Death at Blenheim Palace scs-11

by Robin Paige

  And then, as Consuelo thought longer and harder, an idea began to form. Yes, perhaps there was a clue, after all. She put down her book and stood. She would The echoing reverberations of the gong shivered through the air, and Consuelo sighed. She could do nothing now, for it was time to dress for tea, and after tea, time to read to her children in the nursery. And when that was finished, it would be time to dress for dinner.

  And with a clear, painful awareness, Consuelo suddenly knew how desperately she envied Gladys Deacon’s freedom, how wonderful it would be to vanish from Blenheim, how marvelous to take wing and, like a hawk or a falcon, simply fly away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Here begins the Great Game.

  Kim, Rudyard Kipling

  Ned had lied when he told Lord Sheridan that he was not afraid. His knees were beginning to quake even before he approached the terrifying East Gate, carrying the small bag he had packed at home, and he had to swallow a fearful stutter as he told the liveried porter his business. His fright mounted still higher as he was escorted down a narrow staircase and through a seemingly endless maze of dimly lit passages, at last arriving in the main servants’ area, where he was deposited at the door to the butler’s pantry and instructed to wait there for Mr. Stevens. He was almost tongue-tied with fear by the time that gentleman appeared some ten minutes later and listened to his stammering introduction and his explanation that he had been referred by Lord Sheridan and Mr. Churchill.

  The butler, impeccably attired in black coat and trousers and white gloves, frowned over his gold-rimmed glasses. “Well, I dare say you’ll do,” he said, “if you can get over that stammer.” In an appraising tone, he added, “You’re certainly a good-looking lad, which will no doubt please the Duchess. If you are quick on your feet and reasonably nimble in your wits, you should get on here, particularly as you come so highly recommended. It does not hurt to have gentlemen like Lord Sheridan and Mr. Churchill in one’s corner, as I am sure you are aware. You are a fortunate young man.”

  “I am fortunate indeed, sir,” Ned said, assuming a deeply deferential tone. It was true, though. He was lucky to have someone like Lord Sheridan behind him, a strong man who would stand for no nonsense from anyone-unlike his own father, who could never be counted on to defend Ned or his brothers when their mother fell into a rage. “I will do my best to be quick, sir,” he added obsequiously, “and to live up to the expectations of those who have recommended me.”

  Mr. Stevens nodded as if he were pleased with Ned’s reply. “Well, then. We shall have to see you properly attired. Pages at Blenheim wear white shirts, short red jackets, and black trousers and tie.”

  “Of course, sir,” Ned said. One had to dress as one was expected to dress. He would think of it as his disguise.

  Mr. Stevens looked up as a liveried footman wearing a maroon jacket and satin knee breeches approached, carrying a silver tray stacked with white damask napkins, folded in a mitre shape.

  “Ah, Alfred,” he said. “I was just going to send for you. This is young Lawrence. He is to be our new page, in Richard’s place. Give me that tray and take charge of him, would you? See that he’s outfitted properly, then show him around. He’s to have duty with you until he learns what’s expected of him, so he might as well sleep with you, now that Richard has moved into Conrad’s room.”

  So this was Alfred, Ned thought, a resplendent-looking fellow, to be sure, with his powdered hair and white-stockinged calves and the large gold buckles on his shiny black shoes. He had an amiable face and rather a confiding manner.

  Alfred eyed him casually at first, it seemed, and then with a sudden interest, as if he had recognized him. “Cert’nly, Mr. Stevens,” he said, putting his hand on Ned’s shoulder. “He looks a fine, sturdy boy. With a bit of training, I’m sure he’ll do well.” He dropped his hand and smiled at Ned. “Come along, then, lad. We’ll get you something to wear.”

  Trying not to appear surprised at anything that had happened in the last few moments, Ned hurried along behind, almost running to keep up with the footman’s long strides. What good fortune he had tumbled into! This could only be the Alfred whom Lord Sheridan had instructed him particularly to observe-one of those involved in the robbery his lordship thought might be planned. Well, meeting him had been easy enough, Ned thought in some relief, and the fellow had the kind of look-open and almost transparent-that suggested an easy approach. Now, all he had to do was pump him for information about the plan, if there was one. This whole business might turn out to be very easy, after all.

