Death at Blenheim Palace scs-11

by Robin Paige

  “Did he say anything about the Royal visit?” Lord Sheridan asked.

  “Yes.” Ned stopped, trying to pull out Alfred’s exact words. He felt it important to report as accurately as he could.

  “Well, get on with it,” Churchill urged impatiently. “Don’t keep us in suspense, young fellow!”

  Lord Sheridan put his hand on Churchill’s sleeve. “Give the lad a moment, Winston,” he said quietly. “He’s recalling details.”

  Ned threw his lordship a grateful glance. “About the King,” he said. “Alfred is worried that the Royal party are coming in two weeks, and he doesn’t know anything about the plan. ‘Who’s to do the work?’ he was asking me. ‘Who’s to be the cracksman?’”

  “The cracksman!” exclaimed Churchill, with relish. “You were right, Sheridan! There is a robbery plot afoot!” He dropped his voice, rubbing his forehead in a dramatic gesture. “And I had the ringleaders right in front of me, at the Prince. In my very grasp!”

  “That was the pair you talked to, then?” Lord Sheridan asked.

  “One of them was called Bulls-eye,” Churchill replied. He gave an exaggerated moan. “Oh, what a dunce I am, to be taken in by that damned red-bearded rascal’s hail-fellow-well-met! I’m a fool, a bloody blockhead!”

  Ned had no idea what this was all about, and he privately thought that Mr. Churchill’s histrionic mummery was foolish and self-centered. But he plowed on, addressing himself to Lord Sheridan.

  “The thing is, you see, sir, that Alfred doesn’t know anything about what’s going on. He’s had no word and he feels as if he’s been cut off. ‘Stuck in this place and forgotten,’ was the way he put it. Whatever the plan is, he’s not in on it.”

  “Interesting,” Lord Sheridan remarked.

  Churchill put on a frown. “Unlikely, seems to me. P’rhaps he suspects you, and he’s trying to throw you off the scent. Make you think he doesn’t know.”

  Ned shook his head. “Alfred isn’t… well, he isn’t that sort of person, at least as far as I can see. That is, he’s not devious. He’s… well, trusting, if you know what I mean. Maybe because he feels so desperate, and has nowhere else to turn. He asked me to find out from Bulls-eye what’s going on, and tell him.”

  Behind his detached demeanor, Ned felt a twinge of guilt. Alfred was quite a decent fellow, and here he was, ratting on him, spilling his secrets. But that was part of his job, wasn’t it? A spy couldn’t have friends.

  Churchill’s frown deepened. “Sounds to me as if they’ve given it up,” he said. “Pulled out. Having one of their people disappear-the woman, I mean-well, it must’ve made them think twice. If you ask me, she funked it and took herself off to London, or wherever she came from.”

  “Let’s not grab at straws,” Lord Sheridan said in a thoughtful tone. “They may have put someone else into the house.”

  “Another servant, you mean, sir?” Ned asked quickly. “Well, if that’s the case, the new man hasn’t got in touch with Alfred. He thinks I’m his new contact. I’ll stake my life on that,” he added, feeling that he ought to defend Alfred, who somehow struck him as a person who needed defending.

  Lord Sheridan nodded. “You may very well be right, Ned. It sounds to me as if, for some reason or another, they’ve ceased to trust Alfred, so they’re no longer communicating with him. However, he has already told us what we needed to know: the name of his contact and where he can be found.” He turned to Churchill. “Winston, I wonder-would you be able to get a look at the estate’s wage book for the past few months? Without giving a reason, of course.”

  “I suppose I might,” Churchill said slowly, knitting his brows. “Both inside and outside staff?”

  “No, just inside, I should think. The upstairs people-both male and female. We’re looking for a lady’s maid, perhaps, or a housemaid, rather than someone in the kitchen. Or an upper man servant. Has the Duke brought in a new valet recently?”

  “No. Marlborough’s man has been with him since he came into the dukedom.” Churchill pursed his lips, giving him rather, Ned thought, the expression of a petulant bulldog. “About the household staff, I shall have to ask Stevens. He’s the one who keeps the wage book, I’m sure.”

  “Oh, and while you’re about it,” Lord Sheridan added, “ask to have a look at their character references.”

