Read Online When Maidens Mourn by C. S. Harris - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: C. S. Harris
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pause on the footpath before the entrance, confer for a moment, and go inside. Then two men deep in a heated discussion, neither of whom Hero recognized, exited the gateway and turned east.
One after another the bells of the city tapered off into stillness, until all were silent.
Hero frowned. She had come in search of an antiquary named Bevin Childe. Childe was known both for his formidable scholarship and for his fanatical adherence to a self-imposed schedule. Every Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday between the hours of ten and three he could be found in the Reading Room of the museum. At precisely three o’clock, he left the museum and crossed the street to a public house known as the Pied Piper, where he ate a plate of sliced roast beef and buttered bread washed down by a pint of good, stout ale. This was followed by a short constitutional around nearby Bedford Square, after which he returned to the Reading Room from four until six. But today, Childe was deviating from his prescribed pattern.
The minutes ticked past. “Bother,” said Hero softly under her breath.
“My lady?” asked her footman, his hand on the open carriage door.
“Perhaps—” she began, then broke off as a stout man in his early thirties dressed in a slightly crumpled olive coat and a high-crowned beaver came barreling through the museum’s gateway, his head down, a brass-headed walking stick tucked under one arm. He had the face of an overgrown cherub, his flesh as pink and white as a baby’s, his small mouth pursed as if with annoyance atthe realization that he was nearly ten minutes late for his nuncheon.
“Mr. Childe,” called Hero, descending from the carriage, her furled parasol in hand. “What a fortunate encounter. There is something I wish to speak with you about. Do let’s walk along for a ways.”
Childe’s head jerked up, his step faltering, a succession of transparent emotions flitting across his cherubic features as his desire to maintain his schedule warred with the need to appear accommodating to a woman whose father was the most powerful man in the Kingdom.
“Actually,” he said, “I was just on my way to grab a bite—”
“It won’t take but a moment.” Hero opened her parasol and inexorably turned his steps toward the nearby square.
He twisted around to gaze longingly back at the Pied Piper, the exaggerated point of his high collar pressing into his full cheek. “But I generally prefer to take my constitutional
after
I eat—”
“I know. I do beg your pardon, but you have heard this morning’s news about the death of Miss Tennyson and the disappearance of her young cousins?”
She watched as the pinkness drained from his face, leaving him pale. “How could I not? The news is all over town. Indeed, I can’t seem to think of anything else. It was my intention to spend the day reviewing a collection of manor rolls from the twelfth century, but I’ve found it nearly impossible to focus my attention for more than a minute or two at a stretch.”
“How…distressing for you,” said Hero dryly.
The scholar nodded. “Most distressing.”
The man might still be in his early thirties—not much older than Devlin, she realized with some surprise—but he had the demeanor and mannerisms of someone in his forties or fifties. She said, “I remember Miss Tennyson telling me once that you disagreed with her identification of Camlet Moat as the possible site of Camelot.”
“I do. But then, you would be sorely pressed to find anyone of repute who does agree with her.”
“You’re saying her research was faulty?”
“Her research? No, one could hardly argue with the references to the site she discovered in various historical documents and maps. There is no doubt the area was indeed known as ‘Camelot’ for hundreds of years. Her interpretation of those findings, however, is another matter entirely.”
“Was that the basis of your quarrel with her last Friday? Her interpretation?”
He gave a weak,
One after another the bells of the city tapered off into stillness, until all were silent.
Hero frowned. She had come in search of an antiquary named Bevin Childe. Childe was known both for his formidable scholarship and for his fanatical adherence to a self-imposed schedule. Every Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday between the hours of ten and three he could be found in the Reading Room of the museum. At precisely three o’clock, he left the museum and crossed the street to a public house known as the Pied Piper, where he ate a plate of sliced roast beef and buttered bread washed down by a pint of good, stout ale. This was followed by a short constitutional around nearby Bedford Square, after which he returned to the Reading Room from four until six. But today, Childe was deviating from his prescribed pattern.
The minutes ticked past. “Bother,” said Hero softly under her breath.
“My lady?” asked her footman, his hand on the open carriage door.
“Perhaps—” she began, then broke off as a stout man in his early thirties dressed in a slightly crumpled olive coat and a high-crowned beaver came barreling through the museum’s gateway, his head down, a brass-headed walking stick tucked under one arm. He had the face of an overgrown cherub, his flesh as pink and white as a baby’s, his small mouth pursed as if with annoyance atthe realization that he was nearly ten minutes late for his nuncheon.
“Mr. Childe,” called Hero, descending from the carriage, her furled parasol in hand. “What a fortunate encounter. There is something I wish to speak with you about. Do let’s walk along for a ways.”
Childe’s head jerked up, his step faltering, a succession of transparent emotions flitting across his cherubic features as his desire to maintain his schedule warred with the need to appear accommodating to a woman whose father was the most powerful man in the Kingdom.
“Actually,” he said, “I was just on my way to grab a bite—”
“It won’t take but a moment.” Hero opened her parasol and inexorably turned his steps toward the nearby square.
He twisted around to gaze longingly back at the Pied Piper, the exaggerated point of his high collar pressing into his full cheek. “But I generally prefer to take my constitutional
after
I eat—”
“I know. I do beg your pardon, but you have heard this morning’s news about the death of Miss Tennyson and the disappearance of her young cousins?”
She watched as the pinkness drained from his face, leaving him pale. “How could I not? The news is all over town. Indeed, I can’t seem to think of anything else. It was my intention to spend the day reviewing a collection of manor rolls from the twelfth century, but I’ve found it nearly impossible to focus my attention for more than a minute or two at a stretch.”
“How…distressing for you,” said Hero dryly.
The scholar nodded. “Most distressing.”
The man might still be in his early thirties—not much older than Devlin, she realized with some surprise—but he had the demeanor and mannerisms of someone in his forties or fifties. She said, “I remember Miss Tennyson telling me once that you disagreed with her identification of Camlet Moat as the possible site of Camelot.”
“I do. But then, you would be sorely pressed to find anyone of repute who does agree with her.”
“You’re saying her research was faulty?”
“Her research? No, one could hardly argue with the references to the site she discovered in various historical documents and maps. There is no doubt the area was indeed known as ‘Camelot’ for hundreds of years. Her interpretation of those findings, however, is another matter entirely.”
“Was that the basis of your quarrel with her last Friday? Her interpretation?”
He gave a weak,
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