in children was a contributing factor to Tennyson's decision to ignore the concerns of the magistrates and post a reward for the boys return. Then he noticed the way the Lieutenant's jaw had tightened, and he knew the Frenchman's thoughts were probably running in the same direction.
Sebastian breathed in the warm, stagnant aroma of the canal, the sunbaked earth, the sweet scent of the lilies blooming near the shadows of the trees. He said, `Did Miss Tennyson seem troubled in any way the last time you saw her?'
`Troubled? No.'
`Would you by any chance know how she planned to spend this past Sunday afternoon?'
`Sorry, no.'
Sebastian glanced over at him. `She didn't speak of it?'
`Not that I recall, no.'
`Yet you did sometimes see her on Sundays, did you not?'
Arceneaux was silent for a moment, obviously considering his answer with care. He decided to go with honesty. `Sometimes, yes.'
`Where would you go?'
A muscle worked along the Frenchman's jaw as he stared out over the undulating parkland and shrugged. `Here and there.'
`You went up to Camlet Moat a week ago last Sunday, didn t you?
Arceneaux kept his face half averted, but Sebastian saw his throat work as he swallowed.
One of the conditions of a prisoner's parole was the requirement that he not withdraw beyond certain narrowly prescribed boundaries. By traveling up to Camlet Moat, the Frenchman had violated his parole. Sebastian wondered why he had taken such a risk. But he also understood how frustration could sometimes lead a man to do foolish things.
`I have no intention of reporting you to the Admiralty, if that's what you re worried about,' said Sebastian.
`I didn't kill her,' said Arceneaux suddenly, his voice rough with emotion. `You must believe me. I had no reason to kill any of them.'
Some might consider unrequited love a very common motive for murder. But Sebastian kept that observation to himself. `Who do you think would have a reason to kill them?'
Arceneaux hesitated, the wind ruffling the soft brown curls around his face. He said, `How much do you know about Camlet Moat?'
`I know that Miss Tennyson believed it the lost location of Arthur's Camelot. Do you?'
`I will admit that when I first heard the suggestion, it seemed laughable. But in the end I found her arguments profoundly compelling. The thing is, you see, our image of Camelot has been molded by the writings of the troubadours. We picture it as a fairy-tale place - a grand medieval castle and great city of grace and beauty. But the real Camelot if it existed at all would have been far less grand and magnificent. There is no denying that Camlet Moat's name is indeed a recent corruption of Camelot. And it is an ancient site with royal connections that remained important down through the ages.'
`One wouldn't think so to look at the island today.'
`That's because the medieval castle that once stood there was completely razed by the Earl of Essex in the fifteenth century, its stones and timbers sold to help finance repairs to the Earl's family seat at Hertford.'
Sebastian frowned. `I thought the site belonged to the Crown.'
`It has, off and on. But it was for several centuries in the possession of the descendants of Sir Geoffrey de Mandeville.'
Every schoolboy in England was familiar with Sir Geoffrey de Mandeville, one of the most notorious of the robber barons spawned by the chaos of the twelfth century, when William the Conqueror's grandchildren Matilda and Stephen did their best to turn England into a wasteland in their battle for the throne. Accumulating a band of black knights, de Mandeville pillaged and looted from Cambridge to Ely to the Abby of Ramsey; the treasure he amassed in the course of his bloody career - a king's ransom in gold and coins and precious gems - had reportedly never been found.
`There is a legend,' said Arceneaux, that de Mandeville buried his treasure at Camlet Moat. They say that when he was attained for high treason, he hid on the island in a hollow oak tree overhanging a well. The tree broke beneath his weight, and he fell into the well and drowned. Now his ghost haunts the island, guarding his treasure and reappearing to bring death to anyone who would dare lay hands upon it.'
`Don't tell me you believe this nonsense?'
Arceneaux smiled. `No. But that doesn't mean that other people don't.'
`Are you suggesting Gabrielle Tennyson might have been killed by a treasure hunter?'
`I know they had difficulty with someone digging at the site during the night and on Sundays too. The workmen would frequently arrive in the morning to find great gaping holes at various points around the island. She was particularly disturbed by some damage she discovered last week. She suspected the man behind it was Winthrop's own foreman, a big, redheaded rogue named Rory Forster. But she had no proof.'
`She thought whoever was digging at the site was looking for de Mandeville's treasure?'
The Frenchman nodded. `My fear is that if she and the lads did decide to go up there again last Sunday, they may have chanced upon someone looking for de Mandeville's treasure. Someone who...' His voice trailed away, his features pinched tight with the pain of his thoughts.
`When you went with Miss Tennyson to the site, how did you get there?'
`But I didn't...' he began, only to have Sebastian cut him off.
`All right, let's put it this way: If you had visited the site last Sunday, how would you have traveled there?'
The Frenchman gave a wry grin. `In a hired gig. Why?'
`Because it's one of the more puzzling aspects of this murder Bow Street has yet to discover - how Miss Tennyson traveled up to the moat the day she was killed. You have no ideas?'
Arceneaux shook his head. `I assumed she must have gone there in the company of whoever killed her.'
As she did with you, Sebastian thought. Aloud, he said, `I'm curious: Why bring this tale to me? Why not take what you know to Bow Street?'
A humorless smile twisted Arceneaux's lips. `Have you seen today's papers? They're suggesting Gabrielle and the boys were killed by a Frenchman. Just this morning, two of my fellow officers were attacked by a mob calling them child murderers. They might well have been killed if a troop of the Third Volunteers hadn't chanced to come along and rescue them.'
They drew up at the gate, where Tom was waiting with the curricle. Sebastian said, `What makes you so certain I won't simply turn around and give your name to the authorities?'
`I am told you are a man of honor and justice.'
`Who told you that?'
The Frenchman's cheeks hollowed and he looked away.
Sebastian said, `You took a risk, approaching me; why?'
Arceneaux brought his gaze back to Sebastian's face. He no longer looked like a young scholar but like a soldier who had fought and seen men die, and who had doubtless also killed. `Because I want whoever did this dead. It's as simple as that.'
The two men's gazes met and held. They had served under different flags, perhaps even unknowingly faced each other on some field of battle. But they had more in common with each other than with those who had never held the bloodied, shattered bodies of their dying comrades in their arms, who had never felt the thrum of bloodlust coursing through their own veins, who had never known the fierce rush of bowel-loosening fear or the calm courage that can come from the simple, unshrugging acceptance of fate.
`The authorities will figure out who you are eventually,' said Sebastian.
`Yes. But it won't matter if you catch the man who actually did kill them, first.' The Frenchman bowed, one hand going to his hip as if to rest on the hilt of a sword that was no longer there. `My lord.'
Sebastian stood beside his curricle and watched the Frenchman limp away toward the river, the scruffy brown and black dog trotting contentedly at his side.
Sebastian's first inclination was to dismiss the man's tale of ghosts, robber barons, and buried treasure as