  Ned was right. They had no sooner reached the wardrobe closet where the out-of-service liveries and such were stored, when Alfred closed the door, shutting them both inside. He took a candle from a shelf, struck a match, and leaned forward.

  “You’re the lad Bulls-eye sent to carry messages?” he demanded, in a harsh, hurried whisper.

  Ned had not the foggiest idea what the question meant or who Bulls-eye might be, but Lord Sheridan had told him to go along as well as he could with whatever game seemed on offer. He nodded, not quite sure he could trust his voice.

  Alfred let out his breath with such gusto that the candle flame flickered. “That’s good,” he said, almost seeming to sag with relief, “that’s damned good. Because I tell you, lad, I was beginning to feel that I’d been stuck in this place and forgotten. For all the word I’ve had, the play might have been dropped.”

  Alfred’s great relief made him seem somehow vulnerable, and Ned took heart. “Oh, no,” he said, affecting a careless assurance. “The play hasn’t been dropped, and you haven’t been forgotten, Alfred, not in the least.” He paused, feeling he ought to say something more comforting. “Bulls-eye says to say that he’s been busy, but he’ll make it up to you.”

  “Well, then,” Alfred said, “you undoubtedly have some word for me. What’s Bulls-eye’s plan, eh? What’s the game? Who’s t’ be the cracksman?” He became more urgent. “And what’s the word on our Kitty, boy? Has she been found?”

  Our Kitty. The housemaid Lord Sheridan said had gone missing. “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about Kitty,” Ned confessed truthfully, and added, “and as for the game, Bulls-eye said to tell you he’s still working on it.”

  “Still working on it!” Alfred exclaimed in a tone of hollow dismay. “But the King and his party are due in a fortnight. Who’s to do the work? How’s the job to be done? That’s what I want to know!”

  “Take care, there,” Ned said in a frowning whisper, “unless you want someone to hear you.” Inwardly, however, he was rejoicing. Lord Sheridan had been right! There was a scheme afoot and the Royals were the target-and he was in a position to thwart it!

  “Sorry,” Alfred said nervously. “I’m rattled, that’s all. I tell you, lad, I’m glad you’re here, if only for the company. I don’t half like being left all alone in this monstrous place, where I run my legs off, days on end, with ‘yes ma’am, thankee sir, right away sir’ over and over again, and never a kind smile from anyone. And I’m worried about Kitty, worried half to death.”

  “Worried?” Ned asked encouragingly.

  Alfred gulped. “She and me… well, I’ve been thinking that the two of us could go off together to Brighton, where my brother wants me to buy a share in his pub. I fancy owning a pub, I do. But not without Kitty. I couldn’t do it without her.” His face crumpled and his voice ran up the scale, cracking at the top. “I tell you, lad, I just can’t make out what’s happened to her. She wouldn’t go off without telling me where she was going, I know it! And ’specially not when we’ve a job to do.”

  Seeing Alfred’s distress, Ned began to feel a growing compassion. It must be hard for him, feeling left alone here, without Kitty, who had most likely cut and run, having found a better game elsewhere. But he also felt an increasing confidence. Lord Sheridan had reckoned that it might take him some little time to establish a connection with Alfred, but he had accomplished that within an hour of his arrival. From Alfred’s question, he
had to assume that Bulls-eye was his point of contact with the thieves, or perhaps the mastermind himself. And if Alfred thought that Bulls-eye had sent him, Bulls-eye must not be far away.

  “Well, I’m sorry about Kitty,” Ned said. “And I’ll be sure to let Bulls-eye know that you’re awf’lly bothered about her. Anyway, he said to tell you that if you had any special messages, to pass them along by way of me.” Improvising rapidly, he added, “He said I’m to meet him late tonight, in the reg’lar place.”

  “That’s all right then,” Alfred said, apparently satisfied. “You can tell him that I’m waiting for instructions. And hoping to hear news of Kitty,” he added urgently. “If he knows anything, anything at all, you need to tell me.”

  “I will,” Ned said. Now came the tricky part, where he had to pick his step. He contrived a half-apologetic look. “Odd thing, though. Bulls-eye forgot to tell me where the reg’lar place is, and I was in a hurry and didn’t think to ask. But I’m sure you must know.”

