Death at Blenheim Palace (23 page)

“Trousers!” Kate couldn’t help exclaiming.

Trousers!
Beryl echoed, intrigued. Kate herself owned several pairs of corduroy trousers, which she found useful for outdoor work at Bishop’s Keep and for tramping across the fields and woods. And she knew that American women were wearing trousers for bicycling. But it was a little more difficult to picture Gladys Deacon in trousers.

Unless,
Beryl whispered excitedly,
she wanted to disguise herself.

A disguise!
Kate thought. Of course. They were all imagining that Gladys had gone off, or been spirited off, in the dress she had worn the night before. But what if she had—

“I think a white shirtwaist is gone, too,” Bess was saying, “although I can’t be sure. And a pair of brown suede walking boots.” She cleared her throat. “I noticed the trousers particularly,” she added in an apologetic tone. “Quite . . . well, quite manly looking, if your ladyship wouldn’t mind my saying so.”

Of course she would notice them,
Beryl remarked slyly.
I’ll wager nothing gets past this ’un. Look at those eyes. Bess is a sly puss, if you ask me.

Kate agreed. Nothing escaped the attention of a good maid, particularly something as extraordinary as a man’s brown flannel lounge suit in a woman’s wardrobe. And Bess struck her as a remarkably discerning person, the kind of housemaid who would be promoted to housekeeper, if she stayed in service. That made her question about the jewel theft that much more puzzling. A good servant would have allowed such idle words to pass unremarked.

Aloud, Kate said, “What about Miss Deacon’s luggage, Bess? Do you remember seeing a small bag?”

“P’rhaps,” Bess said thoughtfully, “when I did the unpacking. But the luggage has all gone downstairs, m’lady, where it’s seen to by the odd man.” She tilted her head, frowning slightly. “If your ladyship will forgive me asking, are you thinking that Miss Deacon might have . . . well, gone off?”

“I’m not at all sure,” Kate replied. “Do you have an opinion?”

“No, m’lady.”

No, m’lady
, Beryl mimicked.
But if she did have an opinion, she wouldn’t venture it, especially to you, Kate.

Again, Kate agreed. An experienced maid kept her own counsel, although she might have a confidante among the other servants. She led the way to the door and closed and locked it behind them. “If you think of anything else, Bess, please come and tell me. And thank you for your help. I shan’t keep you any longer.”

Bess dropped a quick curtsey. “Yes, m’lady,” she said, and went off, keys jingling, in the direction of the maids’ closet. At the corner of the corridor, she turned and cast an appraising glance over her shoulder.

I wonder,
Beryl said thoughtfully,
about those keys.

But Kate didn’t have time to think about that just now. She turned and went in the other direction, toward the service stairs. Below-stairs was normally out-of-bounds to guests, but Kate managed her own servants at Bishop’s Keep and knew her way around their work area very well. She did not hesitate to open the green baize door and go down the stairs.

Once below-stairs in the maze of the servants’ area, it took her a little while to locate the odd man, who was cleaning wax drippings from brass candle holders in the lamp-and-candle room. Back in America, such a person would have been called an odd-job man, but the words “odd man” seemed to fit this fellow rather well. He was a very small man, one shoulder higher than the other, with wire spectacles and only a fringe of gray hair around his bald head. He seemed a little surprised to see Kate, perhaps because ladies usually sent their maids to fetch their luggage. But upon her inquiry, he led her to the luggage room, where the empty trunks and valises belonging to the family and their guests were kept.

“Yer ladyship is wantin’ her trunk, I s’pose,” he said, scratching his head. “Let’s see, now. B’lieve it’s this’n.” He pointed to Kate’s leather trunk, with Charles’s smaller trunk perched on top. “Or did ye want me t’ fetch both yers and his lordship’s?”

“Actually, it’s Miss Deacon’s luggage I’m asking about,” Kate said, adding, “She said I might borrow one of her small bags for a day or two.”

