someone at the livery there to drive her out to the moat. In that case, I always insisted she allow me to have one of the men drive her back to London in the afternoon.'
It wasn't exactly unheard of for a gentlewoman to take the stage, especially for such a short, local trip. Maintaining a carriage, horses, and groom in London was prodigiously expensive; most families kept only one, if that.
`Her brother begrudged her the use of his carriage?'
`Quite the opposite, actually. It irked him to no end when she insisted on taking the common stage rather than using his carriage, said he was perfectly capable of taking a hackney or walking around London himself.'
`But she didn't always listen?'
Winthrop's wide mouth curled into a soft smile that faded away into something sad as he shook his head. `She was like that.'
`Like what?'
He went to stand at the long row of windows, his gaze on the scene outside. A few puffy white clouds had appeared on the horizon, but the sun still drenched the beds of roses with a dazzling golden light. The workmen were now bent over their shovels; Lady Winthrop was nowhere to be seen. `She was an unusual woman,' he said, watching the distant clouds. `Strong. Opinionated. Unafraid to challenge the conventions and assumptions of her world. And not given to suffering fools lightly.'
`In other words,' said Sebastian, `the kind of woman who could make enemies.'
Winthrop nodded, his gaze still on the scene beyond the glass.
`Anyone you know of in particular?'
The banker drew a deep breath that expanded his chest. It seems somehow wrong to be mentioning these things now, when the recollection of a few careless words uttered in anger could easily result in a man standing accused of murder.
`Are you saying Miss Tennyson quarreled with someone recently?'
`I don't know if I'd say they quarreled, exactly.'
`So what did happen?'
`Well, when I saw her on Saturday...'
`Yes?' prompted Sebastian when the man hesitated.
`I knew something was troubling her as soon as she arrived at the site. She seemed strained. Jumpy. At first she tried to pass it off as nothing more than a melancholy mood, but I wasn't fooled.'
`Was she given to melancholy moods?'
`She was a Tennyson. They're all melancholy, you know.'
`No, I didn't know. Go on.'
`She said she didn't want to talk about it. Perhaps I pressed her more than I should have, but in the end she admitted she was troubled by an encounter she'd had the previous day, on Friday. She tried to laugh it off, said it was nothing. But it was obviously considerably more than nothing. I don't believe I'd ever seen her so upset.'
The sound of a distant door opening echoed through the house.
`An encounter with whom?' asked Sebastian.
`I couldn't tell you his name. Some antiquary known for his work on the post-Roman period of English history.'
`And this fellow disagreed with Miss Tennyson's belief that your Camlet Moat was the site of King Arthur's Camelot?'
Winthrop's jaw tightened in a way that caused the powerful muscles in his cheeks to bunch and flex. For the first time, Sebastian caught a glimpse of the steely ruthlessness that had enabled the banker to amass a fortune in the course of twenty years of war.
`I gather he is of the opinion that King Arthur is a figment of the collective British imagination, a product of both our romantic wish for a glorious, heroic past and a yearning for a magical savior who will return to lead us once more to victory and glory.'
`And was this disagreement the reason for Friday's encounter?'
`She led me to believe so.'
`But you suspect she was being less than open with you?'
`In a word? Yes.'
Chapter 7
Quick footsteps sounded in the hall, and Winthrop turned as his wife entered the room. She drew up abruptly at the sight of Sebastian, her expression more one of haughty indignation than welcome. It was obvious she knew exactly why he was there.
`Ah, there you are, my dear,' said the banker.
`You've met Lord Devlin?'
`I have.' She made no move to offer him her hand.
`We met at a dinner at Lord Liverpool's, I believe,' said Sebastian, bowing. `Last spring.'
`So we did.' It was obvious Lady Winthrop had not found the encounter a pleasure. But then, Sebastian did have something of a reputation for dangerous and scandalous living. She said,
`You're here because of the death of the Tennyson woman, are you? I told Sir Stanley no good would come of this Camelot nonsense.'
Sebastian cast a glance at her husband, but Winthrop's face remained a pleasant mask. If he was embarrassed by his wife's boorish behavior, he gave no sign of it.
`I take it you don't share Sir Stanley's enthusiasm for the investigation of Camlet Moat?' said Sebastian, draining his wine.
`I do not.'
Winthrop moved to close the lid on the glass case. `My wife is a God-fearing woman who worries that any interest in the island shown by their betters will merely increase the unfortunate predilection of the locals to fall victim to ancient and dangerous superstitions.'
Lady Winthrop threw her husband a quick, veiled look.
`Have you visited the excavations yourself, Lady Winthrop?' Sebastian asked.
`I see no utility in poking about the rubbish of some long-vanished buildings. What's gone is gone. It's the fate of mankind that should concern us, not his past. Everything we need to know is written in the Good Lord's book or in the learned works of theology and morality penned by his inspired servants. It is his intentions that should be the object of our study, not some forgotten piles of stones and broken pots.'
Winthrop said, his voice bland, `May I offer you some more wine, Lord Devlin?'
`Thank you, but no.' Sebastian set aside his glass.
`I must be going.'
Neither his host nor his hostess urged him to stay. `I'll send a servant for your carriage,' said Lady Winthrop.
`I'm sorry I couldn't have been of more assistance,' said Winthrop a few moments later as he walked with Sebastian to the door and out into the blazing sunshine.
Sebastian paused at the top of the broad steps. `Tell me, Sir Stanley: Do you think it possible that Miss Tennyson's death could have something to do with your work at Camlet Moat?'
`I don't see how it could,' said Winthrop, his face turned away, his gaze on the gravel sweep where Tom was just drawing up.
`Yet you are familiar with the legend that Arthur is only sleeping on the isle of Avalon, and that in England's gravest hour of need he will arise again to lead us to victory.'
The two men walked down the steps. `I find legends endlessly fascinating; tales of noble heroes and beautiful maidens have entranced mankind through the ages. But as an inspiration to murder? I don't see it.'
Sebastian leapt up to the curricle's high seat and gathered the reins. `Anything powerful can also be dangerous.'