  “What?” Alfred gaped. “You didn’t meet him at the Black Prince, in Woodstock?”

  Ned almost gave himself away with a chuckle. Too easy. This spying game was all too easy. Or perhaps Alfred just wasn’t very smart. “Not there,” he said. “We met in the churchyard, y’see.”

  “The churchyard?” Alfred asked doubtfully. “A strange place to meet, i’n’t it, amongst the tombstones?”

  “Not at all,” Ned said with a little smile, now more confident than ever. “My father is the rector, y’see.”

  “Ah,” Alfred said wisely, nodding. He affixed the candle to the shelf. “Well, then, we’d best get you your jacket and trousers and white gloves, so you can look the part of a page. And then I’ll show you where you’re to eat and sleep and what you’re to do. I doubt you’ll find any of it very difficult.”

  “Thank you,” Ned said, feeling that the most difficult part of the game was probably over. “You’re awf’lly helpful, Alfred.”

  But such confidence was foolish. Ned could not know it, but the most difficult part was yet to come.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  He who asks questions cannot avoid the answers.

  Old English Proverb

  As Charles had feared, he was very late to tea. In fact, as he came down the hall toward the Saloon, the Duke was just leaving.

  “Ah, Sheridan!” Marlborough seemed tired and nervy, and an almost pathetic eagerness was written across his aristocratic face. “What news have you? Has Miss Deacon been found?”

  Charles shook his head. “I’m sorry to say, Your Grace, that she has not. It is rather more complicated than-”

  “She has not!” the Duke exploded angrily. “Why, man, what have you been doing all day? I thought you were supposed to be an equal to Holmes!”

  “I doubt, Your Grace,” Charles said in a dry tone, “that anyone could be Holmes’s equal. He is, after all, a fiction, and does not work or live in the real world.” Neither, he thought, did Marlborough.

  “That’s an excuse.” The Duke pushed out his lower lip. “I won’t have excuses. I want action, I tell you. I want answers. I want Miss Deacon found.” He raised a clenched fist, his face contorted, his voice at an hysterical pitch. “I want her found, do you hear? Now, go and do it. Immediately!”

  Charles felt the anger rise within him. Most of the realm’s peers seemed to him to demonstrate this same blind, unreasoning arrogance, this unconscionable idea that all men were theirs to command. They did not seem to understand that the center of political power was shifting-had indeed already shifted-and that a new, more democratic order had already replaced the authority of the traditional landed aristocracy. Inevitably, the power of the House of Lords would be broken, and the old nobility rendered irrelevant. Marlborough was a dinosaur. He was among the last of his kind, and was not wise enough to know it.

  But Charles bit back the sharp retort that came to his tongue and said, in the mildest tone he could manage, “If His Grace will reflect, he may recall that I am not his servant, but his invited guest. Whatever I do to help him, I do of my own free will, rather than at his bidding.” And with that, he turned on his heel and left Marlborough sputtering.

  In the Saloon, the Duchess, Winston, and Kate-looking unusually beautiful, he thought, in mist-green chiffon-were gathered in front of the fireplace, just finishing their tea.

  But the Duchess, dressed in an ivory-lace tea gown that emphasized her youthfulness and doll-like fragility, was also leaving. “I do hope you’ll excuse me, Lord Sheridan,” she said, coming toward him with a bright smile. “I am expected upstairs in the nursery, to read to my sons after they’ve had their tea. It is one of the greatest pleasures of my day, and I try never to miss it.” She gestured to the footman standing behind the tea table. “Conrad, please see to Lord Sheridan’s tea.”

  As the footman poured a cup of tea for him, Charles watched Consuelo out the door, thinking that she seemed too young and fragile to carry the responsibility of such a huge house on her shoulders, without (as far as he could tell) the support and assistance, or even the encouragement, of her husband.

