`He's not one of your men?'
`He is not.'
Devlin's gaze narrowed as he studied Jarvis's face. `And would you have me believe you didn't set someone to follow me earlier this week?'
Jarvis took another sip of his sherry. `The incompetent bumbling idiot you chased through the Adelphi was indeed in my employ although he is no longer. But I had nothing to do with...' he gestured with his glass toward the dead man on the carpet this. `Who is he?'
`If I knew, I wouldn't be here.'
Jarvis went to peer down at the dead man. `Something of a ruffian, I'd say, from the looks of him.' He shifted his gaze to the dead man's torn, bloody shirt. `Hero did this?'
`She did.'
Jarvis looked up, his jaw tightening. `Believe it or not, until my daughter had the misfortune of becoming involved with you, she had never killed anyone. And now...'
`Don't,' said Devlin, one hand raised as if in warning. `Don't even think of laying the blame for this on me. If Hero was in any danger this afternoon, it was because of you, not me.'
`Me?'
`Two days before she died, Gabrielle Tennyson stumbled upon a forgery that involved someone so ruthless and powerful that she feared for her life. I think the man she feared was you.'
Jarvis drained his wineglass, then stood regarding it thoughtfully for a moment before walking over to remove a crumpled broadsheet from a nearby bureau and hold it out. `Have you seen these?'
Devlin glanced down at the broadsheet without making any move to take it. `I have. They seem to keep going up around town faster than the authorities can tear them down.'
`They do indeed, thanks to certain agents in the employ of the French. The aim is to appeal to and promote disaffection with the House of Hanover. I suspect they've succeeded far better than Napoléon ever dreamt.'
`Actually, I 'd have said Prinny does a bang-up job of doing that all by himself.'
Jarvis pressed his lips into a flat line and tossed the broadsheet aside. `Dislike of a monarch is one thing. The suggestion that he sits on his throne as a usurper is something else again. The Plantagenets faced similar nonsense back in the twelfth century. You might think people today wouldn't be as credulous as their ancestors of six hundred years ago, but the idea of a messianic return has proved surprisingly appealing.'
`It's a familiar concept.'
`There is that,' said Jarvis.
`I take it that like the Plantagenets before you, you've decided to deal with the situation by convincing the credulous that King Arthur is not, in fact, the once and future king, but just another pile of moldering old bones?'
`Something like that, yes.'
`So you what? Approached a scholar well-known for his skepticism with regards to the Arthurian legend - Bevin Childe, to be precise - and somehow convinced him to come forward with the astonishing claim of having found the Glastonbury Cross and a box of ancient bones amongst Richard Gough's collections? I suppose a competent craftsman could simply manufacture a copy of the cross from Camden's illustrations, while the bones could be acquired from any old churchyard. Of course, history tells us the cross was separated from the relevant bones long ago, but why allow details to interfere with legend?'
`Why, indeed?'
`There's just one thing I'm curious about: How did Miss Tennyson realize that it was a forgery?'
Jarvis reached into his pocket for his snuffbox. `I'm not certain that's relevant.'
`But she did quarrel with Childe and throw the forgery into the lake.'
`Yes. A most choleric, impetuous woman, Miss Tennyson.'
`And determined too, I gather. Which means that as long as she was alive, your plan to convince the credulous that you had King Arthur's bones was not going to succeed.'
Jarvis opened his snuffbox with the flick of one finger. `I am not generally in the habit of murdering innocent gentlewomen and their young cousins however troublesome they may make themselves.'
`But you would do it, if you thought it necessary.'
`There is little I would not do to preserve the future of the monarchy and the stability of the realm. But in the general scheme of things, this really wasn't all that important. There would have been other ways of dealing with the situation besides murdering my daughter's troublesome friend.'
`Such as?'
Jarvis lifted a small pinch of snuff to one nostril and sniffed.
`You don't seriously expect me to answer that, do you?'
Devlin's lips flattened into a thin, hard line. `Last night, someone shot and killed a paroled French officer named Philippe Arceneaux. Then, this morning, one of Arceneaux's fellow officers supposedly stepped forward with the information that before his death, Arceneaux had confessed to the killings. As a reward, our conveniently community-minded French officer was immediately spirited out of the country. The only person I can think of with the power and the motive to release a French prisoner that quickly is you.'
Jarvis closed his snuffbox. `Of course it was I.'
`And you had Philippe Arceneaux shot?'
`I won't deny I took advantage of his death to shut down the inconvenient investigation into the Tennysons murders. But did I order him killed? No.'
`The inconvenient investigation? Bloody hell. Inconvenient for whom?'
`The Crown, obviously.'
`Not to mention you and this bloody Glastonbury Cross scheme of yours.'
When Jarvis remained silent, Devlin said, `How the devil did you convince Childe to lend his credibility to such a trick?'
`Mr. Childe has certain somewhat aberrant tastes that he would prefer others not know about.'
`How aberrant?'
Jarvis tucked his snuffbox back into his pocket. `Nothing he can't indulge at the Lambs Pen.'
`And did Gabrielle Tennyson know about Childe's aberrations?'
`Possibly.'
`So how do you know Childe didn't kill the Tennysons?'
`I don't. Hence the decision to shut down the investigation. It wouldn't do to have this murder be seen as linked in any way to the Palace.' Jarvis straightened his cuffs. `It's over, Devlin; a murderer has been identified and punished with his own death.'
Devlin nodded to the dead man before them. `Doesn't exactly look over to me.'
`You don't know this attack was in any way related to the Tennyson case. The authorities are satisfied. The populace has already breathed a collective sigh of relief. Let it rest.'
Devlin's lip curled. `And allow the real murderer to go free? Let those boys parents up in Lincolnshire live the rest of their lives without ever knowing what happened to their children? Let Arceneaux's grieving parents in Saint-Malo believe their son a child killer?'
`Life is seldom tidy.'
`This isn't untidy. This is an abomination.' He swung toward the door.
Jarvis said, `You're forgetting your body.'
`Someone from Bow Street should be here for it soon.' Devlin paused to look back at him. `I'm curious. What exactly made Hero think you killed Gabrielle Tennyson?'
Jarvis gave the Viscount a slow, nasty smile. `Ask her.'
Chapter 47
Rather than return directly to Brook Street, Sebastian first went in search of Mr. Bevin Childe.
