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Authors: C. S. Harris
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startled laugh. “Quarrel? I had no quarrel with Miss Tennyson. Who could have told you such a thing?”
“Do you really want me to answer that question?”
Her implication was not lost on him. She watched, fascinated, as Childe’s mobile features suddenly froze. He cleared his throat. “And your…your source did not also tell you the reason for our little…disagreement?”
“Not precisely; I was hoping you could explain it further.”
His face hardened in a way she had not expected. “So you are here as the emissary of your husband, not your father.”
“I am no one’s emissary. I am here because Gabrielle Tennyson was my friend, and whoever killed her will have to answer to me for what they’ve done to her—to her and to her cousins.”
If any woman other than Hero had made such a statement, Childe might have smiled. But all of London knew that less than a week before, three men had attempted to kidnap Hero; she had personally stabbed one, shot the next, and nearly decapitated the other.
“Well,” he said with sudden, forced heartiness. “It was, as you say, a difference of opinion over the interpretation of the historical evidence. That is all.”
“Really?”
He stared back at her, as if daring her to challenge him. “Yes.”
They turned to walk along the far side of the square, where a Punch professor competed with a hurdy-gurdy player, and a barefoot, wan-faced girl in a ragged dress sold watercress for a halfpenny a bunch from a worn wooden tray suspended by a strap around her neck. A cheap handbill tacked to a nearby lamppost bore a bold headline that read in smudged ink, KING ARTHUR, THE ONCE AND FUTURE KING !
Normally, the square would have been filled with children playing under the watchful eye of their nursemaids, their shouts and laughter carrying on the warm breeze. But today, the sunlit lawns and graveled walks lay silent and empty. Gabrielle’s murder and the mysterious disappearance of the two boys had obviously spooked the city. Those mothers who could afford to do so were keeping their children safely indoors under nervous, watchful eyes.
“I was wondering,” said Hero, “where exactly were you yesterday?”
If Childe’s cheeks had been pale before, they now flared red, his eyes wide with indignation, his pursed mouth held tight. “If you mean to suggest that I could possibly have anything to do with— That—that I—”
Hero returned his angry stare with a calculated look of bland astonishment. “I wasn’t suggesting anything, Mr. Childe; I was merely hoping you might have some idea about Miss Tennyson’s plans for Sunday.”
“Ah. Well…I’m afraid not. As it happens, I spend my Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays at Gough Hall. The late Richard Gough left his books and papers to the Bodleian Library, you see, and I have volunteered to sort through and organize them. It’s a prodigious undertaking.”
She had heard of Richard Gough, the famous scholar and writer who had been director of the Society of Antiquaries for two decades and who had made the Arthurian legends one of his particular areas of interest. “Gough Hall is near Camlet Moat, is it not?”
“It is.”
“I wonder, did you ever take advantage of the opportunity offered by that proximity to visit the excavations on the isle?”
“I wouldn’t waste my time,” said Childe loftily.
Hero tilted her head to one side, her gaze on his face, a coaxing smile on her lips. “So certain that Miss Tennyson was wrong about the island, are you?”
No answering smile touched the man’s dour features. “If a real character known as Arthur ever existed—which is by no means certain—he was in all likelihood a barbaric warrior chieftain from the wilds of Wales whose dimly remembered reality was seized upon by a collection of maudlin French troubadours with no understanding of—or interest in—the world he actually inhabited.”
“I take it you’re not fond of medieval romances?”
She noticed he
“Do you really want me to answer that question?”
Her implication was not lost on him. She watched, fascinated, as Childe’s mobile features suddenly froze. He cleared his throat. “And your…your source did not also tell you the reason for our little…disagreement?”
“Not precisely; I was hoping you could explain it further.”
His face hardened in a way she had not expected. “So you are here as the emissary of your husband, not your father.”
“I am no one’s emissary. I am here because Gabrielle Tennyson was my friend, and whoever killed her will have to answer to me for what they’ve done to her—to her and to her cousins.”
If any woman other than Hero had made such a statement, Childe might have smiled. But all of London knew that less than a week before, three men had attempted to kidnap Hero; she had personally stabbed one, shot the next, and nearly decapitated the other.
“Well,” he said with sudden, forced heartiness. “It was, as you say, a difference of opinion over the interpretation of the historical evidence. That is all.”
“Really?”
He stared back at her, as if daring her to challenge him. “Yes.”
They turned to walk along the far side of the square, where a Punch professor competed with a hurdy-gurdy player, and a barefoot, wan-faced girl in a ragged dress sold watercress for a halfpenny a bunch from a worn wooden tray suspended by a strap around her neck. A cheap handbill tacked to a nearby lamppost bore a bold headline that read in smudged ink, KING ARTHUR, THE ONCE AND FUTURE KING !
Normally, the square would have been filled with children playing under the watchful eye of their nursemaids, their shouts and laughter carrying on the warm breeze. But today, the sunlit lawns and graveled walks lay silent and empty. Gabrielle’s murder and the mysterious disappearance of the two boys had obviously spooked the city. Those mothers who could afford to do so were keeping their children safely indoors under nervous, watchful eyes.
“I was wondering,” said Hero, “where exactly were you yesterday?”
If Childe’s cheeks had been pale before, they now flared red, his eyes wide with indignation, his pursed mouth held tight. “If you mean to suggest that I could possibly have anything to do with— That—that I—”
Hero returned his angry stare with a calculated look of bland astonishment. “I wasn’t suggesting anything, Mr. Childe; I was merely hoping you might have some idea about Miss Tennyson’s plans for Sunday.”
“Ah. Well…I’m afraid not. As it happens, I spend my Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays at Gough Hall. The late Richard Gough left his books and papers to the Bodleian Library, you see, and I have volunteered to sort through and organize them. It’s a prodigious undertaking.”
She had heard of Richard Gough, the famous scholar and writer who had been director of the Society of Antiquaries for two decades and who had made the Arthurian legends one of his particular areas of interest. “Gough Hall is near Camlet Moat, is it not?”
“It is.”
“I wonder, did you ever take advantage of the opportunity offered by that proximity to visit the excavations on the isle?”
“I wouldn’t waste my time,” said Childe loftily.
Hero tilted her head to one side, her gaze on his face, a coaxing smile on her lips. “So certain that Miss Tennyson was wrong about the island, are you?”
No answering smile touched the man’s dour features. “If a real character known as Arthur ever existed—which is by no means certain—he was in all likelihood a barbaric warrior chieftain from the wilds of Wales whose dimly remembered reality was seized upon by a collection of maudlin French troubadours with no understanding of—or interest in—the world he actually inhabited.”
“I take it you’re not fond of medieval romances?”
She noticed he
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