  But young as she was, she had already performed the Duchess of Marlborough’s most important function: She had produced not just one male heir-the future Duke-but two, ensuring that Blenheim would remain in the hands of the immediate Churchill family. Charles knew many men who married only to beget an heir and carry on the name; that crucial obligation accomplished, they simply ignored their wives and turned elsewhere for their pleasures, as Marlborough seemed to have turned to Gladys Deacon. He wondered when the Duchess would begin to do as other women in her position usually did: take a lover for herself, if only to relieve the monotony of her life and reassure herself that she was desirable and desired.

  Charles took his cup of tea and plate of pastry and walked over to Winston, who was sitting with Kate in front of the fireplace. “I wonder,” he said quietly, “if you would mind dismissing the footman, Winston. I’d like a word with both of you, privately.”

  And while Winston was speaking to the footman, Charles bent over and kissed the back of Kate’s neck with a greater tenderness than usual, wanting her to know that she was both desirable and desired. She reached for his hand, turned it over, and kissed the palm, an intimate gesture that touched him deeply. He was indeed a fortunate man to have this woman for his wife.

  The footman having left the room, Winston came to stand in front of the fireplace. With a businesslike air, he said, “I spoke to Stevens just before tea, Charles. Your young man Lawrence seems to have made quite a favorable impression, in both appearance and manner. He is now in Alfred’s care, being instructed in his duties. He will, however, be free to come to us when he is sent for.”

  “Very good,” Charles said with some relief. “Very good, indeed.” He sat beside Kate on the velvet settee, put his cup and saucer on the side table, and crossed his legs. At least that part of the business was underway, although it was too early to know whether the boy would meet with any success.

  “Lawrence?” Kate asked curiously. “Who is that?”

  “A young man of my acquaintance who has agreed to be our eyes and ears among the servants,” Charles said. He smiled at Kate’s questioning look and pressed her hand. “I’m afraid the story will have to wait, my dear. We have more urgent things to deal with, I think. Winston, what were you able to learn about Northcote in Woodstock?”

  “Only that he took a room at The Bear very early this morning, and then caught the first train to Kidlington and points beyond,” Winston replied, clasping his hands behind his back, under the skirts of his coat. “He’s sent a telegram to the Duchess, begging her pardon for his sudden departure, which he blames on unexpected business. It arrived just before tea, she said.”

  “It was sent from-”

  “From London,” Winston replied.

  “I take it that Miss Deacon was not with him when he left Woodstock,” Charles said.

  “That’s correct. And the stationmast
er does not recall seeing a young lady of her description at any point during the day.”

  “A young lady?” Kate put in eagerly. “What about a young man?” Winston looked confused, and Kate subsided. “Forgive me for interrupting,” she said. “Please go on, Winston.”

  Winston nodded. “I sent a telegram to Cornwallis-West, asking him for whatever information he might be willing to send me. I expect to hear tomorrow or the next day, by post.”

  “Ah,” Charles said. “And your visit to the Black Prince?”

  Winston put on a nonchalant expression. “Drew a blank, I’m afraid. I met a fellow with a red beard, but he could tell me nothing about the missing housemaid.” He went to the tea table, poured himself a cup of tea, and helped himself to a slice of cake. “More tea, Kate?” he asked, over his shoulder.

  “Thank you, no,” Kate said. She turned to Charles. “Missing housemaids? What are you up to, Charles?”

  “Bear with me, Kate,” Charles said. “First, I would like to hear what you found when you searched Miss Deacon’s room.”

  Winston rejoined them, eyebrows lifted. “Kate searched Miss Deacon’s room?” He sat down in the chair across from them, boyishly stretching out his legs.

  “I thought it should be done,” Charles replied, adding, with a hint of a smile, “It seemed more appropriate that it should be done by a lady, in case there was something that ought not be seen by male eyes.”

  “There was nothing in the room that should shock anyone,” Kate replied. “And as it turned out, I was there twice. Once to find what was there, and once to find out what was missing.”

  “That,” said Winston definitively, “has a whiff of intrigue.”

  Kate gave them a small smile. “Her room was exactly as might be expected. Several photographs of admirers, signed with effusive endearments. The usual hairpieces and cosmetics possessed by a young lady in Society. A locked diary, which I did not open.” She reached down, picked up a tapestry bag, and took something out. “And this letter from Northcote.” She handed it to Charles. “It was lying, unfolded, on her bedside table.”