Sebastian turned to walk along the crest of the ancient rampart that rose beside the stagnant moat. The shade here was deep and heavy, the blue sky above nearly obliterated by the leafy branches of the stands of old-growth timber that met overhead. A tangle of bracken and fern edged the quiet waters of the moat and filled the air with the scent of wet earth and humus and the buzz of insects.
He d heard that once this wild tract of woodland to the north of London had been known as Enfield Chase, a royal hunting ground that rang with the clatter of noble hoofbeats, the shrill blast of the huntsman s horn, the baying of royal hounds. Through these lands had swept King Henry VIII and Queen Elizabeth and a host of glittering, bejeweled courtiers, their velvet cloaks swirling in the mist, their voices raised in hearty halloos.
But all that had ended long ago. Briars and underbrush had grown up to choke the forest floor, while commoners from the nearby village had carted away the last tumbled stones of whatever grand manor or castle had once stood here. A quiet hush had fallen over the site, unbroken until a beautiful, brilliant, independent-minded young woman with a boundless curiosity about the past had come searching for the origins of a legend and died here.
He could remember meeting Miss Gabrielle Tennyson only once, a year or so earlier at a lecture on Roman London that he d attended in the company of the Earl of Hendon. Sebastian recalled her as a striking, self-assured young woman with chestnut hair and an open, friendly smile. He hadn t been surprised to discover that she and Hero were friends. Despite their obvious differences, the two women were much alike. He found it difficult to think of such a strong, vital woman now lying on a surgeon s slab, robbed of her life and all the years of promise that had once stretched before her. Difficult to imagine the terror and despair that must have filled her eyes and congealed her heart when she looked her last on this quiet, secluded site.
He paused to stare again at the small wooded isle where a castle named Camelot had once stood. He was aware of Sir Henry Lovejoy drawing up beside him, his homely features pinched and tight, his hands clasped behind his back.
Sebastian glanced over at him. You said she d been stabbed?
The magistrate nodded. In the chest. Just once that I could see, although Dr. Gibson will be able to tell us with certainty once he s finished the postmortem.
And the murder weapon?
Has yet to be found.
Sebastian eyed the murky water before them. If Gabrielle s murderer had thrown his knife into the moat, it might never be recovered.
Twisting around, he studied the narrow lane where his tiger, Tom, was walking the chestnuts up and down. How the devil did she get out here? Any idea?
Sir Henry shook his head. We can only assume she must have arrived in the company of her killer.
No one in the neighborhood saw anything?
Nothing they re willing to admit. But then, the nearest village is several miles away, and there are only a few isolated houses in the area. Tessa Sawyer the village girl who found her came upon the body quite by chance, shortly before midnight.
And what was Tessa doing out in the middle of nowhere at night?
That is not entirely clear, I m afraid, given the girl s garbled and rather evasive replies to our questions. However, I understand that yesterday was some sort of ancient pagan holy day
Lammas.
Yes, that s it, said Sir Henry. Lammas. I m told Camlet Moat has a reputation as a place of magic amongst the credulous. In addition to the apparition of a White Lady who is said to haunt the island, there s also the ghost of some unsavory Templar knight who is reputed to appear when provoked.
I assume you ve heard there s also a tradition that this may be the ancient site of King Arthur s Camelot?
The magistrate sniffed. A fanciful notion, no doubt. But yes, I understand Sir Stanley Winthrop became intrigued by the possibility after he purchased the estate last year and discovered Miss Tennyson s research on the history of the site.
You think her murder could in some way be connected to the legends of the island s past?
Sir Henry blew out a long, agitated breath. I wish I knew. We re not even certain how long Miss Tennyson s body was lying here before it was discovered. Her brother, Mr. Hildeyard Tennyson, has been out of town for the better part of a fortnight. I ve sent a constable to interview her servants, but I fear they may not be able tell us much of anything. Yesterday was Sunday, after all.
Bloody hell, said Sebastian softly. What does Sir Stanley Winthrop have to say about all this?
He claims he last saw Miss Tennyson when she left the excavations for home on Saturday afternoon.
Something in the magistrate s tone caught Sebastian s attention. But you don t believe him?
I don t know what to believe. He tells us he can t imagine what she might have been doing up here yesterday. They don t work the excavations on Sundays.
Sebastian said, Perhaps she came up to look around by herself.
Lovejoy frowned. Yes, I suppose that s possible. She may well have surprised some trespasser, and in a panic, he killed her.
And then stole her carriage and kidnapped her coachman?
Lovejoy pulled a face. There is that.
Sebastian adjusted the tilt of his beaver hat. Her brother is still out of town?
Lovejoy nodded. We ve sent word to his estate, but I doubt he ll make it back to London before nightfall at the earliest.
Then I think I ll start with Sir Stanley Winthrop, said Sebastian, and turned back toward his curricle.
Lovejoy fell into step beside him. Does this mean you re willing to assist Bow Street with the case?
Did you honestly think I would not?
Sir Henry gave one of his rare half smiles, tucked his chin against his chest, and shook his head.