by Robin Paige
Charles had met young Lawrence during his dealings over the Hoard and had been impressed with the boy’s knowledge of the local archaeological sites and his passion for exploring. Since Charles planned to be near Oxford for a few days-he and Kate, his wife, were staying with the Marlboroughs at Blenheim-he thought he might drive the Panhard to Chipping Norton for a look at the Rollright Stones, a Neolithic stone circle which, in Charles’s view, held every bit as much interest as the more famous Stonehenge. Young Lawrence might like to come along.
“Ned?” Buttersworth asked. “Oh, yes, I wouldn’t part with the boy-although I’d be glad to lend him to you, if there’s something you want him to do.” He smiled. “He’d be delighted to lend you a hand, you know, if you had another investigation. He was enormously impressed with the way you handled that business with Dreighson.”
Charles chuckled. “I know. He offered to come on as my assistant-without pay. Watson to my Holmes, he said. Very keen.”
“That’s Ned,” Buttersworth said, amused. “Like most boys his age, he loves adventure. Too much Stevenson, I’m afraid. He’d sail off to Treasure Island in a minute. However, he’s far above other boys in his competence and his range of interests.” He smiled. “Why, he reads the newspaper’s police reports as religiously as he reads his lessons.” His smile faded. “Something of a sad story, though, and rather a mystery. His family, that is.”
“Oh?” Charles asked.
“His father is an Irish gentleman of some consequence named-” He stopped, shifting his weight from one foot to another. “On second thought, perhaps Ned would rather tell you himself, if the opportunity arises. Were you thinking of taking him out with you?”
“I was,” Charles said, “if he can be spared. My wife and I are staying with the Marlboroughs, so I’ll be in the area for a few days.”
Buttersworth seemed to hesitate. “With the Marlboroughs, you say. At Blenheim, I take it.”
Charles nodded. “I’d like Ned to see the Rollright Stones, if he’s not been there already. I want to encourage his interest in archaeology-although I suppose he’ll be disappointed to hear that I don’t have a case he can help investigate.”
“Oh, by all means, take him with you,” Buttersworth said. Behind his glasses, his eyes became more intent. “But speaking of cases-”
“There’s not been another theft, I hope,” Charles said warily.
Buttersworth fluttered a hand. “Oh, no. At least, not here at the museum, I’m glad to say. It’s only that-” He broke off, obviously troubled. “But perhaps I shouldn’t mention it. It is only speculation, after all. My suspicions, if that’s what they are, are probably quite unfounded.”
Charles waited, feeling that there was more here than the man wanted to say-more, perhaps, than he wanted to hear.
“On the other hand,” Buttersworth went on after a moment, “since you are staying with the Marlboroughs, perhaps I ought to-” He looked in both directions up and down the hall, then lowered his voice. “I was visited by a rather remarkable woman on Friday, you see.” He paused.
“Remarkable in what way?” Charles asked.
“Well, her appearance, for one thing. Her nose, quite classical, exactly like that of Sappho, whose bust we have in our collection.” Buttersworth seemed to reflect on this phenomenon for a moment.
“And this remarkable woman-” Charles prompted.
Buttersworth started. “Ah, yes. Well, she claimed to represent her employer. Wanted my opinion on several antique pieces.”
Charles smiled. “I shouldn’t think such a request would be all that unusual, in your line of work.”
“It was not the request, it was the items themselves. One was a rather ordinary scarab seal-people are always fetching those things home from holiday in Egypt. But she also had a Minoan prism seal and three very fine Greek seal stones, and she suggested that there were more.”
Charles tipped his head to one side, remembering Dreighson’s story-when the truth had finally been forced out of the man-of being visited by a woman who had sold him an earring. “I see,” he said. “I suppose you thought of the Dreighson affair.”
“I did,” Buttersworth said ruefully. “But I was also reminded of the Marlborough collection. The Marlborough Gemstones.” He paused. “I suppose you know of them.”
“Ah, yes,” Charles said reflectively. “A large assemblage of very fine gemstones-more than seven hundred, as I recall-gathered at enormous expense by the fourth duke. And sold by the seventh duke, who needed the money to keep the palace going.” He smiled crookedly. “Alas, they went for just thirty-five thousand guineas, although they were said to have been worth twice that.”
