The abandoned isle once known as Camelot lay on the northern edge of Trent Place, a relatively new estate dating only to late in the previous century, when the ancient royal chase had been broken up and sold to help pay for the first round of George III s wars. The properties thus created had proved popular with the newly wealthy merchants and bankers of the city. Sir Stanley, Trent Place s latest owner, was a prosperous banker granted a baronetcy by the King in reward for his assistance in financing the country s long struggle against Napol on.
One o them constables was tellin me this Sir Stanley already as a ouse in Golden Square what makes the Queen s Palace look like a cottage, said Sebastian s tiger, Tom, as they turned through massive new gates to a meticulously landscaped park. So why d he need to buy this place too, just a few miles from London?
The boy was thirteen years old now, but still small and gap-toothed and scrappy, for he had been a homeless street urchin when Sebastian first discovered the lad s intense loyalty and sense of honor and natural affinity for horses. In a very real sense, Tom and Sebastian had saved each other. The ties that bound lord to servant and boy to man ran deep and strong.
Sebastian said, The possession of an estate is the sine qua non for anyone aspiring to be a gentleman.
The seenkwawhat?
Sine qua non. It s Latin for a condition without which something cannot be.
You sayin this Sir Stanley ain t always been a gentleman?
Something like that, said Sebastian, drawing up before what had once been a graceful Italianate villa but was now in the process of being transformed into something quite different by the addition of two vast wings and a new roofline. The pounding of hammers and the clatter of lumber filled the air; near a half-constructed wall, a tall, elegantly tailored gentleman in his early fifties could be seen conferring with a group of brickmasons.
Keep your ears open around the stables, Sebastian told Tom as the tiger took the reins. I d be interested to hear what the servants are saying.
Aye, gov nor.
Devlin, called Sir Stanley, leaving the bricklayers to stroll toward him.
He was a ruggedly handsome man, his chin square, his cheekbones prominent, his mouth wide and expressive. Despite his years, his body was still strong and powerful, and he had a head of thick, pale blond hair fading gradually to white, so that it formed a startling contrast to his unexpectedly sun-darkened features. The effect was more like what one would expect of a soldier or a nabob just returned from India than a banker.
They said the man had begun his career as a lowly clerk, the son of a poor vicar with sixteen children and no connections. Sebastian had heard that his rise to wealth, power, and influence had been both rapid and brutal and owed its success to his wily intelligence, his driving ambition, and a clear-sighted, unflinching ruthlessness.
What brings you here? asked Sir Stanley, pausing beside the curricle.
I ve just come from Camlet Moat, said Sebastian, dropping lightly to the ground.
Ah. I see. The flesh of the man s face suddenly looked pinched, as if pulled too taut over the bones of his face. Please, he said, stretching a hand to indicate the broad white marble stairs that led up to the central, original section of the house. Come in.
Thank you.
I was with Squire John when he discovered the body, said Winthrop as they mounted the steps. He s our local magistrate, you know. Seems some girl from the village showed up at the Grange in the middle of the night, babbling nonsense about white ladies and magic wells and a dead gentlewoman in the moat. The Squire was convinced it was all a hum actually apologized for coming to me at the crack of dawn but I said,
No, no, let s go have a look. He paused in the entrance hall, a quiver passing over his tightly held features. The last thing I expected was to find Gabrielle.
Sebastian let his gaze drift around the vast, marble-floored entrance hall, with its towering, gilt-framed canvases of pastoral landscapes by Constable and Turner, its ornately plastered ceiling picked out in pastel shades evocative of a plate of petit fours. In an age when it was not uncommon for husbands and wives to call each other by their surnames or titles, Winthrop had just referred to Miss Tennyson by her first name.
And Sebastian suspected the man was not even aware of his slip.
I d never seen someone who d been murdered, the banker was saying. I suppose you ve had experience with it, but I haven t. I m not ashamed to admit it was a shock.
I m not convinced anyone gets used to the sight of murder.
Sir Stanley nodded and turned toward the cavernous drawing room that opened to their left. It may be frightfully early, but I could use a drink. How about you? May I offer you some wine?
Yes, thank you. Sir Henry Lovejoy tells me you don t work on the island s excavations on Sundays, said Sebastian as his host crossed to where a tray with a decanter and glasses waited on a gilded table beside a grouping of silk-covered settees.
Winthrop splashed wine into two glasses. My wife believes the Sabbath should be a day of rest. On the seventh day, the Lord rested, and so should all of his children.
