Death at Blenheim Palace scs-11

by Robin Paige

  There was another, larger photograph in a gold frame-a mustachioed man with eyeglasses, signed “To little Gladys, from her loving Papa.” Edward Deacon, Kate thought, the jealous husband who had shot his wife’s French lover. The story had been in all the newspapers while she was still living in New York. Gladys’s mother was reputed to be a foolish woman with an endless string of European lovers, playing one of them against another in a dangerous game. Like mother, like daughter? Kate wondered, her glance lighting on a tiny snapshot of Botsy Northcote, stuck crookedly in a corner of one of the frames-not an indication of a very great affection.

  However, there was another photograph, this one unframed and hidden. Kate found it, face-down, beneath a stack of lace underwear in the top drawer. It was a studio portrait of the Duke, inscribed “Ever only your own Marlborough.” Kate stared at it for a moment, at the hooded eyes, void of any expression, the arrogant mouth framed by a delicate mustache, the smooth boyish cheeks, the hair swept back from the brows. There was no hint of passion in that perfectly composed face, no hint of emotion, of desire, even of ordinary human tenderness. If she were choosing a lover or a husband, Kate thought, she would not choose this chilly, remote little man, who had only his title and the family estate to recommend him. Of course, Consuelo’s ambitious mother had chosen him for her-or so Kate had heard-but Gladys had chosen him freely. What did the choice say about her? With a shiver, Kate turned the photograph over and replaced it.

  The other drawers seemed to contain nothing but untidy heaps of clothing: lingerie, nightgowns, filmy stockings, lace shawls, silk scarves, all of it very expensive. In the bottom drawer, however, she found something much more interesting. It looked to be a diary, bound in supple blue leather and fastened with a tab inserted into a small golden lock. Kate turned it over in her hands, intensely curious.

  Go on, Kate, Beryl whispered urgently. What in the world are you waiting for? It’s a tiny lock, of no consequence at all. You can pick it with a bent pin. Just think of the secrets inside!

  Kate held the diary for a moment, considering. If she opened and read it, she would be privy to Gladys’s secrets, all of them profoundly intimate, most of them embarrassing, and some of them childish and silly. How would she choose which ones to confide to Charles, and which to keep to herself? If Gladys had not safely returned by the time she had reported to Charles, she decided, she would tell him where to find it, and he could determine for himself whether it should be opened and read.

  This plan did not satisfy Beryl, of course. Oh, pooh! she said disgustedly. Your heroines would not hesitate to read something like this, would they? So why not you?

  But Kate stood firm against Beryl’s urging, and put the diary back in the drawer. As she did so, her fingers touched a pouch made of supple leather. She took it out and opened it, spilling small five tissue-wrapped bundles onto the marble-topped chest. She pulled the tissue off and saw five polished stones. The most intriguing was a blue-green piece she recognized as an Egyptian scarab, with marks carved into it. The other four-red, green, blue, and smoke-colored-also had engraved marks cut into various polished faces. Perhaps Gladys had collected them as a child and they had some sentimental value. She rewrapped them and replaced the pouch beside the diary.

  Finding nothing more of interest in the chest of drawers, Kate turned her attention to the glass-topped dressing table, which was crowded with baskets of ribbons and silks and natural hairpieces, exactly the color of Gladys’s hair, and bottles and jars of lotions and cosmetics. Kate picked up a small pot of French rouge, recollecting the heightened color of Gladys’s lips and cheeks the night before. It was easy to conclude that she was a woman deeply concerned with her physical appearance, a conclusion borne out by something Consuelo had mentioned to Kate this morning: that Gladys had paraffin wax injected into her nose to enhance its Hellenic profile.

  Kate put down the pot of rouge with a wry face. She was of the opinion that one took what one was given, although there was no special harm in making the best of it with rouge or powder or other cosmetics. However, paraffin injection-which had become popular over the past decade or so, especially among those who frequented Continental beauty salons-was not only foolish, it was dangerous, and Kate had seen photographs of the misshapen faces which proved it so.

