It took a while, but Sebastian finally traced Bevin Childe to an exhibition of ancient Greek pottery being held at the Middle Temple in a small hall just off Fountain Court.
He was bent over with his plump face pressed close to the glass of a cabinet containing an exquisite redware kylix. Then he looked up to see Sebastian regarding him steadily from a few feet away and his mouth gaped. He jerked upright, his gaze darting right and left as if seeking some avenue of escape.
No, said Sebastian with a soft, mean smile.
You can t run away from me.
The antiquary gave a weak, sick laugh. Then his jaw hardened.
I have no intention of running. I have heard about you, Lord Devlin. My conversation with your wife was bad enough. I am staying right here. You can t hurt me in a hall full of people.
True. But do you really want them to hear what I have to say?
Childe stiffened. If you expect me to understand what you mean by that rather mystifying pronouncement, I fear you are doomed to disappointment.
Sebastian nodded to the ceremonial cup before them. Lovely piece, isn t it? It certainly looks authentic. Yet I knew a man with a workshop outside of Naples who could turn out a dozen of these in a week. Forgeries, of course, but
Childe hissed. Shhh! Keep your voice down. He cast another quick look around. A fat man with a protuberant mouth and full lips was staring at them over his spectacles. Perhaps, said Childe, it would be better after all if we were to continue this conversation outside.
They walked along Middle Temple Lane, toward the broad expanse of the Temple gardens edging the Thames. Once the precinct of the Knights Templar, the Inner and Middle Temples now served as two of the city s Inns of Court, those professional associations to which every barrister in England and Wales belonged. The morning sun soaked the upper reaches of the medieval walls around them with a rich golden light. But here, in the shadows of the closely packed buildings, the air was still cool.
Sebastian said, I ve discovered that your argument with Miss Tennyson last Friday had nothing to do with the location of Camelot. It was over a forgery. And don t even attempt to deny it, he added when Childe shook his head and took a deep breath.
Childe closed his mouth, his fingers playing with the chain that dangled from his watch pocket. His small gray eyes were darting this way and that again, as his frightened brain worked feverishly to analyze what Sebastian knew and how he might have come to know it. With every dart of those frantic eyeballs, Sebastian suspected the man was revising and editing what he was about to say.
What forgery? Sebastian asked.
Childe chewed the inside of his cheek.
God damn you; a woman is dead and two little boys missing. What forgery?
Childe cleared his throat. Are you familiar with the discovery of the bodies of King Arthur and Guinevere in Glastonbury Abbey in 1191?
Not really.
Childe nodded as if to say he had expected this ignorance.
According to the medieval chronicler Gerald of Wales, King Henry the Second learned the location of Arthur s last resting place from a mysterious Welsh bard. The King was old and frail at the time, but before his death, he relayed the bard s information to the monks of Glastonbury Abbey. Following the King s instructions, the monks dug down between two ancient pyramids in their churchyard. Sixteen feet below the surface they came upon a split, hollowed-out log containing the bodies of a man and a woman. Above the coffins lay a stone slab, attached to the bottom of which was an iron cross. The cross bore the Latin inscription Here lies buried the renowned King Arthur with Guinevere his second wife, in the Isle of Avalon.
Convenient, said Sebastian. Almost as if those who buried him looked into the future a few hundred years and knew that someday those monks would be digging up good King Arthur, so they made certain to include in their engraving all the information anyone might need to make the identification complete.
Just so, said Childe with a slight bow. Needless to say, the monks collected the newly discovered bones and reburied them, first in the abbey s Lady Chapel, then beneath the high
altar in a marble coffin provided by King Edward in 1278.
Along with the cross?
Of course. It was attached to the top of the sepulchre. But when the abbey was destroyed in the suppression of the monasteries under Henry the Eighth, the bones of King Arthur and his Queen disappeared. For a time, the cross was reportedly kept in the parish church of St. John the Baptist. But it, too, eventually disappeared, probably during the time of Cromwell.
And what precisely does any of this have to do with Miss Tennyson?
Childe cleared his throat. As you know, I have been occupied in cataloging the library and collection of the late Richard Gough. Amongst his possessions I discovered an ancient leaden cross inscribed with the words Hic Iacet Sepultus Inclitus Rex Arturius in Insula Avalonia.
