slightly.'
`How large a cross are we talking about here?'
`Approximately one foot in length.'
`Where the devil did it come from?'
`That I do not know. As far as I have been able to ascertain, the cross came into Gough's possession interestingly enough, along with a box of ancient bones in the last days of his life, when he was unfortunately too ill to give them the attention they deserved. However, Gough apparently believed the cross to be that which the monks discovered in the twelfth century.'
`And Gough believed the bones were those of Arthur and Guinevere? You can't be serious.'
`I am only reporting on the conclusions reached by Gough himself. There is no more respected name amongst antiquaries.'
`I take it Miss Tennyson did not agree with Gough's conclusions?'
Childe sighed. `She did not. Last Friday, she drove out to Gough Hall to view the cross and the bones. The bones are undeniably of great antiquity, but she instantly dismissed the cross as a modern forgery. When I begged to differ with her...'
`You did? I was under the impression you considered Arthur a wishful figment of the collective British imagination.'
Childe puffed out his chest. `I may personally doubt the validity of the various tales which have grown up around some obscure figure who may or may not have actually lived. However, I have nothing but respect for the scholarship of Mr. Richard Gough, and I would consider it unprofessional to cavalierly dismiss the relic out of hand, simply because it does not conform to my preconceived notions.'
`So what happened with Miss Tennyson?'
`We argued. Heatedly, I'm afraid. Miss Tennyson became so incensed that she seized the cross from my hands and hurled it into the lake.'
`You were walking beside a lake? Carrying a foot-long iron cross?'
Childe stared at him owlishly. `We were, yes. You could hardly expect Miss Tennyson to enter the house to view the artifact. I may have known her since she was in pigtails, but it still would not have been at all proper. So we chose instead to walk in the park. Gough Hall has a lovely and unfortunately very deep ornamental lake.'
`Unfortunate, indeed.'
`Needless to say, her intemperance in positively flinging the cross into the lake enraged me. I fear I flew into quite a passion myself. Heated words were exchanged, and she departed in high dudgeon. I never saw her again.'
Sebastian studied the stout man's flushed, self-satisfied face. He was obviously quite pleased with the tale he had concocted. But where the actual truth lay was impossible for Sebastian to guess. He said, `I assume the servants at Gough Hall can corroborate your story?'
`There is only an elderly caretaker and his wife in residence at the moment, but I have no doubt they will vouch for me, yes. Old Bentley even helped me drag a grappling hook along the edges of the lake. But we gave it up after an hour or so. I fear the cross is lost this time forever.'
`You believe it was genuine?'
`I believe it was the cross presented to the world by the monks of Glastonbury in 1191, yes.'
`Which was not,' Sebastian noted, `precisely the same thing.'
He watched a cluster of legal students hurry across the gardens, their black robes flapping in the hot wind. `You say Miss Tennyson was angry?'
`She was, yes. It''s a very choleric family, you know.'
`And melancholy.'
`Melancholy, yes.'
From here they could see the broad expanse of the sun-dazzled river, the massive bulk of the bridge, and the warehouses and wharves of the opposite bank. Sebastian said, `There s just one thing I don't understand.'
`Oh?'
`What in the incident you describe could possibly have made her afraid?'
Childe's smug smile slipped. `Afraid?'
`Afraid.'
Childe shook his head. `I never said anything about her being afraid.'
`That's because you left out the part about the dangerous forces with a nonmonetary motive.'
A sudden gust of hot wind stirred the branches of the beeches overhead, letting through a shaft of golden sunlight that cut across Childe's face when he turned to stare blankly at Sebastian.
`I'm sorry; I don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about.'
`You don't?'
`No.' Childe cleared his throat and nodded to the arm Sebastian still had resting in a sling. `You injured yourself?'
`Actually, someone tried to kill me last night; do you have any ideas about that?
Childe's jaw went slack. `Kill you?
`Mmm. Someone who doesn't like the questions I'm asking. Which tells me that Gabrielle Tennyson had good reason to be afraid. Whatever is going on here is dangerous. Very dangerous. It's not over yet, and it looks to me as if you're right in the middle of it. You might want to consider that, next time you're tempted to lie to me.'
The antiquary had turned a sickly shade of yellow.
Sebastian touched his good hand to his hat and smiled. `Good day, Mr. Childe. Enjoy the rest of your pottery exhibition.'
Chapter 26
Twenty minutes later, Sebastian turned his curricle into Bow Street to find the lane ahead clogged by a raucous, tattered mob that spilled out of the public office to overflow the footpath and completely block the narrow carriageway. Ragged men and gaunt-cheeked women clutching an assortment of howling, filthy, malnourished children jostled and shoved one another in a frantic melee swirling around a small, bespectacled magistrate endeavoring to push his way through the motley crowd.
`Lord Devlin!' called Sir Henry Lovejoy, determinedly turning his steps toward the curricle.
`What the devil is all this?' asked Sebastian as Tom jumped down to run to the frightened chestnuts tossing heads.
Lovejoy staggered against the side of the carriage, buffeted by the surging crowd. `It's been like this since yesterday. We've been positively besieged by parents offering up their children for Mr. Tennyson's reward - everything from babes in arms to sturdy lads of twelve and fourteen. Even girls. And this is only the overflow. Tennyson has hired a solicitor with chambers near Fleet Street to whom anyone with information is supposed to apply.'
`My God,' said Sebastian, his gaze traveling over the desperate, starving mass. `No indication yet of what actually happened to the Tennyson children?'
Lovejoy blew out a long, tired breath and shook his head. `It's as if they simply vanished off the face of the earth.'
The magistrate gave a lurch and almost fell as a wild-eyed, pock-scarred woman clutching what looked like a dead child careened into him. He righted himself with difficulty. The crowd was becoming dangerous. `Have you discovered anything of interest?'
`Not yet,' said Sebastian. As much as he trusted Sir Henry, when it came to murder investigations, Sebastian had learned to play his cards close to his chest. `I was wondering if you could provide me with the direction of the girl who found Miss Tennyson's body.'
`You mean, Tessa Sawyer? She lives with her father a few miles to the southwest of the moat in a village called Cockfosters. I believe the mother is dead, while the father is something of a layabout. Why do you ask?'
`I have some questions I thought she might be able to answer.'
