by Robin Paige
Ned’s hands came up and he struggled to break the choking hold. But the knife-for it was a knife, he knew-was rammed more sharply into his back, and he forced himself to stop struggling. “Wot’s the gull?” the voice said again, harsher now. “Who’re you?”
“I… can’t breathe,” Ned managed. It felt as if his neck were being crushed. “Loosen up, will you?”
But Bulls-eye, himself in the grip of a fiery rage, didn’t feel like loosening up. He felt like choking the kid until he was blue, if only because he wasn’t Alfred. And because Alfred had been so stupid-or perhaps so tricky-as to give up the lay. What did he have up his sleeve, anyway, sending this boy-Foxy, by damn! — to do a grown man’s business? Some sort of bloody gull, of course. But what sort of gull? And why? Had Alfred twigged to his scheme? Suspected that he was game for Bulls-eye’s knife and sent the boy as bait?
Bait. Bulls-eye tightened his grip around the boy’s neck. What lurked out there in the darkness, beyond the fluttering light? He hadn’t thought that Alfred was smart enough to come up with a plan, but “Where is ’e?” he growled. “Where’s Alfred?”
“He’s… back at the palace,” the boy choked out. “Couldn’t come. Sent me to-”
“Aw, hell,” Bulls-eye said disgustedly. He put his knife between his teeth, yanked the boy’s hands behind his back, and pulling a length of stout twine out of his pocket, bound his wrists. Then he shoved him to the ground, hard, face-down, and lashed the long tails of twine around his ankles, pulling ankles to wrists, and taking another twist and a hard knot. Then he rolled his captive to one side and put a heavy foot on him.
“Cough it up,” he commanded brusquely. “I want the tale, all of it, by damn. I want it fast. And straight. Lie and I’ll kill ye.”
Pinned down and lashed, the boy writhed. “I… can’t talk,” he gasped. “Can’t… breathe.”
Bulls-eye shifted his weight, but as he did so, he heard it: the muffled sound of an oar breaking the water. Alfred! It could only be Alfred.
He tensed, listening for the next stroke. Then he felt rather than heard the boy’s sudden deep intake of breath, and faster than thought fell forward, clapping his hand over the mouth that had been open, ready to cry out. He whipped off his neckerchief and gagged the boy.
“Warn ’im, will ye?” he snarled. “I’ll teach the both o’ ye to try yer schoolboy tricks on old Bulls-eye. Aimed t’ use ye fer bait, did ’e? Well, ye’re bait, now, by damn.”
And Bulls-eye stepped back out of the circle of dancing light, leaving the boy on the ground, trussed like a fat fowl for the roasting spit and ready for the knife.
Out on the lake, laying strongly to the oars and not caring who heard, Alfred glanced over his shoulder and saw the shadows writhing about the pin-prick of light. He steered toward them. Ned had to have taken a lantern when he went to meet Bulls-eye. And that must be his lantern, that flickering point of light, and the reeling, struggling shadows could only be Ned and Bulls-eye. Drops of water splashed his face as he dug in with his oars.
The night around him was damp and cool, chill, almost, but although Alfred was lightly clad in breeches and cotton shirt, he did not feel the cold. Within, he was a furnace, seething, burning, ablaze with rage, mad with grief and fury and fear, grief and fury for Kitty and the unspeakable death that Bulls-eye had done to her, and fear for young Ned and what Bulls-eye might do to him. No, would do to him, without a doubt, just as he had done to Kitty.
For in spite of Ned’s duplicity and double-dealing, in spite of the fact that he had been well and truly deceived by the boy, Alfred felt responsible for him. More, he felt a warm liking for him-and for the first time in his life, fired by fury and fear, Alfred was moved to violence. Half-sobbing, he pulled with a strength past his own on the oars, and in a moment or two, felt the bow of the rowboat grate on the shore.
He leapt out, and heedless of the cold lake lapping around his calves and spoiling his satin breeches and patent leather shoes, dragged the boat onto the shore. Above him, close to Rosamund’s Well, the light of Ned’s lantern glimmered like a hostage firefly, and on the ground beside it He stopped. On the ground beside the lantern lay Ned, unmoving, and while Alfred could not be sure from this distance, he seemed to be bound, hand and foot. Bound? Or already slaughtered, his throat slashed ear to ear, his life bleeding into the dirt. With no more thought than he had given to the cold water, he scrambled up the bank.