  The dressing table and jewel box, filled with elaborate, ornate jewelry, had nothing special to offer, and Kate turned her attention to a shelf of books beside the bed. It contained a somewhat surprising collection of titles, reminding Kate of something else that Consuelo had said: that Gladys was not only beautiful but genuinely brilliant, having learnt seven languages and studied art, literature, mathematics, and music. There were several books of poetry with Gladys’s name in them; a much-thumbed-through book of photographs of classical statuary with the text in Greek; books of German philosophy, with passages underlined; several rather risque French novels with playful notes in the margins, in French; and Edith Wharton’s just-published and much-discussed first novel, Valley of Decision. It was an eclectic collection, to say the least, Kate thought, and it forced her to modify her assessment of Gladys Deacon. The young woman might not be wise, but she was certainly intelligent.

  And then, lying half-hidden under a book of French poetry on Gladys’s bedside table, Kate found something of much greater interest. It was a note written in a square masculine hand on the thick, creamy Blenheim stationery which was kept in every room, and dated Tuesday, 12 May, just two days before. Kate hesitated only a moment. This note was not locked with a key, like the diary, and it was clearly of current interest. And besides, Beryl was prodding her, even more urgently than before. Oh, for pity’s sake, Kate. Read!

  Kate picked up the note and read it.

  My dearest darling,

  I am beside myself with anxiety and apprehension at the cruel indifference you are showing toward your own, your devoted Botsy. You say that my passion distresses you, but surely you must realize and excuse the depths to which I am stirred by my love for you and my desire to make you my wife. (Do I need to remind you that you pledged yourself to accept me when we were together at Welbeck? or that my passion did not distress you then?) You simply must hear me out, Gladys, and agree to set a date for our wedding. And if you refuse, why then I shall simply carry you off straightaway and the devil take he who tries to stop me-Marlborough or anyone else!

  With the most ardent passion

  N

  Well, there was no doubting the relevance of this letter, Kate thought, reading it for the second time. Northcote hadn’t yet been seen this morning. What if he had spirited Gladys away, as he threatened in this letter? She suspected that such a violent and precipitous action was not the way to win the young lady’s heart, but perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps an extravagant gesture was exactly the thing that would sweep Gladys off her feet and get her to honor her promise. And Botsy Northcote, Kate had no doubt, was exactly the kind of man who would do it.

  She glanced at the Cartier clock on the chest of drawers. The bell for lunch would ring in an hour. She would find Charles straightaway and give him the letter. She locked the room, pocketed the key, and went to inquire after Charles.

  Learning that he had left for Oxford and feeling at loose ends, she went downstairs and out into the rose garden, walking slowly along the gravel path, reflecting on the events of the night before. The last time she had seen Gladys, the girl was going into the garden with Marlborough, and yet a scrap of her dress had been found on a bush at Rosamund’s Well, on the other side of the lake.

  On the other side of the lake? Beryl mused. And just how do you suppose she got there?

  Kate paused in the act of burying her nose in a large pink cabbage rose with a delightfully spicy scent. Beryl had raised a very good question. Come to think of it, just how had Gladys crossed the lake?

  “She walked over the bridge?” Kate hazarded aloud.

  Gladys Deacon walked? Beryl laughed shortly. Don’t be ridiculous, Kate. Can you see that you
ng woman taking a half-mile tramp after dark, along a gravel path and down a steep hill? In her evening dress?

  “I suppose you’re right,” Kate murmured. The road across the bridge was graveled, and the path that led from the bridge to the Well was steep and overgrown. It wasn’t something one would do unless one were wearing proper boots.

  “Of course I’m right,” Beryl replied. And what sort of foot gear was Gladys wearing last night? Evening slippers, that’s what! Gold evening slippers, to match her dress. No woman in her right mind would walk about the countryside in those shoes.

  Kate didn’t remember noticing Gladys’s feet, but it was Beryl who was always took notes on details of dress and manner, and Kate didn’t doubt the truth of her observation. She bent to sniff another rose. Well, then, if Gladys didn’t walk around the lake, how did she get to Rosamund’s Well? As Kate straightened, her glance happened to light upon the boat house, a rustic building far down at the foot of the garden, behind some shrubbery, next to the lake.

