When Maidens Mourn: A Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery

by C. S. Harris

  “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.

  The Cheese, in a small cul-de-sac known as Wine Office Court, off Fleet Street, was a venerable old eating establishment popular with antiquaries and barristers from the nearby Temple. A low-voiced conversation with a stout waiter sent Sebastian up a narrow set of stairs to a smoky room with a low, planked ceiling, where he found Childe eating a Rotherham steak in solitary splendor at a table near the bank of heavy-timbered windows.

  The antiquary had a slice of beef halfway to his open mouth when he looked up, saw Sebastian coming toward him, and dropped his fork with a clatter.

  “Good evening,” said Sebastian, slipping into the opposite high-backed settee. “I was surprised when your man told me I might find you here. It’s my understanding you typically spend Fridays at Gough Hall.”

  The antiquary closed his mouth. “My schedule this week has been…upset.”

  “How distressing for you.”

  “It is, yes. You’ve no notion.” Very slowly, the antiquary retrieved his fork, took a bite of steak, and swallowed, hard. “I…” He choked, cleared his throat, and tried again. “I had hoped I’d explained everything to your wife’s satisfaction yesterday at the museum.”

  Sebastian kept his face quietly composed, although in truth he didn’t know what the bloody hell the man was talking about. “You’re quite certain you left nothing out?”

  “No, no; nothing.”

  Sebastian signaled the waiter for a tankard of bitter. “Tell me again how Miss Tennyson discovered the cross was a forgery.”

  Childe threw a quick, nervous glance around, then leaned forward, his voice dropping. “It was the merest chance, actually. She had made arrangements to drive out to Gough Hall on Friday to see the cross. I’d been expecting her early in the day, but as time wore on and she never arrived, I’d quite given up looking for her. Then the craftsman who’d manufactured the cross showed up.” Childe’s plump face flushed with indignation. “The scoundrel had the unmitigated gall to come offering to make other artifacts. I was in the stables telling him precisely what I thought of his suggestion when I turned and saw her standing there. She…I’m afraid she heard quite enough to grasp the truth of the situation.”

  “How did she know Jarvis was involved?”

  Childe’s tongue flicked out nervously to wet his lips. “I told her. She was threatening to expose the entire scheme, you see. So I warned her that she had no idea who or what she was dealing with.”

  “The knowledge didn’t intimidate her?”

  “Unfortunately, no. If anything, it only enraged her all the more.”

  Sebastian let his gaze drift over the stout man’s sweat-sheened face. “Who do you think killed her?”

  Childe tittered.

  “You find the question amusing?”

  Childe cut another bite of his steak. “Under the circumstances? Yes.”

  “It’s a sincere question.”


  He paused in his cutting to hunch forward and lower his voice. “In truth?”

  “Yes.”

  The antiquary threw another of his quick looks around. “Jarvis. I think Lord Jarvis killed her—or rather, had her killed.”

  “That’s interesting. Because you see, he rather thinks you might have done it.”

  Childe’s eyes bulged. “You can’t be serious. I could never have killed her. I loved her! I’ve loved her from the moment I first saw her. Good God, I was willing to marry her despite knowing only too well about the family’s fits.”

  Sebastian stared at him. “About the what?”

  Childe pressed his napkin to his lips. “It’s not something they like to talk about, I know. And while it’s true I’ve never seen any indication that either Hildeyard or Gabrielle suffered from the affliction, there’s no doubt it’s rife in the rest of the family. Their great-grandfather had it, you know. And I understand the little boys’ father—that Reverend up in Lincolnshire—suffers from it dreadfully.”

  Sebastian stared at the man across the table from him. “What the devil are you talking about? What kind of fits?”

  Childe blinked at him owlishly. “Why, the falling sickness, of course. It’s why Miss Tennyson always insisted she would never marry. Even though she showed no sign of it herself, she feared that she could somehow pass it on to any children she might have. She called it the family ‘curse.’ It quite enraged d’Eyncourt, I can tell you.”

  “D’Eyncourt? Why?”

  “Because while he’ll deny it until he’s blue in the face, the truth is that he suffers from it himself—although nothing to the extent of his brother. When we were up at Cambridge, he half killed some sizar who said he had it.” Childe paused, then said it again, as if the implications had only just occurred to him. “He half killed him.”

  Chapter 48

  Sebastian found Hero at the library table, one of Gabrielle Tennyson’s notebooks spread open before her.

  The pose appeared relaxed. But he could practically see the tension thrumming in every line of her being. She looked up when he paused in the doorway, a faint flush touching her cheeks. He was aware of a new sense of constraint between them, a wariness that hadn’t been there before. But he couldn’t think of anything to say to ease the tension between them.

  She said it for him. “We haven’t handled this situation well, have we? Or perhaps I should say, I have not.”

  He came to pull out the chair opposite her and sit down. The raw anger he’d felt, before, along the Thames, had leached out of him, leaving him unexpectedly drained and weighed down by a heaviness he recognized now as sadness.

  He let his gaze drift over the tightly held lines of her face. “I’d go with ‘we.’”

  She said stiffly, “I might regret the situation, but I can’t regret my decision.”

  “I suppose that makes sense. I can admire you for your loyalty to your father, even if I don’t exactly agree with it.”

  He was surprised to see a faint quiver pass over her features. But she still had herself under rigid control. Only once had he seen her self-control break, in the subterranean chambers of Somerset House when they faced death together—and created the child she now carried within her.

  He said, “I spoke to Jarvis. He said to ask you how you came to know of his involvement with Gabrielle. Did she tell you?”