“Ned!” he cried. “Ned!”
Reaching the boy, he knelt down and began to fumble at his lashings. No, Ned wasn’t dead. He was shaking his head violently, as if to warn Alfred off, his eyes wide-staring and terrified.
Alfred stopped. Of course. Lord Sheridan had said as much, and in his furious rage, he had forgotten. Bulls-eye might try to use Ned as a decoy, to lure And then he felt the hand clamped powerfully on his shoulder, the arm pulling him to his feet, the knife-point thrust like a hot pocker into his back. He heard Bulls-eye’s harsh, rasping voice.
“Trick me, will ye, Alfred? Dare t’ diddle me, do ye? Well, I’ll-”
Alfred whirled, breaking Bulls-eye’s hold, stepping backward out of reach of the long-bladed knife that glinted wickedly in the light.
“I dare,” he cried, with a flinty hatred. “You killed Kitty, you bloody murderer! You slit her throat and dumped her in the lake. And now I’ll kill you!”
With a roar, Bulls-eye lunged at him. At the same instant, Alfred’s heel caught on the raised edge of the paving around the square pool and he went down flat on his back. Bulls-eye was on top of him in an instant, knife-hand up-raised to strike, the blade catching the candlelight with an awful gleam, the same blade that had carved all the life from Kitty. Alfred’s thoughts whirled with monstrous, unforgettable images-Kitty’s gaping throat and annihilated face, hands gnawed to the wrists-and he felt a cold, sick sweat breaking out on his brow as he waited helplessly for the blade to fall.
And then Bulls-eye was grinning down at him, a gap-toothed evil grin, and lowering the knife.
“Naw,” he said. “That’s too easy. Too quick. Some things I got t’ know first.” He stood, gathered Alfred’s shirt in his fist, and yanked, pulling Alfred to his feet. “Why’d you blow the bloody lay, Alfred?” His face darkening, he gestured with his head at the trussed boy on the ground. “Who’s yer friend ’ere? Why’d ye tell ’im the plan? And ’oo else ’ve ye told?”
“I… I didn’t,” Alfred gasped, pushed to defend himself. “Didn’t tell him nothin’. And he’s not my friend.” He pulled in his breath on the lie, wishing he could call it back and hoping Ned hadn’t heard. He covered it with a blustering question: “Why’d you kill Kitty, Bulls-eye? What’d she do to you?”
“Didn’t tell ’im, eh?” Bulls-eye’s growl was mocking, and he ignored Alfred’s question. “Then ’ow’d ’e come t’ know ’bout Welbeck, tell me that, Alfred!” And he gave Alfred a rough shove that sent him stumbling.
Alfred flailed his arms, gaining his balance. Welbeck? How had Ned-He pulled in his breath. But that wasn’t the point. He went stubbornly back to his refrain.
“Why’d you kill Kitty, Bulls-eye? What’d she do to you?”
“Shut yer mouth!” Bulls-eye bellowed fiercely. He reached down and pulled a second knife out of his boot, a knife with a shorter but no less vicious blade. He held it up, his voice derisive.
“If ye told ’im nothin’ and ’e’s no friend o’ yers, ye won’t mind slittin’ the boy’s pretty throat, now, will ye, Alfred?” And with a swift, easy grace, he tossed the knife at Alfred, who, without willing it, reached up and caught it in mid flight.
“There, now,” Bulls-eye said, his grin wider still, and more evil, as Alfred stared speechlessly at the knife in his hand. “It’s yer turn, me fine-feathered friend. Ye want t’ share in the winnings, ye’ll ’ave t’ share in the killings.”
“No!” Alfred cried, hearing the raw edge of panic in his own voice. He turned to Ned, whose eyes were open and staring, following the two
of them. “I can’t. I won’t!”
“Ye can an’ ye will,” Bulls-eye growled, advancing on him. A beefy hand seized his arm and shoved him forward, toward the bound boy. “Once ’tis done, ye’ll ’ave blood on yer ’ands, Alfred. Ye’ll ’ave earned the right t’ be one of us.” He put his face close to Alfred’s. “And if it ain’t done, yer dead, and then ’e’s dead, and wot’s the sense of that, I asks ye? Better ’im dead than you, ain’t that right?”