  Congratulations, old girl! Beryl exclaimed triumphantly. That’s it! Our Gladys rowed across the lake!

  “Rowed?” Kate replied, with a mildly sarcastic chuckle. “Oh, come, now, Beryl. Gladys Deacon wouldn’t have the slightest idea of what to do with an oar. She could never row a boat all the way across that lake.”

  Beryl chuckled maliciously. Who says she rowed it? Maybe Botsy rowed it for her. After all, he promised to carry her off-and what’s more romantic than a rowboat on a moonlit night? Come on, Kate, let’s have a look.

  “A look at what?” Kate asked. “The lunch gong will be sounding in just a few minutes. We don’t have time to go anywhere.”

  It won’t matter if we’re a little late. Anyway, what’s more important? Sitting down to lunch on time, or finding out what happened to Gladys?

  With that, the intrepid Beryl flew off down the path. And Kate had no choice but to follow.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  All men dream, but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dream with open eyes, to make it possible.

  The Seven Pillars of Wisdom, T. E. (Ned) Lawrence

  Ned Lawrence had been bitterly disappointed when he learned from John Buttersworth that he had missed Lord Sheridan’s visit to the museum. He had been hoping to see him, and hoping that his lordship would take another criminal case in the Oxford area and, this time, ask him to assist. He admired Lord Sheridan for the cool and careful way he used his wits, but there was more, some of which Ned would not have been able to recognize and acknowledge, at least at this point in his life. He respected men who showed strength of character and physical bravery, and yet were deeply sensitive to the feelings of others; who were sure of themselves but not brazen about it; who were intellectuals but not snobs; who were attractive to women but resisted their power. He would be glad to play Watson to his lordship’s Holmes any day, and he’d told him so, straight to his face. Ned’s mother may have taught him to be deferential to his elders and betters, but his father had taught him to ask for what he wanted from men who had the means to give it, and Ned thought that his best course was to follow both their teachings. Of course, he already knew how to get what he wanted for himself, whenever that was necessary.

  Today was one of the days when he was getting what he wanted. He had asked Buttersworth for a day’s holiday from his work at the Ashmolean and-clad in tweed knickers, a sweater, and a tweed cap-had ridden his bicycle to All Saints, a small stone church with a square Norman tower in the country near the hamlet of Derwood. He’d brought his brass-rubbing kit and planned to spend the day making rubbings from some brasses he had noticed in the church when he’d gone scouting there some weeks before.

  Ned’s passion for antiquarianism had become an obsession, all but taking over his life. He worked at the museum during the summers and on Saturdays throughout the school year. As he prowled through the city, he loved to stop at new building sites and search for medieval artifacts: coins and tiles and bits of pottery and metal. He would often trade his pocket money to the laborers for things they’d found, and some of them had learned to save promising items for him. He kept everything on the shelves in the room he shared with his older brother-there were five boys in the Lawrence family-and his growing collection fueled his enthusiasm for the Middle Ages.

  Imagining himself already an archaeologist and adventurer, Ned dreamed of traveling through Egypt and Africa, crossing perilous wildernesses, fighting savage tribesmen, and giving his life in the defense of a doomed city, as General Gordon had done. He devoured the action-filled adventure stories of G. A. Henty, whose fictional boy heroes met real men-Robert the Bruce, Sir Francis Drake, the Duke of Marlborough, Napoleon-in a variety of historical situations. He dreamed of performing great deeds in the company of someone like Charles Sheridan, who had distinguished himself as a military officer in the Sudan, very nearly getting himself killed in a brave attempt to rescue General Gordon and free Khartoum from the awful onslaught of the Mahdi’s Dervishes.

  Yes, Sheridan would be a perfect companion, although Ned knew that he had a great deal of work to do before he was ready. He was planning to read Modern History when he got to Oxford, so he’d understand the politics and history of the places they would go. He’d have to win a scholarship for that, though, for although his father was a gentleman with an independent income, the income was small and five boys were rather a lot to send to school.