Buttersworth cleared his throat. “But there’s something else, you see,” he said, distinctly uneasy. “The woman who brought the stones-she let it slip that she had been sent by the Duchess.”
“The Duchess?” Charles repeated with a chuckle. “Come now, Buttersworth. You can’t be serious.”
“I know,” Buttersworth said gloomily. “Well, of course it could only be the Duchess of Marlborough. And I wondered, you see… Of course, it was just a thought, but I couldn’t help asking myself whether some of the gemstones might have escaped the auction block, after all, and were now being offered for sale, clandestinely. Although I must say,” he added quickly, “that it does seem rather strange. The Duchess was Consuelo Vanderbilt before she married the Duke, as you know. The Marlboroughs’ pockets are said to be empty, but I doubt that a Vanderbilt would need money. Or, if she did, that she would stoop to sell the Duke’s family jewels.”
Buttersworth’s story, Charles thought, was highly unsettling, and not because the Duchess would be involved in anything underhanded. “There may be a scheme afoot that doesn’t involve the Marlboroughs,” he said, thinking of the Dreighson affair. “A plot of which the Duke and Duchess know nothing.”
“It’s possible,” Buttersworth agreed. He gave Charles an anxious look. “You’ll keep it in mind while you’re there?”
“I shall,” Charles said. “I shall indeed.”
Robin Paige
Death at Blenheim Palace
CHAPTER FOUR
I felt awed, ant-like, apprehensive, as I gazed at Blenheim’s huge baroque mass, its fearful symmetry, its threatening roofscape of ferocious lions and plunging swords, its trumpeting central portico and tremendous, trailing wings… This is a dragon of a house which once breathed fire and was turned to stone by some terrible curse.
Blenheim: Biography of a Palace, Miriam Fowler
Kate Sheridan, carrying a string bag containing her purchases, walked past Woodstock’s town hall, past The Bear, past St. Mary Magdalene’s church, and along a row of rose-covered Georgian houses and pretty shops. At the last shop, she turned left, crossed a grassy quadrangle, stepped through an imposing stone arch, and paused to admire the sweeping view that lay before her-the finest in all England, it was widely reckoned.
Before her lay a quiet lake girdled with mature beech-woods and soft green meadows, its glittering surface reflecting the shadows of moving clouds and the darker, heavier shadow of a massive stone-arch bridge. To the left of the lake rose the walls and towers of Blenheim, and Kate thought with a shiver that, even softened by distance, it seemed cold and fierce and forbidding, more like a prison than a palace. To the right, through the trees, she could see the tall stone Column of Victory, monument to John Churchill’s decisive defeat of the French at the Austrian village of Blenheim two hundred years before. A grateful Queen Anne had awarded the nation’s hero a dukedom and crowned the honor with the grant of the eighteen hundred-acre royal manor of Woodstock, promising to build on it, at government expense, “the Castle of Blenheim.”
Never mind that the park and woodland, the site of Henry I’s famous hunting lodge and Henry II’s royal palace, had fallen into a sad decline, seldom used, derelict and neglected. And never mind that certain cynics in the court hinted that the Queen had merely taken the opportunity to off-load a s
urplus royal estate that had become a royal embarrassment. Most agreed that it was a magnificent gift, worthy of a victorious general and a munificent queen.
But things hadn’t sorted out as the triumphant Churchill, now known as the Duke of Marlborough, might have wished. Having paid out nearly a quarter of a million pounds for Blenheim’s construction, the Queen repented of her promise, snapped shut the royal purse, and died, leaving to Marlborough and his heirs the pain of finishing the palace out of their personal pockets, which, unfortunately, were not very deep.
The task had been difficult and prolonged, but eventually the grand house had been completed, and eight succeeding dukes had carved out the landscape that now held Kate’s admiring gaze. The famous landscape architect, Capability Brown, had dammed the River Glyme to create the lake and artfully planted beeches and oaks around it, creating the illusion of the long-vanished medieval forest that had once surrounded the King’s favorite hunting lodge. And on the lake’s far shore, beyond the bridge, a clump of trees marked the oldest, most historic, and most romantic site of all: Fair Rosamund’s Well, that mysterious spring about which Kate had heard so many stories. In fact, Rosamund’s Well was the reason she had come to Blenheim, to see for herself the setting of one of the most tantalizing romances in English history.