Commendable, said Sebastian. Through a long bank of tall windows he could see an angular, bony woman he recognized as Lady Winthrop standing at the edge of an old-fashioned garden of box-edged parterres filled with roses. Despite the heat, she wore a long-sleeved sprigged muslin gown made high at the neck and trimmed with only a meager band of lace. She was younger than Winthrop by some fifteen or twenty years, a second wife as plain as her husband was handsome, her eyes small and protuberant and close set, her chin receding, her head thrust forward in a way that made her look forever inquisitive.
Or aggressive.
She was in the process of giving directions to a cluster of gardeners equipped with wheelbarrows and shovels. As Sebastian watched, she waved her arms in extravagant gestures as she delivered her instructions. Piles of rich dark earth and stacks of brick lay nearby; the Winthrops were obviously expanding their gardens as well as their new house. Watching her, Sebastian wondered if Lady Winthrop also referred to Miss Tennyson as Gabrielle. Somehow, he doubted it.
Winthrop set aside the decanter to pick up the two glasses.
At first, in her naivety, my wife actually expected the brutes to be grateful. But she soon discovered how mistaken she was. All they do is grumble about being forced to go to church services.
It s required?
Of course. Winthrop held out one of the glasses.
Religion is important to the order of society. It reconciles the lower classes to their lot in life and teaches them to respect their betters.
So it does, said Sebastian, studying the banker s faintly smiling face as he took the wine handed him. But he was unable to decide whether Winthrop agreed with his wife or quietly mocked her. So, tell me, do you honestly believe you ve found King Arthur s Camelot? He took a sip of the wine. It was smooth and mellow and undoubtedly French.
Honestly? The banker drained his own glass in two long pulls, then shook his head. I don t know. But the site is intriguing, don t you agree? I mean, here we have a place long associated with the kings of England a place whose name actually was Camelot. I m told the word is of Celtic origin. It probably comes from Camulus, the Celtic god of war. Of course, Miss Tennyson says said, he amended hastily, correcting himself, that it could also mean place of the crooked stream. Personally, I prefer to think it is named after the god of war. Turning away to pour himself more wine, he raised the decanter in silent question to Sebastian.
Sebastian shook his head. He had taken only the one sip.
The important thing, said Winthrop, refreshing his own drink, is that we know the name dates back to well before the time of William the Conqueror. The corruption of Camelot to Camlet is quite recent, within the last hundred years or so.
Sebastian studied the older man s handsome features. His manner could only be described as affable, even likeable. But Sebastian couldn t get past the knowledge that the previous owner of Trent Place had been forced to sell the estate to Winthrop at a steep loss and then blown his own brains out the next day.
Sebastian took another sip of his wine. How did you meet Miss Tennyson?
By mere chance, actually, at a lecture presented by the Society of Antiquaries. She d been doing research on the history of Camlet Moat and approached me when she learned I d recently purchased the estate. Until then, I d barely realized the moat existed. But the more I learned about it, the more intrigued I became.
And you began the excavations when?
A month ago now. We d hoped to begin earlier, but the wet spring delayed things.
Find anything interesting?
Far more than I d anticipated, certainly. Foundations of stone walls five feet thick. Remnants of a forty-foot drawbridge. Even an underground dungeon complete with chains still hanging on the walls.
Dating to when?
Judging from the coins and painted tiles we ve come across, probably the thirteenth or fourteenth century, for most of it.
I was under the impression King Arthur was supposed to have lived in the fifth or sixth century, after the Roman withdrawal from Britain that is, if he lived at all.
True. Winthrop turned away to reach for something, then held it out. But look at this.
Sebastian found himself holding a corroded metal blade. What is it?
A Roman dagger. Winthrop set aside his wine and went to open a large flat glass case framed in walnut that stood on its own table near the door. And look at this. He pointed with one blunt, long finger. These pottery vessels are third- or fourth-century Roman. So is the glass vial. And see that coin? It s from the time of Claudius.
Sebastian studied the artifacts proudly displayed against a black velvet background. You found all this at Camlet Moat?
We did. The drawbridge and dungeon probably date to the time of the de Mandevilles and their descendants, who held the castle for the Crown in the late Middle Ages. But the site itself is older much older. There was obviously a fort or villa there in Roman times, which means that in all probability there was still something there during the days of Arthur, after the Romans pulled out.