  Ned cast an admiring look at Lord Sheridan. Character references would show what agency they came from. Really, for someone who spoke so modestly and unassumingly, the man was a first-class thinker.

  But Churchill seemed puzzled. “Their characters? Whatever for?”

  “Because it would be helpful to know which agency referred Alfred and Kitty,” Lord Sheridan replied. “And any other recently hired staff.”

  “I’ll do as you ask, of course,” Churchill said, frowning. “But I’m not quite sure I see what you’re getting at, Sheridan.” He added, in a rather more apologetic tone. “Afraid all this sleuthing isn’t exactly up my line. Now, if a gun were called for, I’d be glad to oblige. I’ve my Mauser, you know. Take it with me on general principles, though there’s not much call for it in civilized society.”

  A gun! Ned thought, with a surge of barely repressed excitement. Would it come to that? Oh, topping, simply topping!

  “I doubt that your Mauser will be needed,” Lord Sheridan said matter-of-factly, and Ned felt disappointed. “However,” he went on, “the evidence seems to suggest that this is all part of a larger plot. If that’s so, it must involve substantial planning at various levels. We can quash a robbery here at Blenheim, but if we allow those who conceived the plan to get away, the same business will simply be repeated elsewhere.” He paused, and added gravely. “As well-organized as this group seems to be, the chances are that it is engaged in other kinds of criminal activities as well. We need to get our hands on the ringleader.”

  “You must be looking for a man like Moriarty, sir,” Ned said, now feeling thoroughly stirred up. Moriarty was the arch-villain who once went up against Sherlock Holmes. He grinned and recited, from memory and with dramatic emphasis: “‘A man with a criminal strain, increased and rendered infinitely more dangerous by his extraordinary powers.’”

  “Ah, that man!” Churchill replied with an answering grin. He raised an eyebrow and declaimed theatrically, “‘Fenced round with safeguards so cunningly devised that it seemed impossible to get evidence which would convict in a court of law.’”

  “Oh, yes, sir!” Ned exclaimed. “The very one, sir! ‘The greatest schemer of all time, the organizer of every deviltry, the controlling brain of the underworld-’”

  “‘A brain which might have made or marred the destiny of nations-that’s the man,’” Lord Sheridan concluded with a crooked smile. “The Napoleon of crime. A lot of pumped-up nonsense, of course, but somewhat apt to our case.”

  “Apt, indeed.” Churchill clapped Ned on the back. “My word, young man, you do know your Doyle.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Ned said, liking Mr. Churchill rather better now.

  “However,” Churchill went on in a cautionary tone, “I don’t believe that we should overstate the case. I sincerely doubt that we are dealing with a villain as black as Moriarty.”

  “Perhaps not,” Lord Sheridan agreed, “but the scope of the villainy is yet to be seen. For now, our immediate task is to discover whether other members of the theft ring are at work here at Blenheim, unbeknownst to Alfred. For that, we will rely on your investigation of the wage book and character references. And I think I shall have a look in the missing housemaid’s trunk. It’s still in her room, I’ve been told.”

  “And what about me?” Ned asked hopefully. “P’rhaps you’d like me to go to The Prince in Woodstock and see what I can find out about Bulls-eye.” After all, he had told Alfred he’d be talking to Bulls-eye that night. He had been so easily successful in worming significant information out of Alfred that he was sure he could find out just as much, and perhaps even more, from Bulls-eye. A fellow could get to like this
spying game.

  But Lord Sheridan did not fall in with his suggestion. “You are not going to Woodstock, Ned,” he said firmly. “It’s far too dangerous. You are to go back downstairs to your work, and keep a close eye on Alfred. If anyone from the outside attempts to contact him, I want to know about it immediately.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ned said glumly, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice. He should like it if they could run into a little danger, and if Mr. Churchill had his gun, they would be all right. He hesitated, thinking of something else. “Sir? What about Alfred? He seems like a decent chap. Will he… well, will he get into trouble about this? All he wants to do, you know, is take Kitty and go off to Brighton.”

  “Brighton?” Churchill asked.

  Ned nodded. “His brother wants him to buy into a pub there.”