Nothing about Guinevere?
Childe gave another of his little bows. Just so. Reports on the exact inscription have always varied slightly.
How large a cross are we talking about here?
Approximately one foot in length.
Where the devil did it come from?
That I do not know. As far as I have been able to ascertain, the cross came into Gough s possession interestingly enough, along with a box of ancient bones in the last days of his life, when he was unfortunately too ill to give them the attention they deserved. However, Gough apparently believed the cross to be that which the monks discovered in the twelfth century.
And Gough believed the bones were those of Arthur and Guinevere? You can t be serious.
I am only reporting on the conclusions reached by Gough himself. There is no more respected name amongst antiquaries.
I take it Miss Tennyson did not agree with Gough s conclusions?
Childe sighed. She did not. Last Friday, she drove out to Gough Hall to view the cross and the bones. The bones are undeniably of great antiquity, but she instantly dismissed the cross as a modern forgery. When I begged to differ with her
You did? I was under the impression you considered Arthur a wishful figment of the collective British imagination.
Childe puffed out his chest. I may personally doubt the validity of the various tales which have grown up around some obscure figure who may or may not have actually lived. However, I have nothing but respect for the scholarship of Mr. Richard Gough, and I would consider it unprofessional to cavalierly dismiss the relic out of hand, simply because it does not conform to my preconceived notions.
So what happened with Miss Tennyson?
We argued. Heatedly, I m afraid. Miss Tennyson became so incensed that she seized the cross from my hands and hurled it into the lake.
You were walking beside a lake? Carrying a foot-long iron cross?
Childe stared at him owlishly. We were, yes. You could hardly expect Miss Tennyson to enter the house to view the artifact. I may have known her since she was in pigtails, but it still would not have been at all proper. So we chose instead to walk in the park. Gough Hall has a lovely and unfortunately very deep ornamental lake.
Unfortunate, indeed.
Needless to say, her intemperance in positively flinging the cross into the lake enraged me. I fear I flew into quite a passion myself. Heated words were exchanged, and she departed in high dudgeon. I never saw her again.
Sebastian studied the stout man s flushed, self-satisfied face. He was obviously quite pleased with the tale he had concocted. But where the actual truth lay was impossible for Sebastian to guess. He said, I assume the servants at Gough Hall can corroborate your story?
There is only an elderly caretaker and his wife in residence at the moment, but I have no doubt they will vouch for me, yes. Old Bentley even helped me drag a grappling hook along the edges of the lake. But we gave it up after an hour or so. I fear the cross is lost this time forever.
You believe it was genuine?
I believe it was the cross presented to the world by the monks of Glastonbury in 1191, yes.
Which was not, Sebastian noted, precisely the same thing.
He watched a cluster of legal students hurry across the gardens, their black robes flapping in the hot wind. You say Miss Tennyson was angry?
She was, yes. It s a very choleric family, you know.
And melancholy.
Melancholy, yes.
From here they could see the broad expanse of the sun-dazzled river, the massive bulk of the bridge, and the warehouses and wharves of the opposite bank. Sebastian said, There s just one thing I don t understand.
Oh?
What in the incident you describe could possibly have made her afraid?
Childe s smug smile slipped. Afraid?
Afraid.
Childe shook his head. I never said anything about her being afraid.
That s because you left out the part about the dangerous forces with a nonmonetary motive.
A sudden gust of hot wind stirred the branches of the beeches overhead, letting through a shaft of golden sunlight that cut across Childe s face when he turned to stare blankly at Sebastian.
I m sorry; I don t have the slightest idea what you re talking about.
You don t?
No. Childe cleared his throat and nodded to the arm Sebastian still had resting in a sling. You injured yourself?
Actually, someone tried to kill me last night; do you have any ideas about that?
Childe s jaw went slack. Kill you?
Mmm. Someone who doesn t like the questions I m asking. Which tells me that Gabrielle Tennyson had good reason to be afraid. Whatever is going on here is dangerous. Very dangerous. It s not over yet, and it looks to me as if you re right in the middle of it. You might want to consider that, next time you re tempted to lie to me.
The antiquary had turned a sickly shade of yellow.
Sebastian touched his good hand to his hat and smiled. Good day, Mr. Childe. Enjoy the rest of your pottery exhibition.