Sebastian regarded the other man s flushed face and shining eyes. Will you continue digging, now that Miss Tennyson is dead?
All the excitement and animation seemed to drain out of Winthrop, leaving him pensive. I don t see how we can. She s the one who knew what she was doing and how to interpret what we were finding.
You couldn t simply hire an antiquary through the British Museum?
The banker gave a soft laugh. Given that they all thought Miss Tennyson mad to be working with me on this, I can t see anyone of stature being willing to risk his reputation by following in her footsteps. And with harvesttime upon us, we were about to quit anyway.
Any chance she could have come up yesterday to have a quiet look around the site by herself for some reason? Or perhaps to show it to someone?
Sir Stanley appeared thoughtful. I suppose it s possible, although she generally devoted her Sundays to activities with the boys.
Sebastian shook his head, not understanding. What boys?
George and Alfred sons of one of her cousins. I understand the mother s having a difficult confinement and the father isn t well himself, so Miss Tennyson invited the lads to spend the summer with her in London. They generally stayed home with their nurse when she came up to the island, but she liked to spend several days a week showing them around London. The Tower of London and the beasts at the Exchange that sort of thing.
So she didn t come every day when you were digging?
Not every day, no; she had some other research she was also pursuing. But she generally came three or four times a week, yes.
How would she get here?
Sometimes in her brother s carriage, although she would frequently take the stage to Enfield and get someone at the livery there to drive her out to the moat. In that case, I always insisted she allow me to have one of the men drive her back to London in the afternoon.
It wasn t exactly unheard of for a gentlewoman to take the stage, especially for such a short, local trip. Maintaining a carriage, horses, and groom in London was prodigiously expensive; most families kept only one, if that.
Her brother begrudged her the use of his carriage?
Quite the opposite, actually. It irked him to no end when she insisted on taking the common stage rather than using his carriage said he was perfectly capable of taking a hackney or walking around London himself.
But she didn t always listen?
Winthrop s wide mouth curled into a soft smile that faded away into something sad as he shook his head. She was like that.
Like what?
He went to stand at the long row of windows, his gaze on the scene outside. A few puffy white clouds had appeared on the horizon, but the sun still drenched the beds of roses with a dazzling golden light. The workmen were now bent over their shovels; Lady Winthrop was nowhere to be seen. She was an unusual woman, he said, watching the distant clouds. Strong. Opinionated. Unafraid to challenge the conventions and assumptions of her world. And not given to suffering fools lightly.
In other words, said Sebastian, the kind of woman who could make enemies.
Winthrop nodded, his gaze still on the scene beyond the glass.
Anyone you know of in particular?
The banker drew a deep breath that expanded his chest. It seems somehow wrong to be mentioning these things now, when the recollection of a few careless words uttered in anger could easily result in a man standing accused of murder.
Are you saying Miss Tennyson quarreled with someone recently?
I don t know if I d say they quarreled, exactly.
So what did happen?
Well, when I saw her on Saturday
Yes? prompted Sebastian when the man hesitated.
I knew something was troubling her as soon as she arrived at the site. She seemed strained. Jumpy. At first she tried to pass it off as nothing more than a melancholy mood, but I wasn t fooled.
Was she given to melancholy moods?
She was a Tennyson. They re all melancholy, you know.
No, I didn t know. Go on.
She said she didn t want to talk about it. Perhaps I pressed her more than I should have, but in the end she admitted she was troubled by an encounter she d had the previous day, on Friday. She tried to laugh it off said it was nothing. But it was obviously considerably more than nothing. I don t believe I d ever seen her so upset.
The sound of a distant door opening echoed through the house.
An encounter with whom? asked Sebastian.
I couldn t tell you his name. Some antiquary known for his work on the post-Roman period of English history.
And this fellow disagreed with Miss Tennyson s belief that your Camlet Moat was the site of King Arthur s Camelot?
Winthrop s jaw tightened in a way that caused the powerful muscles in his cheeks to bunch and flex. For the first time, Sebastian caught a glimpse of the steely ruthlessness that had enabled the banker to amass a fortune in the course of twenty years of war.
I gather he is of the opinion that King Arthur is a figment of the collective British imagination a product of both our romantic wish for a glorious, heroic past and a yearning for a magical savior who will return to lead us once more to victory and glory.
And was this disagreement the reason for Friday s encounter?
She led me to believe so.
But you suspect she was being less than open with you?
In a word? Yes.