  “A pub, eh?” Lord Sheridan shook his head ruefully. “I’m sorry, Ned, but it’s too early to say what’s going to happen to Alfred. We don’t know how deeply involved he is. And until we learn the identity of the other person, if there is another person, that is, Alfred remains our only contact with the thieves.” He frowned. “But this business about the missing housemaid concerns me. I wonder-”

  From the floor above, Ned heard a loud, hollow gong. It sent a shudder down his spine. How could people abide being ordered about by a gong? If they were as powerful as they wanted everyone to believe, why didn’t they just shut the damned thing up and do whatever they liked, when they liked?

  “Time for dinner,” Churchill said in a resigned voice, straightening his cuffs. “Gad, Sheridan, I’m not looking forward to it. Marlborough is nearly off his head about Gladys.”

  Lord Sheridan sighed. “Nor I.” He put his hand on Ned’s shoulder. “But you’ve done a fine job, Ned. I didn’t imagine that you would make contact with our target and dig out this information quite so fast.” A smile glinted in his brown eyes. “British Intelligence could make good use of a man like you.”

  “Intelligence?” Ned felt quite complimented. But of course, there were other things he wanted to do first. “I’m planning to become an archaeologist, you know. I want to do digs in Egypt and the Sudan, as you did. And on Crete, too,” he added, thinking of the shipments being unpacked at the Ashmolean.

  “Ah, yes,” his lordship murmured. “Well, perhaps there’s not much difference between digging artifacts out of the ground and digging information out of people who don’t want you to have it. But we can talk about that later. Off with you, now, Ned. And keep close to Alfred, do you hear? That’s your first order of duty.”

  “Oh, yes, m’lord,” Ned promised earnestly. “I’ll keep close to him. You can count on that.”

  At the time, he meant it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Every man and woman in the kingdom, no matter how low-born, can, by self-discipline, hard work, and self-help, achieve wealth, prosperity, and social position. Remember, Heaven helps those who help themselves.

  Self-Help, 1882, Samuel Smiles

  Dinner had indeed been a wretched affair, Charles thought. The food had been cold, the Duke and Duchess had had nothing to say to each other or to anyone else, and even Kate’s gaiety, usually so spontaneous, had seemed forced. Marlborough cut short the usual after-dinner port and cigars and retired, leaving Winston free to go off to confer with Stevens over the wage book, and Charles to go in search of the housekeeper.

  Mrs. Raleigh did not know in which room of Housemaids’ Heights Kitty had slept-did not know, it appeared, much at all about the housemaids’ habits. She had seemed at a loss when Charles said he wanted to have a look in Kitty’s trunk, and had rung the bell for Ruth, who had been Kitty’s roommate. It was Ruth who, carrying a candle, showed him with alacrity up the steep stairs to the dark, chilly room in which she now slept alone, at the very top of the tower.

  Ruth, a plain-faced young girl with thick brown hair, lit a second candle from the first and pointed to a trunk in the corner. “It’s the blue wool I’d like, sir,” she said eagerly. “The one with the blue and black braid. It’s for my sister, y’see. She’s gettin’ married, sir, and she’ll be ever so glad to have it.”

  Somewhat mystified, Charles said, “A dress, is it? You’ll have to speak to Mrs. Raleigh about that, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, sir,” Ruth said, quite clearly disappointed. “I thought you was going to give me-”

  “No,” Charles said firmly, “Whatever it is, it’s not mine to give. Thank you, Ruth. You can go back to your work now.”

  With a resigned curtsey, Ruth departed, taking one of the candles to light her way down the stairs. In the flickering light of the remaining candle, Charles surveyed the small, bare room, which was scarcely larger than a cubicle. It contained little furniture, only a broken chair, a small chest of drawers on which sat a badly chipped china pitcher and basin, and an iron cot covered with a thin straw mattress scarcely wide enough for one, let alone two. An uncurtained casement window was set into the stone outer wall, overlooking a landscape palely illuminated by a quarter moon. Streaks of occasional lightning split the night sky, and thunder rumbled not far away.