Alfred sucked in his breath, grasping the knife, steadying himself, remembering why he was there. “He’s no friend of mine,” he said, very low. “I’ll kill him, if that’s what you want me to do.” He raised his voice. “But first you have to tell me why you killed Kitty.”
Bulls-eye’s laugh was harsh and grating. “That’s easy. I killed the drab ’cause she knew Mr. N’s real name and threatened t’ spill it.”
“Mr. N?” Alfred felt his mouth drop open. “Kitty knew that?” he asked uncomprehendingly. Mr. N’s real name was the most closely kept secret in the Empire. Not even the man’s trusted aides knew who he was, and nobody even dared to wonder. That was the only way a gang like this one could work, Kitty had told him. Utter secrecy. And yet she had known, and kept the secret from him. For the first time, Alfred wondered about Kitty, and whether they could have Bulls-eye laughed again, bitingly. “Stupid dolly-mop. Thought she was goin’ t’ get ’er a great pot o’ money, di’n’t she?” He pushed Alfred forward. “Now, get to ’t. Sooner it’s done, the better fer both of us.”
Holding the knife, Alfred knelt beside Ned, whose terrified eyes flashed at him. He raised his hand as if to strike, then lowered it.
“I… can’t,” he said brokenly. “Ned, I never meant to. I just had to hear him say he’d killed her, that’s all.”
“That’s all, is it?” Bulls-eye grabbed a handful of Alfred’s hair and yanked his head back, pressing the knife blade into his throat. “Kill ’im,” he rasped. “Er ye’re a dead man.”
“Drop that knife, Bulls-eye!” the voice boomed out of the darkness. “Or you’re the dead man.”
Bulls-eye’s head jerked up, but the knife remained poised to slash at Alfred’s throat. “ ’Oo’s that?” he cried. “ ’Oo’s out there?”
“Drop that knife!” came the repeated command.
“The hell I will,” cried Bulls-eye defiantly, pulling Alfred’s head back farther, pressing the knife harder against his throat. “I’ll kill both o’ ’em. I’ll-”
The night was shattered by a sharp report, and Bulls-eye pitched heavily backward in a spray of blood.
“Got ’im!” crowed Mr. Churchill exultantly, bounding out of the blackness.
“You weren’t suppose to kill him,” Lord Sheridan said severely.
“Did I?” Mr. Churchill said, in an innocent tone. “Let’s see.”
With trembling hands, Alfred cut Ned’s bonds. “I wouldn’t have done it, Ned,” he whispered penitently. “I was playing along, to get him to confess to killing Kitty. I knew that Lord Sheridan and Mr. Churchill were out there in the dark somewhere. They had to hear him say he was the one that did it.”
To tell the honest-to-God truth, of course, Alfred hadn’t known for certain that the two men were out there in the dark. He hoped they were, because that’s what they’d said, but he hadn’t been sure he could trust them.
Ned sat up and pulled the gag out of his mouth. He had to take several gasping breaths before he could say, “I believe you, Alfred. You played it all perfectly.” He grinned. “You had me quaking, I’ll tell you.” Up on his feet and rubbing at his wrists, he asked, “Is he dead?”
Mr. Churchill was bending over Bulls-eye’s sprawled form. “Very nearly, I’m afraid,” he said. “My aim must’ve been off. It’s a little hard to get a clear shot when you can hardly make out the gun-sight in the dark.”
Beside him, Lord Sheridan knelt down, lifted up the dying man, and spoke in an urgent tone. “Just one question, Bulls-eye. What about Gladys Deacon? Is she one of yours?”
Bulls-eyes eyelids fluttered. “Deacon?” he muttered thickly. “Deacon?” He managed a crooked grin.
“Wudn’t ye like t’ know,” he said, and died.
Robin Paige
Death at Blenheim Palace
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Friday, 17 July
And yet the motives of women are so inscrutable… Their most trivial action may mean volumes, or their most extraordinary conduct may depend upon a hairpin or a curling tongs.
The Adventure of the Second Stain, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
“And that’s where we are at this point, at least as far as I know.”
With those words, Kate finished her long tale-a convoluted chronicle of criminal schemes and espionage that even Beryl Bardwell would envy-and leaned back in the chair beside the fireplace in the Duchess’s luxurious private sitting room.
Consuelo had sat unmoving during the whole of Kate’s story. Now, she pushed up the sleeves of her blue silk morning dress and poured each of them a second cup of tea. “So our housemaid’s body has been found, and the man who killed her is dead,” she repeated incredulously. “You said that Winston actually shot him?”