“That’s the lot there,” the odd man said, nodding to a towering stack of trunks that completely filled one corner of the room. “All but the small valise. She come and got that ’un day ’fore yestiddy.”

“She did?” Kate asked, trying to keep the excitement from her voice.

“Yessum, her very own self,” the odd man said, adding, with a private grin, “Give me a shillin’, too.” He looked around the room. “If yer ladyship is wantin’ a valise, ye might take that carpet bag. B’lieve it b’longed to the Duchess of Manchester, and was left behind when she was last here.” He rubbed his hands together with a hopeful look. “I’d be glad to bring it up to yer room, if ye like.”

“Thank you,” Kate said, wishing that she had brought a shilling to give him. “Now that I know it’s here, I’ll send for it when I’m ready.”

Trousers, a jacket, walking boots, and a bag
, Beryl said as Kate went along the back passage the way she had come, past the lamp-and-candle room and the large panel of electric bells that were connected to the upstairs bedrooms.
Sounds to me as if our Gladys was preparing to go off somewhere, dressed as a man.

Beryl’s idea might seem far-fetched, but Kate had to acknowledge that it was a possibility. However, Gladys had an abundance of long, red-gold hair. If she planned to masquerade as a man, she’d need to pin it up on top of her head and conceal it under a hat or a cap.

A cap?
Beryl asked with a knowing grin.
Like one of those, d’you mean?

Kate stopped. On her left was the service stairs. On her right was a door that led up a short flight of concrete steps to the outside. And next to the door was a row of wooden pegs on the wall, from which hung a motley assemblage of mackintoshes, umbrellas, and several sorts of headgear—tweed caps, leather caps, a felt beret, several straw hats, and even a battered yachting cap. If Gladys Deacon had wanted something under which to hide her long hair, all she had to do was help herself.

 
 
While Kate and Beryl were chatting with the housemaid and the odd man, Consuelo had gone to her room to read. Books had always been her consolation, her escape from her dictatorial mother and now her escape from the prison of her marriage. As a girl, she had loved fairy tales, imagining herself as the enchanted princess set free by the prince’s kiss, then sentimental fiction—the sort of thing that fed romantic dreams, dreams of being loved, desired, and cared for.

But Consuelo had also been a bright, quick student, and by the age of eight, she could speak and write fluently in French and German, as well as English. Her favorite governess, Miss Harper, had encouraged her in a secret ambition: to attend Oxford University and take the modern languages Tripos. But the opportunity for formal education had been denied to her: girls of her class were not educated, for education was thought to make them unfit for marriage. But that didn’t mean that she couldn’t educate herself, and she continued to read as widely as she could. She loved poetry, and this afternoon, she sat with Shelley’s
Prometheus Unbound
on her lap.

The volume remained unopened, however, for Consuelo’s attention was elsewhere. She was looking out the window, beyond the Italian Garden toward the aviary where she and Kate Sheridan had gone for a talk that afternoon. She was thinking about Gladys Deacon.

Where
was
Gladys? What could have happened to her? Had she eloped with Northcote? Had she gone off with someone else? Or had she simply run away, as she had when she left Versailles and went off to Paris with her sister? Consuelo hadn’t wanted to tell Kate the whole story behind that dreadful escapade, but it had been more than a childish prank, much more. The two of them had had a terrible row, for she had felt responsible for Gladys and refused to allow her to spend an evening with a German military cadet who was infatuated with her. That night Gladys had disappeared and was gone for four days. Four whole days, while Consuelo fretted and worried and finally alerted the police, only to have Gladys reappear, as blithe and carefree and unapologetic as if she had been gone only a few hours.

Consuelo sat back in her chair and closed her eyes, thinking over the events of the last fortnight: She and Gladys had taken the pony cart to Woodstock, had been driven to Oxford in the phaeton, and had taken several drives over the estate and the Blenheim farms in the electric car. In all that time, had Gladys said or done anything that gave a clue as to where she might go, or what she might do, if she suddenly vanished?

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

 
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.