By this time, Kate had reached the elm-lined avenue that led from Hensington Road to the East Gate of the palace. She had just turned onto the lane when, behind her, she heard the chugging of a motor and the peremptory tootle of an airhorn, and turned to see her husband Charles piloting their Panhard along the graveled road. He slowed the motorcar to a stop, pushed his goggles up on his forehead, and leaned over to open the door with a smile.
“Climb in, Kate.”
“Happily,” Kate said, gathering her skirts and stepping up into the motorcar. She leaned over and kissed her husband on the cheek, not caring that his brown beard and moustache were gray and gritty with road dust. “I’m glad to see you, dear. Did you motor straight down from London?”
The House of Lords were sitting, and Charles had been in the City for several weeks. Kate (who hated London) had been at Bishop’s Keep, their Essex home, and had taken the train to Woodstock on Monday, at the invitation of the Duchess of Marlborough, to join several other guests. Now that Charles had arrived, the party was complete.
“Not directly,” Charles said in reply to her question. “I stopped at the Ashmolean on the way. I’m glad to report that the Warrington Hoard is back in its place.” He changed gears, let up the clutch, and the Panhard chugged forward. “What are you doing out here all by yourself, Kate?”
“I’ve been to Woodstock,” Kate replied, “where I discovered a bookstore full of fascinating old books.” She held up her bag of purchases. “I found one about Fair Rosamund and Eleanor of Aquitaine and another about the history of Woodstock Park. And the owner-an odd little old man, really-has promised to find several other books he thinks might be hidden away in dusty corners.”
“That’s my Kate.” Charles chuckled. “She’s invited to visit the grandest house in the kingdom and what does she do? Takes herself off in search of books.”
Kate knew that her bookstore expedition was no surprise to Charles. Under the pseudonym of Beryl Bardwell, she had become a successful author while she still lived in her native New York City, composing penny dreadfuls for sensation-seeking readers. And after her arrival in England some nine years before, she (and Beryl, of course, whom she had come to regard as an invisible but indivisible part of herself) had enjoyed a gratifying success as a popular writer. The most recent book, a ghost story set at Glamis Castle in Scotland and echoing with the mysterious strains of the song “Where is the lad who was born to be king?” had been published only a few months before. ^1
For the subject of their next novel, Kate and Beryl had settled upon Rosamund Clifford, mistress of Henry II, known to the world as “Fair Rosamund.” When Kate mentioned the idea to Jennie Churchill (now Mrs. George Cornwallis-West), Jennie had suggested that she visit the site of Rosamund’s Well and King Henry’s palace, located on the Churchill family estate, Blenheim. Obligingly, Jennie had written to Consuelo, the Duchess of Marlborough. Not long after, Kate received a warm letter from the Duchess-whom she had met when they worked together to raise money for the American hospital ship Maine during the Boer War-inviting her to come to Blenheim and stay for as long as she liked. And since Charles and Winston Churchill were friends, and Winston (first cousin to the Duke) was also to be a guest at Blenheim, Charles had been invited as well.
Over the noise of the motor, Charles said, “I hope you’ve not been bored here, Kate. Has Winston been amusing you? And Miss Deacon? She’s said to be a highly entertaining young lady.”
“Winston?” Kate returned the chuckle. “I’ve scarcely seen him, except at meals. He’s locked himself away to work on his father’s biography.”
“Ah, yes,” Charles said dryly. “He sent me several chapters of the manuscript last week. Rather a job of whitewashing, I thought.”
“And as for Miss Deacon,” Kate continued in a meaningful tone, “she and the Duke went off to admire some new plantings in the Italian Garden. The Duchess,” she added, “retired to her rooms with a headache.”
“Uh-oh,” Charles said. He gave her a serious look. “But I thought Winston was hoping that Miss Deacon might-”
“I believe it is rather Lord Northcote, the other guest, who has hopes-great expectations, rather. You know Botsy Northcote, I believe.” Kate smiled thinly. “However, the Duke seems to take precedence over Botsy.”