  Brass rubbings were one of Ned’s recent obsessions, and over the past few months, he had bicycled to almost every church within a half-day’s ride of Oxford to record the brasses he found there. Brass-rubbers were supposed to get written permission from the appropriate authority, but Ned had never bothered. Somebody who cared as much about the brasses as he did ought to be entitled to do whatever he liked with them, as long as he didn’t damage them, of course. And anyway, being where he shouldn’t be, doing something he shouldn’t do, only lent a greater sense of danger and intrigue to the adventure.

  The heavy wooden door of All Saints stood ajar when he arrived, shortly before one. The church was deserted, as he’d hoped it would be, so he hid his bicycle behind some shrubbery and went inside, closing the door behind him. He looked around, reveling in the dusky quiet, redolent of old hymnals and lemon-polished oak. Ned sometimes dreamed of becoming a monk-when he wasn’t dreaming of being an adventurer. He loved the idea of the introspective, ascetic life, with regular fasts and rigorous physical exercise and long days when he was entirely alone, when he spoke to no one at all.

  But he wasn’t thinking of that at the moment. The brasses he had come to rub-three small, square ones, two feet wide by two feet high-were attached to the stone wall near the altar. On their faces, they were all Tudor, one engraved with a coat of arms, two with Latin texts, and dated 1598. Well and good, and he was glad to have them for his collection. But Ned had the idea that they might have been looted from a local monastery and bought as reusable metal by the engravers. To test his theory, he took a screwdriver out of his kit, unfastened the four screws securing one of the brasses to the wall, and took it down. Holding his breath, he turned it over.

  To his inexpressible joy, he was right! On the reverse, there was what looked to be the head and shoulders of a priest in Mass vestments. He stared at it, feeling his heart pound. It was extraordinary, really, this idea that an object from the sixteenth century-old enough, certainly-might conceal an object from the fourteenth century, both hidden away in a church that itself had been built sometime in the twelfth century.

  Reflecting reverently on these mysteries, Ned took out a brush, tape, a roll of paper, and his heelball, a cake of black wax that fit neatly into the palm of his hand. Getting down on his knees, he dusted the grit from the brass, taped the paper to it, and began to rub, working carefully, watching with amazement as the artistry of the long-ago engraver-dead some five cen
turies, unseen for three-appeared as if by magic under his hands.

  Ned was so intent on his work that he did not hear a motor car approach the church and stop along the verge. Congratulating himself on being skilled enough to do the whole job in less than fifteen minutes-and a good job it was, too, one of his best-he removed the paper, rolled it, and prepared to refasten the brass to the wall.

  But the brass was easier to take down than to put back up. He was struggling with the unwieldy object when he heard the creak of the door opening. Startled, he lost his grip and the brass fell to the stone floor with an echoing metallic clang. He turned to see Lord Sheridan strolling toward him down the aisle, his hands in his pockets and a severe look on his face.

  Ned’s heart plummeted into his boots. Of all the people to find him here, it would have to be Lord Sheridan, whom he admired and respected so highly. In an instant, his fantasies of doing heroic deeds with this man vanished like a puff of cloud. His dreams for the future were gone, his work at the Ashmolean a thing of the past. He would be publically disgraced, perhaps even sent to jail or “Doing a little investigation on the sly, are you, Ned?” Lord Sheridan asked.

  Ned let out his breath and bent to pick up the brass. “You startled me. Sir,” he added.

  “Be glad I’m not the sexton or the vicar,” Lord Sheridan said with a half-smile. “Or the local constable. He might have you up before the magistrate for something like this, especially if you haven’t asked permission.” He paused. “Let me see what you have there.”

  He took the brass from Ned and examined both sides. Then he handed it back and picked up the rubbing. “Quite nice,” he said after a moment. “Quite nice indeed.” He rolled it up again and put it with Ned’s kit. “You’ll be sure to sign and date it, won’t you? And include the name and location of the church.”