“I’m afraid so,” Kate said ruefully. “It wasn’t meant to happen that way, Charles said, but Winston misjudged, or so he said. The two of them are going to Woodstock to see the constable and the coroner and explain the whole story, from beginning to end. Given the circumstances, they thought it best not to ask the Duke to accompany them. They are counting on Scotland Yard to support their claim that this is part of a larger investigation which should not be pursued locally, thereby forestalling an investigation and curtailing the inquest.”
“They’re right, I’m sure,” Consuelo said, adding sugar to her tea and stirring it. “I hope-oh, I hope-that it can be kept out of the newspapers, since it’s such a frightful embarrassment. People are likely to think that Blenheim’s staff is disorganized and security terribly lax.” She sighed heavily. “As I suppose it is. I try very hard, but the servants take advantage, and there seems to be very little I can do to stop it. Or to keep them here, either. Bess left this morning, Mrs. Raleigh said.” She sipped her tea and added, in a worried tone, “Marlborough has been informed about the shooting, I suppose.”
“I believe so. Charles said he was going to tell him at breakfast, so I assume it’s been done.”
Charles had returned to their bedroom at a very late hour last night, or more accurately, very early this morning. He’d been tired and cross, and more than a little angry at Winston, who (it seemed) had blundered badly by killing the man-Bulls-eye, his name was. Hoping to take him alive so they could pry information out of him about the gang of thieves, Charles had intended that Winston’s gun be used only to capture and control Bulls-eye. But now he was dead, and Kitty was dead, poor thing, and all they had to go on, Charles said, was the blurred photograph he had found in Kitty’s trunk, with Jermyn Street written on the back. And when he and Winston had gone to apprehend Bess, they found that she had packed a bag and fled, although it wasn’t clear how she had known that the conspiracy had been found out. So even though they seemed to have checked the plan to stage a robbery at Blenheim Palace while the Royals were visiting, the theft ring itself-and its criminal ringleaders-remained untouched.
Consuelo sighed again, even more heavily. “I don’t suppose it will ease Marlborough’s mind much. Oh, he’ll be glad to know that the man who killed that poor girl has been taken care of, and he’ll be grateful that Charles and Winston have ensured a safe visit for the King and Queen.”
Kate raised her eyebrows. Charles hadn’t been quite so confident about the Royal visit. The fact that Bulls-eye had been killed did not guarantee, he had told her, that the theft would be called off. She said nothing, however, not wanting to trouble the Duchess about something she could do nothing about.
“But none of this answers the question that weighs most on Marlborough’s mind,” Consuelo continued sadly.<
br />
“I suppose you’re thinking of Gladys?” Kate said warily. She had not told Consuelo that Miss Deacon’s visit to Welbeck Abbey at the time of the theft there had made her a suspect, or that Charles viewed Bulls-eye’s final words as a refusal to exonerate her from suspicion. Again, she had not wanted to trouble the Duchess, when there seemed to be no ready solution to the mystery of Gladys’s inexplicable disappearance.
“Yes, of Gladys,” Consuelo said, putting down her cup with a weary air. “Marlborough is terribly in love with her, you know. Irretrievably so, I’m afraid. It’s wrecked our marriage beyond all hope of repair. If it were possible, I would gladly seek a divorce, but since it isn’t, separation seems the only answer, although I suppose I shall have to wait until the boys have been sent to school.”
“It’s probably for the best,” Kate said regretfully. The marriage-based not on love or even a friendly affection, but on simple greed-had been so obviously a mistake from the very beginning. To find any happiness in herself, to discover her real strengths and powers, Consuelo would have to abandon it and begin a life of her own. “I believe,” she added, “that you will find it in yourself to be glad, when you have moved past the most painful parts and can see a brighter future.”
“Do you?” Consuelo asked, arching her dark brows. “To say that, Kate, I think you must understand me better than I understand myself.”
Kate summoned some of her own hard-won wisdom. “We can’t always know who we are, especially when things are darkest.”
“Yes, I suppose so.” Consuelo looked away, out the window. “I feel I know Gladys rather better, Kate, and I have changed my mind, just in the past day or so. I thought she was only a careless, playful child. Or perhaps it was that I only wanted to think this, that I was deceiving myself so that I wouldn’t have to deal with the truth and its consequences. But now I believe-”