Free When Maidens Mourn by C. S. Harris

was staring, hard, at another handbill tacked up on the wall of the house at the corner. This one simply proclaimed, KING ARTHUR, SAVE US !
    Hero said, “Who do you think killed her?”
    Childe jerked his head around to look at her again, and for one unexpected moment, all the bombastic self-importance seemed to leach out of the man in a way that left him seeming unexpectedly vulnerable—and considerably more likeable. “Believe me when I say that if I could help you in any way, I would. Miss Tennyson was—” His voice quivered and he broke off, his features pinched with grief. He swallowed and tried again. “She was a most remarkable woman, brilliant and high-spirited and full of boundless energy, even if her enthusiasms did at times lead her astray. But she was also very good at keeping parts of her life—of herself—secret.”
    His words echoed so closely those of Hero’s father that she felt a sudden, unexpected chill. “What sort of secrets are we talking about?”
    “If I knew, they wouldn’t be secrets, now, would they?” said Childe with a faintly condescending air.
    Hero asked again, her voice more tart, “So who do you think killed her?”
    Childe shook his head. “I don’t know. But if I were intent on unmasking her killer, rather than focus on Miss Tennyson’s associates and activities, I would instead ask myself, Who would benefit from the death of her young cousins?”
    They had come full circle, so that they now stood on the footpath outside the Pied Piper. The door beside them opened, spilling voices and laughter and the yeasty scent of ale into the street as two gentlemen emerged blinking into the sunlight and crossed the street toward the museum.
    “You mean, George and Arthur Tennyson?” said Hero.
    She realized Childe was no longer looking at her but at something or someone beyond her. Throwing a quick glance over her shoulder, Hero found herself staring at the watercress girl from the square. The girl must have trailed behind them and now leaned wearily against a nearby lamppost, her wooden tray hanging heavy from its strap, a wilting bunch of greens clutched forlornly in one hand. She couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen, with golden hair and large blue eyes in an elfin face. Already grown tall and leggy, she was still boy-thin, with only a hint of the breasts beginning to swell beneath the bodice of her ragged dress. And Childe was looking at her with his lips parted and his gray eyes hooded in a way that made Hero feel she was witnessing something unclean and obscene.
    As if becoming aware of Hero’s scrutiny, he brought his gaze back to her face and cleared his throat. “As I said. And now, Lady Devlin, you really must excuse me.” Turning on his heel, he strode into the Pied Piper and shut the door behind him with a snap.
    Hero stood for a moment, her gaze on the closed door. Then, digging her purse from her reticule, she walked over to the watercress girl. “How much for all your bunches?”
    The girl straightened with a jerk, her mouth agape. “M’lady?”
    “You heard me. You’ve what? A dozen? Tell me, do you always sell your watercress here, by the museum?”
    The girl closed her mouth and swallowed. “Here, or at Blooms-bury Square.”
    Hero pressed three coins into the girl’s palm. “There’s a shilling for all your watercress and two more besides. But don’t let me catch you around here again. Is that understood? From now on, you peddle your bundles only at Bloomsbury.”
    The girl dropped a frightened, confused curtsy. “Yes, m’lady.”
    “Go on. Get out of here.”
    The girl took to her heels and fled, the ragged skirt of her dress swirling around her ankles, her tray thumping against her thin body, her fist clenched about the coins in her hand. She did not look back.
    Hero watched until the girl turned the corner and the receding patter of her bare feet was lost in the rumble of the passing carriages and carts, the shouts of the