Death at Blenheim Palace (25 page)

“Marlborough says that the two of them had a disagreement and that he left her there before ten-thirty,” Charles replied. “I rather imagine that Northcote was watching from an upstairs window, because he joined her shortly after. According to one of the footmen, who happened to witness the encounter, Northcote became rather heated. About twelve-thirty, the same footman saw him fleeing, bag in hand, from the house. He seems to have fetched up at The Bear, alone, and thence at the train.”

Winston looked at Kate. “The diamond necklace Northcote gave her,” he said tersely. “Did you find it in her room?”

“No necklace,” Kate said, shaking her head. “Only the gems we’ve seen her wear—some of them quite fine—and a few others. Oh, and a pouch of odd-looking stones, trinkets, really. They were in the drawer with her diary, rather than in her jewelry box. I doubt that they have any particular value.”

Not sure whether he was surprised or not, Charles turned to face her. “A pouch of stones?”

“Yes. A half-dozen or so, five, perhaps.” She gave him a quizzical look. “They were individually wrapped in tissue.”

“And what did they look like?”

“Like trinkets,” Kate said. “One was a scarab beetle—the sort of thing you’d find in Egypt. The others were of different colors, cut in odd shapes, with carvings all over them.” She frowned. “Are they important?”

Winston’s eyes had darkened and he was leaning forward, urgently. “Charles, you don’t imagine that—”

“Pound to a penny they’re what’s left of the Marlborough Gemstones,” Charles said. “Did you have a look in the Red Drawing-Room?”

“No,” Winston said, between his teeth, “although I certainly shall. But why would she—”

“Gemstones?” Kate leaned over and put a hand on Charles’s arm. “Charles, you
must
tell me what you’re talking about!”

Charles gave a deep sigh. He took no pleasure in the thought that his suspicions had been confirmed, for it only opened other, darker possibilities.

“I was reluctant to share this, but I see that I must. Friday last, a mysterious woman appeared at the Ashmolean. She brought a leather pouch containing five seal-stones, and asked the curator for an idea of their value. John Buttersworth, to whom she spoke, recognized the stones as similar to those in the Marlborough Gemstone collection, which was sold some thirty years ago. She apparently let it slip that she was an employee of the duchess—the Duchess of Marlborough, Buttersworth assumed.” He paused, adding dryly, “The lady in question was veiled, but according to Buttersworth, who is a connoisseur of such things, she had a classical Grecian nose.”

Winston’s face wore a look of astonishment, and he whistled between his teeth. “I can see our Miss Deacon doing many strange things, but it’s well nigh impossible to imagine her attempting to flog the Marlborough Gems. Whatever
for
? The lady certainly has funds enough of her own, or so she leads one to believe. Inherited a fortune from her father, I understand. And anyway, those stones, by themselves, aren’t worth much—unless she thinks there are others.” He pulled his brows together. “As well she might, if she hasn’t heard of the auction.”

“I can’t speak to motive,” Charles said, “but it’s not difficult to test the hypothesis. If you’ll have a look in the china box in the Red Drawing-Room, Winston, I’ll see to Miss Deacon’s room.” He turned to Kate. “A locked diary as well, you said?”

Kate nodded. “I could have picked the lock easily, but I decided against it.” She paused. “But there’s more to tell you, Charles. I went back to her bedroom a second time, with the maid, and discovered that a suit of men’s clothing is missing from the wardrobe—brown flannel trousers and jacket and brown boots. I also discovered that Miss Deacon took her small valise from the luggage room.”

“Men’s clothing?” Winston asked in astonishment. “And a valise? But what the devil—”

“A disguise,” Charles said. He grinned, amused. “Perhaps our elusive Miss Deacon has done a moonlight flit with Botsy Northcote’s diamonds.” He raised his eyebrows. “Or perhaps she took the train this morning, after all—not in her gold evening gown, but in a man’s brown suit.”