  “Not exactly. I was visiting my mother Friday evening when I heard angry voices below. I couldn’t catch what they were saying—” A hint of a smile lightened her features. “We aren’t all blessed with your hearing. But I thought I recognized Gabrielle’s voice. So I went downstairs. I’d just reached the entrance hall when she came out of my father’s library. I heard her say, ‘I told Childe if he attempts to go ahead with this, I’ll expose him—and you too.’ Then she turned and saw me. She just…stared at me from across the hall, and then ran out of the house.” Hero was silent for a moment, her face tight with grief. “I never saw her again.”

  “Did you ask your father what it was about?”

  “I did. He said Gabrielle was an overly emotional and obviously imbalanced woman. That she’d had some sort of argument that day with Childe but that it was nothing that need concern me.”

  “He doesn’t know you well, does he?”

  She met his gaze; the smile was back in her eyes. “Not as well as he likes to think.” She closed the notebook she’d been reading and pushed it aside. He realized now that it was Gabrielle’s translation of The Lady of Shalott. She said, “I went to the Adelphi the next day to try to talk to her. Unfortunately, she was still out at the moat.”

  “What time was that?”

  “I don’t know, precisely. Midafternoon sometime. I left her a message. Later that evening, I received this from her.” She withdrew a folded note from the back cover of Gabrielle’s book and pushed it across the table to him.

  He flipped open the paper and read,

  Hero,

  Believe me, I would be the last person to blame anyone else for the actions of their family. Please do come up to see the excavations at Camlet Moat on Monday, as we’d planned. We can discuss all this then.

  Your friend,

  Gabrielle

  Sebastian fingered the note thoughtfully, then looked up at her. “Did Gabrielle ever tell you why she was so determined never to marry?”

  His question seemed to take Hero by surprise. She looked puzzled for a moment, then shook her head. “We never discussed it. I always assumed she’d decided marriage wasn’t compatible with a life devoted to scholarship.”

  “Bevin Childe claims it was because there is epilepsy in her family and she feared passing it on to her own children.”

  Hero’s lips parted, her nostrils flaring as she drew in a quick breath. “Epilepsy? That’s the falling sickness, isn’t it? Do you think Childe knows what he’s talking about?”

  “I’m not certain. I went by the Adelphi to try to ask Hildeyard, but he’s still out searching for his cousins. There’s no denying it makes sense of a number of things—all the strange statements made about the Reverend Tennyson’s health, d’Eyncourt being made his father’s heir, even some of the things said about the two boys.”

  “You think the children could suffer from it?”

  “I don’t know. You never saw any sign of it?”

  “No. But the truth is, I know almost nothing about the affliction. Do you?”

  “No.” Sebastian pushed to his feet. “But I know someone who does.”

  “The falling sickness?”

  Paul Gibson looked from Sebastian to Hero and back again. They were seated on the torn chairs of the Irishman’s cluttered, low-ceilinged parlor, the black and brown dog stretched out asleep on the hearth rug beside them.

  Sebastian said, “It’s the more common name for epilepsy, isn’t it?”

  Gibson blew out a long breath. “It is, yes. But…I’m not sure how much I can tell you about it. I’m a surgeon, not a physician.”

  “You can’t know less about it than we do.”

  “Well…” Gibson scrubbed one hand down over his beard-shadowed face. “It’s my understanding no one knows exactly what causes it. There are all sorts of theories, of course—one wilder than the next. But there does seem to be a definite hereditary component to it, at least most of the time. I suspect there may actually be several different disorders involved, brought on by slightly different causes. Some affect mainly children; others don’t seem to start until around the age of ten or twelve.”

  “The age at which the Old Man of the Wolds disinherited his firstborn son and changed his will to leave everything to d’Eyncourt,” said Sebastian.

  Hero looked at Gibson. “There’s no treatment?”

  “None, I’m afraid. The usual advice to sufferers is to take lots of long walks. And water.”

  “Water?”

  “Yes. Both drinking water and taking soaking baths or going for swims is said to help. Sufferers are also—” Gibson look
ed at Hero and closed his mouth.

  “What?” she said.

  The Irishman shifted uncomfortably and threw Sebastian a pleading look. “Perhaps you could come with me into the kitchen for a wee moment?”

  “You may as well say it; I’ll just turn around and tell her.”

  Gibson shifted again and cleared his throat. “Yes, well…There are indications…That is to say, many believe that the attacks can be brought on by certain kinds of activities.”

  “What kind of activities?”

  Gibson flushed crimson.

  Hero said, “I gather you’re referring to activities of a sexual nature?”

  The Irishman nodded, his cheeks now darkened to a shade more like carmine.

  Sebastian said, “I suspect that belief is a large part of why there is such a stigma attached to the affliction.”

  “It is, yes. Smoking and excessive drinking have also been identified as bringing on seizures. The interesting thing is, when we think of epilepsy, we tend to think of full seizures. But the malady can also manifest in a milder form. Sometimes sufferers will simply become unresponsive for a few minutes. They appear conscious, but it’s as if they aren’t there. And then they come back and they’re totally unaware that anything untoward has occurred.”

  Sebastian noticed Hero leaning forward, her lips parted. “What?” he asked, watching her.

  “Gabrielle used to do that. Not often, but I saw it happen twice. It was as if she’d just…go away for a minute or so. And then suddenly she would be all right.”

  Gibson nodded. “Sometimes the malady progresses no further. But occasionally a moment of great stress or excitement or something else we don’t even understand can trigger a full seizure.”

  Hero glanced over at Sebastian. “If you think this is the key to Gabrielle’s murder, I still don’t understand it.”

  “I keep thinking about something Childe said to me, that Charles d’Eyncourt half killed one of the poor scholars at Cambridge who suggested he suffered from it. Most people see epilepsy as something shameful, a family secret to be kept hidden at all costs, like madness.”