A small, middle-aged man with a balding pate and a serious demeanor stood at the base of the ancient earthen embankment. He had his hands clasped behind his back, his chin sunk into the folds of his modestly tied cravat. A weathered dinghy lay beside him where it had been hauled up onto the moat s bank. It was empty now, but a smear of blood still showed clearly along the edge of the gunwale.
Sir Henry Lovejoy, the newest of Bow Street s three stipendiary magistrates, found himself staring at that telltale streak of blood. He had been called to this murder scene some ten miles north of London by the local magistrate, who was only too eager to hand over his investigation to the Bow Street public office.
Lovejoy blew out a long, troubled sigh. On the streets of London, most murders were straightforward affairs: a drunken navvy choked the life out of his hapless wife; two mates fell out over a dice game or the sale of a horse; a footpad jumped some unwary passerby from the mouth of a fetid alley. But there was nothing ordinary about a murdered young gentlewoman found floating on an abandoned moat in the middle of nowhere.
Miss Gabrielle Tennyson had been just twenty-eight years old. The daughter of a famous scholar, she d been well on her way to earning a reputation as an antiquary in her own right a decidedly unusual accomplishment for one of her sex. She lived with her brother, himself a well-known and respected barrister, in a fine house in the Adelphi Buildings overlooking the Thames. Her murder would send an unprecedented ripple of fear through the city, with ladies terrified to leave their homes and angry husbands and fathers demanding that Bow Street do something.
The problem was, Lovejoy had absolutely nothing to go on. Nothing at all.
He raised his gaze to where a line of constables moved along the moat s edge, their big boots churning through the murky water with muddy, sucking plops that seemed to echo in the unnatural stillness. He had never considered himself a fanciful man far from it, in fact. Yet there was no denying that something about this place raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Perhaps it was the eerie way the light filtered down through the leaves of the thick stands of beech and hornbeam trees to bathe the scene in an unnatural green glow. Or perhaps it was a father s inevitable reaction to the sight of a beautiful, dead young woman a sight that brought back a time of nearly unbearable heartbreak in Lovejoy s own life.
But he closed his mind to that.
He d heard of this place, Camlet Moat. They said that once it had been the site of a medieval castle whose origins stretched back to the days of the Romans and beyond. But whatever fortified structures once stood here had long since been dismantled, their stones and mighty timbers carted away. All that remained was a deserted, overgrown square isle a few hundred feet across and the stagnant moat that had once protected it.
Now, as Lovejoy watched, one of the constables broke away from the others to come sloshing up to him.
We ve covered the entire bank, sir, said the man. All the way around.
And? asked Lovejoy.
We ve found nothing, sir.
Lovejoy exhaled a long breath. Then start on the island itself.
Yes, sir.
A thunder of horses hooves and the rattle of harness drew their attention to the narrow track that curled through the wood to the moat. A curricle and pair driven by an aristocratic young gentleman in a beaver hat and a caped driving coat drew up at the top of the embankment. The half-grown, scrappy-looking young groom in a striped waistcoat who clung to the rear perch immediately hopped down to race to the chestnuts heads.
It s Lord Devlin, sir, said the constable, staring slack-jawed as the Earl of Hendon s notorious son paused to confer with his tiger, then dropped lightly to the ground.
Lovejoy said, That will be all, Constable.
The constable cast a last, curious glance toward the top of the slope, then ducked his head. Yes, sir.
Lovejoy waited while the Viscount tossed his driving coat onto the curricle s high seat, then slid down the ancient embankment, the heels of his gleaming Hessian boots digging furrows in the soft leaf litter.
Sir Henry, said the Viscount. Good morning.
Lean and dark-haired, he was tall enough to tower over Lovejoy. But it was the man s eyes that tended to draw and hold a stranger s attention. Shading from amber to a feral yellow, they possessed an animallike ability to see great distances and in the dark. His hearing was exceptionally acute too, which could be disconcerting, even to those who knew him well.
The unusual friendship between the two men dated back some eighteen months, to a time when Devlin had been accused of murder and Lovejoy had been determined to bring him in. From those unlikely beginnings had grown respect as well as friendship. In Devlin, Lovejoy had found an ally with a rare passion for justice and a true genius for solving murders. But more important, Devlin also possessed something no Bow Street magistrate would ever have: an easy entr e at the highest levels of society and an innate understanding of the wealthy and wellborn who inevitably came under suspicion in a murder of this nature.
My lord, said Lovejoy, giving a small, jerky bow.
I must apologize for intruding upon what should be for you and your new wife a time of joy and solitude. But when I learned of the victim s connection to Lady Devlin, I thought you would wish to know.
You did the right thing, said Devlin. He let his gaze drift around the site, taking in the tangled growth of beech and oak, the green-scummed waters of the abandoned moat. Where is she?
Lovejoy cleared his throat uncomfortably. We sent the remains to London an hour or so ago. Bodies did not keep well in the heat of August.
To Gibson?
Yes, my lord. No one understood human anatomy or could read the secrets a body might have to reveal about its murderer better than Paul Gibson. Lovejoy nodded to the small boat beside them.
She was found in the dinghy floating just at the edge of the moat here.
You think this is where she was killed? asked Devlin, hunkering down to study the blood-smeared gunwale.
I think it probable she was stabbed in the dinghy, yes. But there were no footprints in the damp earth along this stretch of the bank, which leads me to suspect the boat simply drifted here from elsewhere perhaps from the land bridge that crosses the moat on the eastern side of the island. We understand that s where it s normally kept moored. Unfortunately, there are so many footprints in that area that it s impossible to identify with any certainty those that might belong to the killer.
Devlin was silent for a moment, his forehead furrowed by a thoughtful frown as he continued to stare at that ugly streak of blood. The Viscount could sometimes be hesitant to commit to an investigation of murder. It was a reluctance Lovejoy understood only too well. More and more, it seemed to him that each death he dealt with, each torn, shattered life with which he came into contact, stole a piece of his own humanity and bled away an irretrievable part of his joy in life.
But surely, Lovejoy reasoned, the connection between this victim and his lordship s own wife would make it impossible for the Viscount to refuse.
Lovejoy said, A murder such as this a young woman brutally stabbed in a wood just north of London will inevitably cause a panic in the city. And unfortunately, the impulse in these situations is all too often to calm public outrage by identifying a culprit quickly at the cost of true justice.
Are you asking for my help?
Lovejoy met that strange, feral yellow stare, and held it.
I am, my lord.
Devlin pushed to his feet, his gaze shifting across the stretch of murky water to where the constables could be seen poking around the piles of fresh earth that edged Sir Stanley s series of exploratory trenches. In the misty, ethereal light of morning, the mounds of raw earth bore an unpleasant resemblance to rows of freshly dug graves. Lovejoy watched Devlin s lips press into a thin line, his nostrils flare on a painfully indrawn breath.
But the Viscount didn t say anything, and Lovejoy knew him well enough to be patient.
And wait for Devlin s reply.