“Oh, surely not,” Winston said. “I can’t believe—” He stopped. “But why a disguise?” He repeated it to himself, puzzled. “Why a disguise?”

The question, Charles thought, had no answer, at least at the moment. But Kate was going on.

“There are some other things I need to show you, Charles,” she said. She reached into the tapestry bag once again and took out a gold leather evening slipper. “I found this in the boat house, in the bottom of the green rowboat. Not one of the Duke’s boats,” she added with a small smile, handing it to him. “A working boat, in the old boat house, according to Badger.”

“Badger?” Winston raised an eyebrow. “He’s Blenheim’s fishery man. A bit of a character, and eccentric. But he knows the lake and the river better than anyone else.” His glance darkened as he focused on the slipper Charles was turning over in his fingers, gazing at thoughtfully. “That slipper—it’s not Miss Deacon’s, is it?”

“I believe it is,” Kate replied. “It is the color of her dress.”

“Cinderella’s slipper,” Charles said, musing. “I wonder—” But again, there was no answer to the question, so he filed it away in his mind. “What other things have you there, Kate?”

Kate took a folded bit of paper out of her bag and opened it to reveal the butt of a cigarette. “I found this partially smoked cigarette in the boat as well, Charles. I doubt that it’s Miss Deacon’s, since she was wearing lip rouge, and there is none on the cigarette. I was hoping you might be able to take a fingerprint from it.”

“I’m afraid not,” Charles said, glancing at it. “But the boat house—of course, Kate! That tells us how she got to the other side of the lake, doesn’t it? To Rosamund’s Well, where you found the scrap of gold silk.”

Winston was looking from one to the other of them, his ginger-colored brows furrowed in puzzlement. “Scrap of silk?”

“I was at Rosamund’s Well this morning, sketching,” Kate explained. “I noticed a scrap of gold silk, which I took to be torn from the dress Miss Deacon was wearing last night. It was snagged on a small bush, a bush that didn’t seem quite sturdy enough to tear such heavy fabric.” She glanced at Charles. “Were you able to get to the Well and see for yourself?”

“That’s why I was late to tea,” Charles said. “I had a look around.” He hesitated. “I found several disquieting pieces of evidence, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, dear,” Kate said.

“Yes. There is a substantial smattering of blood on a paving stone beside the pool, and a bloody heelprint. I also found some marks in the dirt which suggest that something heavy was dragged toward the lake, perhaps to a waiting boat.”

Winston leapt from his chair. “The devil you say!” he exclaimed. “Do you think Miss Deacon is dead? Northcote—that cad, that scoundrel! He took her to the Well, killed her, and dumped her body into the lake.” He began striding back and forth, highly agitated. “What an appalling turn of affairs, simply appalling! And just think of the scandal, once this gets into the newspapers!”

“Well, that’s a certainly a hypothesis,” Charles replied, thinking that Winston’s concern for the Churchill reputation seemed rather misplaced. “But I don’t believe there’s any concrete evidence to support it. We don’t know whether Miss Deacon is dead or alive. And it’s entirely possible that the blood is not human blood at all, but that of an animal. A deer, for instance, might have been killed on the spot and the carcass dragged to a boat.”

Winston let out his breath in a gust of noisy relief. “Poachers!” he exclaimed, snapping his fingers. “Yes, of course! Why didn’t I think of that? There have always been people who clip into the Park and help themselves to game every now and then. It’s against the law, and Marlborough sees that they’re punished as severely as possible, but that never stops them.”

Charles did not point out that hungry people were not likely to be deterred by the fact that the deer belonged to the Duke. “And don’t forget,” he went on, “that another person, a servant, seems to have gone missing from this house.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Kate said. “The housemaid you mentioned a few moments ago. What is her name?”

“Kitty,” Charles said.