  Charles placed the candle on the floor beside the cheap cardboard trunk, knelt down, and raised the lid. The inside smelt strongly of camphor. He took out a rolled-up cloak, a skirt and white blouse and some undergarments, and the blue wool dress that Ruth had wanted, carefully folded with camphor balls in tissue paper. There was also a pair of rough boots badly in need of new heels, a slim volume of The Young Girl’s Guide to Domestic Service and a copy of Self-Help, by Samuel Smiles, its pages dog-eared and pencil-marked. Charles riffled through it, noting that the sentence, “Heaven helps those who help themselves,” reoccured and was underlined in several places. As well, there was a small enamel box containing an assortment of buttons and pins, a spool of white thread with a needle stuck in it, a short length of narrow black velvet ribbon, a chipped ceramic dish bearing colored pictures of the King and Queen, and a silver-colored hair ornament. A worn leather purse contained two half-crowns and several shillings. And that was all.

  Charles frowned and picked up the candle, holding it so that the light fell into the empty trunk. He ran the flat of his hand across the inside of the lid and the bottom of the trunk and on each of its four sides, inspecting the glued-on wallpaper lining. On the left side, his fingers felt a ridge, and on closer inspection, he saw that the paper lining had been carefully pulled back at the top, creating a kind of pocket into which an envelope had been slipped.

  There was nothing written on the outside of the tan-colored envelope, and it was unsealed. Inside, there were three folded pieces of paper. One appeared to be a character reference, signed by someone identified as the housekeeper at Carleton House, Manchester, and bearing a date of approximately two years previous.

  Another was a short article clipped from a newspaper, headlined “Crime Mastermind at Work.” A certain Richard Turner, Scotland Yard detective, was quoted as saying that several recent thefts appeared to have been carried out by the same organization and masterminded by a man whose identity remained a mystery but whom the criminal element and those who made their livings by breaking the law respectfully (if somewhat jocularly) styled as “Mr. Napoleon.”

  The third was a small, smudged snapshot of a gentleman in a top hat and evening dress, emerging from a carriage. He had been caught by the camera in a full-face view, looking up, but the image was badly out of focus. On the back was penciled, in a labored script, the words Jermyn Street.

  For a moment, Charles studied the photograph, following in his mind the sequence of events that might have brought it into Kitty’s possession, imagining the uses she might have put it to, or intended to put it to. If this was what he thought it might be, it was a dangerous weapon-but perhaps more dangerous to the one who held it than to the one against whom it was meant to be used. Dangerous enough to spell death? he wondered. Yes, on balance, he thought so. Blackmail was not a game to be played by the untutored or
the unwary.

  He looked at the photograph again, feeling as if there were something familiar about the figure. But when he could not think what it was, he returned it to the envelope and slipped the envelope into his pocket. He then replaced the clothing and other belongings and got to his feet.

  He stood for a moment over the open trunk, regarding its meager contents, feeling the pathos of this small, sad collection of items, mute testimony-perhaps the only testimony there would ever be-to its owner’s personality, to her uniqueness and individuality. He had no evidence that the girl was dead, but he felt in his heart that she was. Whoever Kitty had been or hoped to be, it was all here in front of him, and there was woefully little of it.

  Charles had closed the trunk and straightened up when something else occurred to him. He set down the candle, lifted the trunk lid again, and took out the blue wool dress, still folded in tissue. He laid it carefully on Ruth’s narrow cot, took a gold sovereign out of his pocket, and slipped it under a fold of the braid-trimmed bodice.

  Then he descended the stair. He had one more search to make that evening: He was going to Gladys Deacon’s room to have a look at her diary.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  How Grand is the Life of a Poacher. Yet it is more Grand to learn the Habbits of Game… If I had been Born an idiot and unfit to carry a gun-though with Plenty of Cash-they would have called me a Grand Sportsman. Being Born Poor, I am called a Poacher.

  A Victorian Poacher: James Hawker’s Journal edited by Garth Christian

  Badger had been on the Blenheim lake, man and boy, for nearly seventy years. His father had maintained the Blenheim Fishery before him, and his grandfather and his great-grandfather before that, so that Blenheim’s lake was not only a family occupation, it ran in Badger’s blood.

  The great, sinuous lake, which occupied an area of some hundred and fifty acres, had not always been there, of course. Before there was a lake, there had been only the pretty little river, the shallow, rippling River Glyme, meandering lazily between steep, wooded banks through Rosamund’s Meadow, where sheep were put to graze under the frowning brow of old Henry’s stone castle on the brink above.