reaching for the gate s latch when Tessa said suddenly, You know, I did hear the last part of what Miss Tennyson said to Rory.
Sebastian swung to face her. Oh? And what was that?
She told him she was going to ask Sir Stanley to fire him.
And did you hear Rory s response?
Aye. He said that weren t a good idea. And when she asked him if he was a-threatenin her, he said Tessa broke off, all color leaching from her cheeks.
What did he say?
The girl swallowed. He said yes.
Chapter 27
Sebastian found Rory Forster clearing rocks from a grassy field edged by a small stream.
Reining in beneath the shade cast by a spreading elm, Sebastian paused to watch as the man heaved a watermelon-sized stone up onto the pile in the bed of the low cart beside him. The cart s brown mule stood placidly in the afternoon heat, ears twitching as Sebastian left the curricle in Tom s care and climbed over the stile.
Good afternoon, Sebastian called.
Straightening with another large gray stone clutched in both hands, Forster threw a quizzing glance at Sebastian, then dropped the rock into the cart. Wot ye doin here? Didn t ye hear? The diggin at Camlet Moat is finished. I don t work fer Sir Stanley no more and I got nothin else to say to ye.
Sebastian brushed away a fly buzzing about his face. When we spoke the other day, you forgot to mention your confrontation with Miss Tennyson a week ago last Sunday. Here, in Cockfosters. Outside the smithy s.
Me brother s the smithy like our da was before him.
Which I suppose explains how Miss Tennyson knew where to find you.
Forster turned away to stoop down and grasp another rock.
Sebastian said, The incident was witnessed by half the village.
Forster grunted. Aye. She were a feisty thing, that woman. She could squawk all she wanted, but I knew that in the end she wasna gonna go to Sir Stanley. She d no proof of anything.
Maybe she recently discovered something. Maybe that s why you killed her.
Forster heaved another rock up and over the side of the cart.
I told ye and the magistrate both: I was home with me wife Sunday.
Sebastian stared off to where the field sloped gently toward a line of chestnuts growing along a small watershed to the west. The air was hot, the pasture a bright emerald green and scattered with small daisies. The scene was deceptively peaceful, with an air of bucolic innocence that seemed to have no place for passion and greed. Or murder.
He said, Do you believe Sir Geoffrey de Mandeville hid his treasure on the island?
Forster glanced over at him and smiled, the dimplelike slashes appearing in his tanned cheeks. De Mandeville? Nah. But did ye never hear of Dick Turpin?
Dick Turpin? You mean, the highwayman?
Aye. Him as once worked Finchley Common. Used to hide out at the island, he did. His uncle Nott owned the Rose and Crown by the Brook, across the chase at Clay Hill. Seems to me, if there s treasure on that island, it s more likely Dick Turpin s than some old knight what s been dead and gone for who knows how many hundreds of years.
Is that what you were looking for? A highwayman s gold?
Forster reached for his mule s reins. Never claimed it were me. All I m sayin is, Turpin s story is well-known about here. Coulda been anyone lookin for what he mighta hid.
So why did Miss Tennyson accuse you?
Forster urged the mule forward a few feet, then stopped to reach for another stone. She didn t like me much. Never did.
And you didn t like her, said Sebastian, keeping his eyes on the hefty rock in Forster s hands.
I won t deny that. She threatened to tell Sir Stanley I was the one who tore apart the well. But she had no proof and she knew it.
So why did you threaten her?
I didn t. Anyone who tells you different is either makin stuff up or jist repeatin crazy talk he heard. Forster slammed the rock down on the growing pile, then paused with his fists propped on his lean hips, his breath coming hard, his handsome, sun-browned face and neck glistening with perspiration. I been doin me some thinkin. And it occurs to me that meybe Sir Stanley has more to do with what happened to the lady than I first suspicioned.
Odd, given that yesterday you seemed more intent on casting suspicion on Sir Stanley s wife, Lady Winthrop, than on Sir Stanley himself.
I told ye, I been doing me some thinkin. It occurs to me this might all have somethin to do with the way Sir Stanley likes to fancy himself one of them ancient Druids.
A Druid, said Sebastian.