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.
I thought you didn t believe in ghosts.
This place could change a body s mind, it could.
Smiling, Sebastian handed his tiger the reins and jumped down.
Walk them.
Aye, gov nor.
A distinct scuffing noise, as of a shovel biting dirt, carried on the breeze. Sebastian turned toward the sound. The site was obviously not as deserted as it had first appeared.
The land bridge to the island lay on the eastern side of the moat. He crossed it warily, one hand on the pistol in his pocket. Sir Stanley had run his excavation trenches at right angles on the far side of the bridge, where at one time a drawbridge might have protected the approach to the now vanished castle.
The rushing sound of cascading dirt cut through the stillness, followed again by the scrape of a shovel biting deep into loose earth. Sebastian could see him now, a big, thickly muscled man with golden red hair worn long, so that it framed his face like a lion s mane. He had the sleeves of his smock rolled up to expose bronzed, brawny arms, and rough trousers tucked into boots planted wide as he worked shoveling dirt back into the farthest trench.
He caught sight of Sebastian and paused, his chest rising and falling with his hard breathing. He was a startlingly good-looking man, with even features and two dimples that slashed his cheeks when he squinted into the sun. He swiped the back of one sinewy arm across his sweaty face and his gaze locked with Sebastian s.
You Rory Forster? Sebastian asked.
The man slammed his shovel into the dirt pile and wrenched it sideways, sending a slide of dark loam over the edge into the trench.
I am.
I take it Sir Stanley has decided to end the excavations?
The man had a head built like a battering ram, with a thick neck and a high forehead, his eyes pale blue and thickly lashed and set wide apart. Pears that way, don t it? he said without looking up again.
Sebastian let his gaze drift around the otherwise deserted site.
Where s the rest of your crew?
Sir Stanley told em they could go look fer them nippers.
You re not interested in the reward?
Rory Forster hawked up a mouthful of phlegm and spat.
Tain t nobody gonna find them nippers.
So certain?
Ye think they re out there, why ain t ye joinin the search?
I am, in my own fashion.
Forster grunted and kept shoveling.
Sebastian wandered between the trenches, his gaze slowly discerning the uncovered remnants of massively thick foundations of what must once have been mighty walls. Pausing beside a mound of rubble, he found himself staring at a broken red tile decorated with a charging knight picked out in white.
He reached for the tile fragment, aware of Forster s eyes watching him. Did you come out here this past Sunday? asked Sebastian, straightening.
Forster went back to filling his trench. We don t work on Sundays.
No one stays to guard the site?
Why would they?
I heard rumors you ve had trouble with treasure hunters.
Forster paused with his shovel idle in his hands. I wouldn t know nothin bout that.
Sebastian kept a wary eye on the man s shovel. I ve also heard you and Miss Tennyson didn t exactly get along.
Who said that?
Does it matter?
Forster set his jaw and put his back into his digging again, the dirt flying through the air. Sebastian breathed in the scent of damp earth and decay and a foul, dark smell that was like a breath from an old grave. He said, I can understand how it might get under a man s skin, having to take orders from a woman.
Forster scraped the last of the dirt into the trench with the edge of his shovel, his attention seemingly all for his task. I m a good overseer, I am. Sir Stanley wouldn t have kept me on if n I wasn t.
Sebastian watched Rory Forster move on to the next trench. The man s very name Forster, a corruption of forester harkened back to the days when this wood had been part of a vast royal hunting park. His ancestors would have been the kings foresters, charged with husbanding the royal game and protecting them from the encroachments of poachers. But those days were long gone, lost in the misty past.
Sebastian said, Did Miss Tennyson tell Sir Stanley she suspected you were the one vandalizing the site in search of treasure?
Forster straightened slowly, the outer corner of one eye twitching as if with a tic, the rough cloth of his smock dark with sweat across his shoulders and chest and under his arms. Ye ain t gonna pin this murder on me. Ye hear me? he said, raising one beefy arm to stab a pointed finger at Sebastian. I was home with me wife all that night. Never left the house, I didn t.
Possibly, said Sebastian. However, we don t know precisely when Miss Tennyson was murdered. She may well have met her death in the afternoon.
The twitch beside the man s eye intensified. What ye want from me?
The truth.
The truth? Forster gave a harsh laugh. Ye don t want the truth.
Try me.
Huh. Ye think I m a fool?
Sebastian studied the man s handsome, dirt-streaked face.
You can say what you have to say to me, in confidence. Or you can tell your tale to Bow Street. The choice is yours.
Forster licked his lower lip, then gave Sebastian a sly, sideways look. Ye claim it was me what told ye, and I ll deny it.
Fair enough. Now, tell me.
Forster sniffed. To my way o thinkin, them Bow Street magistrates ought to be lookin into Sir Stanley s lady.
You mean Lady Winthrop?
Aye. Come out here Saturday about noon, she did. In a real pelter.
Sebastian frowned. Lady Winthrop had told him she d never visited her husband s controversial excavations. Was Sir Stanley here?
Nah. He d gone off by then. Somethin about a prize mare what was near her time. But Miss Tennyson was still here. She s the one her ladyship come to see. A right royal row they had, and ye don t haveta take me word for it. Ask any o the lads workin the trenches that day; they ll tell ye.
What was the argument about?
I couldn t catch the sense o most o it. Her ladyship asked to speak to Miss Tennyson in private and they walked off a ways, just there. Forster nodded toward the northeastern edge of the island, where a faint path could be seen winding through the thicket of bushes and brambles.
But you did hear something, said Sebastian.
Aye. Heard enough to know it was Sir Stanley they was fightin about. And as she was leavin, I heard her ladyship say, Cross me, young woman, and ye ll be sorry!