Alfred Tennyson's aunt, Mary Bourne.'
`You can't be serious.'
`Oh, but I am. She also attends a weekly Bible study class with one Reverend Samuel at the Savoy Chapel. Another member of the study group is none other than Lady Winthrop.'
He reached for the pamphlet and flipped through it. Now, that s interesting.'
`It is, isn't it?' She looked over at him, her eyes narrowing. `You've split the shoulder seam of your coat; what have you been doing?'
He glanced down at his coat. `Ah. I hadn't noticed. It could have been when Lieutenant Arceneaux tried to draw my cork for insulting the honor of the woman he loved...'
`How did you do that?'
`By asking if he lay with her. He says he did not, incidentally.'
`Do you believe him?'
`No. He did, however, provide me with one bit of information which proved to be valuable: It seems Mr. Bevin Childe was a suitor for Miss Tennyson's hand - an annoying suitor who refused to take no for an answer. According to Hildeyard, the man has been in love with Gabrielle since she was a child.'
Hero stared at him. `Did you say, since she was a child?'
`Yes; why?'
But she simply shook her head and refused to be drawn any further.
Thursday, 6 August
By 9:50 the next morning, Hero was seated in her carriage outside the British Museum, a sketch pad open on her lap and her pencils sharpened and at the ready.
She had no illusions about her artistic abilities. She was able to draw a fairly credible, easily recognizable likeness of an individual. But her sketches were competent, nothing more. If she were a true artist, she could have sketched Bevin Childe from memory. As it was, that was beyond her.
And so she waited in the cool morning shade cast by the tall fronts of the town houses lining Great Russell Street. At exactly 9:58, a hackney pulled up outside the Pied Piper. His movements slow and ponderous in that stately way of his, Mr. Bevin Childe descended from the carriage, then stood on the flagway to pay his fare.
He cast one disinterested glance at the yellow-bodied carriage waiting near the museum, then strode across the street, his brass-handled walking stick tucked up under one arm.
Within the shadows of her carriage, Hero's pencil scratched furiously, capturing in bold strokes the essence of his likeness.
As if somehow aware of her intense scrutiny, he paused for a moment outside the museum's gatehouse, the high points of his shirt collar digging into his plump cheeks as he turned his head to glance around. Then he disappeared from her view.
She spent the next ten minutes refining her sketch, adding details and nuances. Then she ordered her coachman to drive to Covent Garden.
The man's jaw sagged. `I beg your pardon, m lady, but did you say Covent Garden?'
`I did.'
He bowed. `Yes, m'lady.'
Chapter 32
Sebastian was alone at his breakfast table reading the latest reports on the Americans invasion of Canada when a knock sounded at the entrance. He heard his majordomo, Morey, cross to open the front door; then a dog's enthusiastic barking echoed in the hall.
Sebastian raised his head.
`Chien! No!' someone shouted. `Come back!'
Morey hissed. `Sir! I really must insist that you control your... Oh, merciful heavens.'
A scrambling clatter of nails sounded on the marble floor in the hall, and a familiar black and brown mongrel burst into the room, tail wagging and tongue lolling in confident expectation of an enthusiastic reception.
`So you're proud of yourself, are you?' said Sebastian, setting aside his paper.
`Chien!' Lieutenant Philippe Arceneaux appeared in the doorway. `I do most profusely beg your pardon, my lord. Chien, heel!'
`It's all right,' Sebastian told the anxious majordomo hovering behind the French officer. `The Lieutenant and his ill-mannered hound are both known to me. And no, you are not to take that as an invitation to further liberties,' he warned as the dog pawed at his gleaming Hessians. `Mar the shine on my boots, and Calhoun will nail your hide to the stable door. And if you think that an idle threat, you have obviously not yet made the acquaintance of my valet.'
`He might be more inclined to believe you,' observed Arceneaux with a smile, `if you were not pulling his ears.'
`Perhaps. Do come in and sit down, Lieutenant. May I offer you some breakfast? And no, that question was not addressed to you, you hell-born hound, so you can cease eyeing my ham with such soulful intent.'
`Thank you, my lord, but I have already eaten... we have both eaten,' he added, frowning at the dog. `Shame on you, Chien; you have the manners of a tatterdemalion. Come away from there.'
The dog settled on his hindquarters beside Sebastian's chair and whined.
`Obedient too, I see,' observed Sebastian, draining his tankard.
`He likes you.'
`He likes my ham.'
Arceneaux laughed. Then his smile faded. `I have brought him with me because I have a request to make of you.'
Sebastian looked up from scratching behind the dog's ears.
`Oh?'
`It seems to me that if I could take Chien up to Camlet Moat, there's a good possibility he might pick up some trace of Alfred and George, something to tell us where they've gone or what has happened to them. Something the authorities have missed. He was very fond of the children.'
Sebastian was silent for a moment, considering the implications of the request. `Sounds like a reasonable idea. But why come to me?'
`Because I am not allowed to journey more than a mile beyond the boundaries of the city. But if you were to square it with the authorities and go with us...'
Sebastian studied Arceneaux's fine-boned, earnest face, with its boyish scattering of freckles and wide, sky blue eyes.
`Why not? It's worth a try.' He pushed to his feet. `See what you can do to keep your faithful hound out of the ham while I order my curricle brought round.'
A bored clerk at the Admiralty, the government department in charge of all prisoners of war, grudgingly granted permission for Arceneaux to leave London in Sebastian's custody. As they left the crowded streets of the city behind, Sebastian let his hands drop; the chestnuts leapt forward, and Chien scrambled upright on the seat between the two men, his nose lifted and eyes half closed in blissful appreciation of the rushing wind.
Sebastian eyed the mongrel with a healthy dose of skepticism.
`Personally, I wouldn't have said he numbered any bloodhounds amongst his diverse and doubtless disreputable ancestry.'
Arceneaux looped an arm over the happy animal's shoulders.
`Perhaps not. But the boys used to play hide-and-seek with him, and he was always very good at finding them.'
Sebastian steadied his horses. `When you drove Miss Tennyson and the lads out to the moat last week, did you take Chien with you?'
`I never said I...'
`Just answer the bloody question.'
