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 animal-like 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 entrée at the highest levels of society and an innate understanding of the wealthy and well-born 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.
Chapter 4
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
