d'Eyncourt without looking up again.
`If by unfortunate incident you mean the murder of Miss Tennyson and the disappearance of the young children in her care, then the answer is yes.'
D'Eyncourt reached, deliberately, for his brandy, took a sip, and returned to his journal.
`I'm curious,' said Sebastian, signaling a passing waiter for a drink. `How close is the relationship between you and Miss Tennyson?'
`We are or I suppose I should say were first cousins.'
`So the two missing boys are?'
`My nephews.'
`Your brother's sons?'
`That is correct.'
`I must confess that, under the circumstances, I am rather surprised to find you lounging in your club calmly reading a journal.'
D'Eyncourt looked up at that, his thin nose quivering.
`Indeed? And what would you have me do instead, I wonder? Go charging into the countryside to thrash the underbrush of Enfield Chase like a beater hoping to flush game?'
`You think that's where the children are liable to be found? At Camlet Moat?'
`How the devil would I know?' snapped d'Eyncourt and returned once more to his reading.
Sebastian studied the other man's pinched profile. He couldn't recall many of the younger boys at Eton, but Sebastian remembered d'Eyncourt. As a lad, d'Eyncourt had been one of those ostentatiously earnest scholars who combined shameless toadying with nauseating displays of false enthusiasm to curry favor with the dons. But to his fellow students he was ruthless and vindictive, and quickly acquired a well-deserved reputation as someone who would do anything and say anything to get what he wanted.
In those days he'd simply been called Tennyson, the same as his cousin and missing nephews. But several years ago he had successfully petitioned the Home Secretary to have his name changed to the more aristocratic d'Eyncourt, the extinct patronym of one of his mother's ancestors, to which his claims were, to say the least, dubious. It was well-known that his ambition was to be made Lord d'Eyncourt before he was forty.
`You seem oddly unconcerned about their fates,' said Sebastian.
`It is the stuff of tragedy, to be sure. However, none of it alters the fact that my brother and I have never been close. His life is narrowly focused on his benefices in Somersby, whereas I live most of the year in London, where I take my duties at Parliament very seriously indeed. I doubt I would recognize his children if I passed them in the street.'
`Is that why they've been staying with Miss Tennyson, their cousin, rather than with you, their uncle?'
D'Eyncourt sniffed. `My wife is not fond of London and chooses to remain in Lincolnshire. I do currently have my sister Mary with me, but I could hardly ask her to undertake the management of two wild, poorly brought-up boys, now, could I?'
`Are they wild and poorly bought up?'
`They could hardly be otherwise, given their parentage.'
`Really?' Sebastian settled more comfortably in his seat. `Tell me about the boys father, your brother. I hear he's not well. Nothing serious, I hope?'
A curious hint of color touched the other man's high cheekbones. `I fear my brother's health has never been particularly robust.'
`Can you think of anyone who might benefit from the death or disappearance of his sons?'
`Good heavens; what a ridiculous notion! I told you: My brother is a rector. He holds two livings, which together provide him with a respectable income. But he has always been a hopeless spendthrift, and the foolish woman he married is even worse, with the result that my father is forever being forced to tow them out of the river tick.'
D'Eyncourt's father was a notorious figure known irreverently as the Old Man of the Wolds, thanks to his extensive landholdings in the Wolds, an area of hills and wide-open valleys in the northeast of England. His fortune, while of recent origins, was reportedly huge, deriving largely from a series of astute land purchases and the old man's ruthless manipulation of anyone unfortunate enough to drift into his orbit.
Sebastian said, `You are your father's sole heir?'
D'Eyncourt's thin nostrils flared with indignation. `I am. And may I take leave to tell you that I resent the inference inherent in that question? I resent it very much.'
`Oh, you have my leave to tell me anything you wish,' said Sebastian, stretching to his feet. `Just one more question: Can you think of anyone who might have wished Miss Tennyson harm?'
D'Eyncourt opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it and shook his head.
`You do know of someone,' said Sebastian, watching him closely. `Who is it?'
`Well...' D'Eyncourt licked his thin lips. `You are aware, of course, that my cousin fancied herself something of a bluestocking?'
`I would have said she could more accurately be described as a respected antiquary rather than as a bluestocking, but, yes, I am aware of her scholarly activities. Why?'
D'Eyncourt pulled a face. `Most women who indulge in such unsuitable activities have enough regard for the reputations of their families to adopt a male nom de plume and keep their true identities a secret. But not Gabrielle.'
`My wife also chooses to publish under her own name,' said Sebastian evenly.
D'Eyncourt gave an uncomfortable titter and looked faintly unwell. `So she does. No offense intended, I m sure.'
Sebastian said, `Are you suggesting that Miss Tennyson's investigations into the history of Camlet Moat might have contributed in some way to her death?'
D'Eyncourt gave a dismissive wave of his hand. `I know nothing of this latest start of hers. I was referring to a project she undertook some two or three months ago; something to do with tracing the original line of London's old Roman walls or some such nonsense. Whatever it was, it involved venturing into several of the more unsavory districts of the city. Not at all the proper sort of undertaking for a lady.'
`You say this was two or three months ago?'
`Something like that, yes.'
`So what makes you think it could have anything to do with her recent death?'
`Last week – Thursday, to be precise – I was on my way to meet with a colleague in the Strand when I happened to see Gabrielle arguing with a very rough customer near the York Steps. Thinking her in some sort of difficulty, I naturally approached with the intention of intervening. Much to my astonishment, she was not at all appreciative of my attempts on her behalf. Indeed, she was quite curt. Insisted there was no need for me to concern myself that the individual I had seen her with was someone she had encountered when she discovered that the foundations of his tavern incorporated some extensive vestiges of the city's original Roman walls.'
`Did you happen to catch the man's name?'
D'Eyncourt shook his head. `Sorry. But it shouldn't be that difficult to discover. I believe she said the tavern was called the Devil's Head or the Devil's Tower or some such thing. The man was a most unsavory-looking character – tall, with dark hair and sun-darkened skin, and dressed all in black except for his shirt. I thought at the time he reminded me of someone I know, but I couldn't quite place the resemblance.'
`What makes you think he was a threat to her?'
`Because of what I heard him say, just before they noticed me walking up to them. He said...' d'Eyncourt roughened his voice in a crude imitation of the man's accent, `Meddle in this and you'll be sorry. Be a shame to see something happen to a pretty young lady such as yourself.'
Chapter 13
Sebastian was silent for a moment, trying to fit this incident into everything else he'd been told.
`Of course she tried to deny it,' said d'Eyncourt. `Claimed he'd said no such thing. But I know what I heard.