“Ah, Kate,” Charles said, with an affectionately teasing laugh. “Your first ducal houseparty, and you have landed in a hotbed of romantic intrigue.”
Kate frowned, feeling troubled. “Don’t treat it so lightly, Charles. I’m not a prude, by any means, and I have no idea whether there’s anything serious going on between Gladys Deacon and the Duke. But it’s making the Duchess utterly miserable. And there doesn’t seem to be a thing she can do about it.”
Charles glanced at her. “She’s confided in you? Well, I don’t suppose I should be surprised. You’re both Americans, after all.”
“No, she hasn’t confided in me. She may be an American, but she’s a Vanderbilt. She’s too conscious of her position and too reserved to break her silence on the matter, and of course, I wouldn’t presume to intrude.” Kate paused, then added sadly, “But she can’t conceal how she feels. And now is an especially difficult time for her-because of the Royal houseparty, I mean.”
“Royal houseparty?” Charles asked in surprise.
“The first weekend in August,” Kate replied. She made a little face. “The King and Queen and two dozen of their closest friends-with all of their servants, of course. Perhaps it should be called a Royal circus.”
Charles was wearing a look of horrified surprise. “But not us, I hope. Oh, God, Kate, don’t tell me that-”
“No, not us,” Kate said firmly. “The Duchess was kind enough to extend a personal invitation, but I declined. I told her we had a prior engagement in Scotland that weekend, and couldn’t possibly break it.”
“In Scotland? But I don’t remember-”
“That’s all right, Charles,” Kate said with a little laugh. “I blush to say that I lied to the Duchess. I have no more desire to attend a Royal houseparty than you do.” And that was all there was time to say because they were approaching the East Gate.
Kate looked up at the immense stone palace, its fierce, cruel weight looming above her like an overhanging cliff, and gave an involuntary shiver. Blenheim was not, could never be, a pleasant place. It suddenly seemed to her, in a moment of wonderment, that the house had no soul, and she opened her mouth to say so to Charles.
But Charles was waving cheerfully at the liveried porter, and then they were driving through the stone arch and into the East Court. They left the motorcar to an attendant, who rang the bell at the door to the Marlboroughs’ private quarters. As a fo
otman ushered them in, Kate heard a loud gong resounding hollowly through the hallways.
They had arrived just in time to dress for tea.
CHAPTER FIVE
History records many marriages of convenience. Even in my day they were still in vogue in Europe, where the interests of the two contracting parties were considered to outweigh the wishes of the bride… When I broke the news of our engagement to my brothers, Harold observed, “He is only marrying you for your money,” and with this last slap to my pride I burst into tears.
The Glitter and the Gold,
Consuelo Vanderbilt Balsam, Duchess of Marlborough
Consuelo Vanderbilt Marlborough was awakened by the echoing sound of the dressing gong. Feeling drained and dispirited in spite of her afternoon nap, she swung her feet off the high bed and wrapped her arms around herself. It might be summer out-of-doors, she thought bleakly, but the sunshine had little chance of warming this wretched mausoleum of a house. Blenheim was supposed to be centrally heated-a convenience purchased, together with electric lighting and repairs to the palace’s lead roofs, with the eleventh duchess’s dowry-but the rooms were always cold.
“Would Your Grace prefer the blue or the lilac?” Rosalie asked, holding up two gauzy tea gowns. Her maid, who was stern and reproachful, had been selected by her mother-in-law, Lady Blandford. Consuelo couldn’t shake the uncomfortable thought that Rosalie might be more loyal to the Duke’s mother, or to the Duke, than to herself-that she might even be a spy.
“Your Grace?” Rosalie repeated severely. “The blue or the lilac?”
“I’ll have neither.” Consuelo shivered. “I should like something warm.” She glanced up. At the foot of her bed, on the opposite wall, there was a marble mantlepiece that looked exactly like a tomb. On it, in large black letters, the seventh duke had carved three words: DUST, ASHES, NOTHING. She woke up to that desolate admonition every morning, went to sleep with it every night, and heard it echoing in her dreams. It seemed to represent her life.