Now it was Kate’s eyes that widened, and she dived back into her tapestry bag. “I found this note in the rowboat, as well, Charles.” She smoothed out the crumpled paper and read it aloud: “Dearest Kitty, I need to talk to you, soon as ever possible. You know I love you dearest and long to hold you close.” She looked up. “It’s signed, ‘Yours ’til death, Alfred. ’”

“Alfred!” Winston exclaimed. “The cleverboots! So he and this housemaid—”

“Yes,” Charles said. “Alfred and Kitty were together at Welbeck Abbey. After they left and before they came to take up positions here, they spent some time together in London.” He paused. “It’s time, Kate, that I tell you about this business with the servants. And it’s entirely possible that Northcote and Miss Deacon are involved, as well.”

“Botsy and Miss Deacon!” Winston cried. “In a ring of thieves? But that . . . that’s impossible! It’s absurd! Why, they are of our class! They—”

“Sit down and listen,” Charles said quietly, thinking that Winston’s noisy, unceasing bluster really did wear on one. “There is a thread here, as our friend Doyle is fond of saying, which may lead us through this tangle.”

It took Charles several moments to lay out the entire story. First, there was the theft during a large houseparty at Welbeck Abbey, where Alfred and Kitty had been employed and Gladys Deacon and Botsy Northcote had been guests. Then there had been the theft from the Ashmolean of the Warrington Hoard, offered for sale to Mr. Dreighson by a mysterious, as-yet-unidentified lady. Then there was the apparent offer of five gemstones, resembling the Marlborough Gemstones, to the museum—again by a mysterious lady. And finally, the appearance of Alfred, Kitty, Miss Deacon, and Botsy Northcote at Blenheim, with the Royal houseparty only three weeks away.

“Perhaps you can see,” Charles said to Kate when he had finished, “why I felt we needed a friendly pair of eyes and ears below-stairs.”

“A spy, you mean,” Kate said eagerly. “You’ve put in a
mole,
Charles.”

“A mole?” Winston asked dubiously.

“An intelligence agent. I found the word in a shilling-shocker.” Kate turned to Charles. “I can see why you think another theft might be afoot, Charles, given the fact that all four of these people are here. Or
were
here,” she corrected herself, “since two of the four now seem to be missing, and Northcote appears to have gone back to London.” She paused. “And perhaps a crime of passion, as well. There’s certainly enough animosity in this matter.”

“I’m afraid that’s true,” Charles said. “And if Miss Deacon, disguised or not, has met with foul play, the Duke, the Duchess, and Botsy Northcote must all be among the suspects, or so the police would think.”

“Surely not the Duchess!” Kate objected, as Winston groaned.

“I’m not saying that I suspect her, Kate. I’m only pointing out the possibilities that the police would be required to consider, especially if the Yard becomes involved.”

“As it no doubt would,” Winston said gloomily. “This is not a situation that the local constabulary would be prepared to deal with.”

Kate gave Charles a long look. “But perhaps Gladys didn’t meet with foul play,” she said. “Perhaps it
was
a deer that was killed at Rosamund’s Well.” She paused. “Or perhaps, well, there is a housemaid missing. Perhaps she’s the one who met with foul play.”

“But what of Gladys?” Winston cried. “Where the devil is she?”

It was not a question that any of them were prepared to answer.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

 
Mary Fleeting, Lady Lindon, in a letter to her mother, 1902

 
 
 
Ned was a brash young man and not easily cowed, but even he could not help feeling abashed by the great palace within whose formidable walls he now found himself. Blenheim was so large and forbidding, so obviously the home of the great and powerful, that he could not help feeling very small and powerless—which might be exactly the reason, he thought to himself, why people built such grandiose houses for themselves: to make their authority seem even more immutably powerful to those beneath them, and to quash feelings of insurgency in any who dared to rise above their station. But once one knew this, he reminded himself resolutely, one had already begun to revoke the other’s power. That thought—and the recollection that he was here as a
spy,
not a servant, gave him strength, and he hardened himself against his feelings of vulnerability.

After Ned had changed into his new clothing, Alfred supplied a green apron that extended below his knees and set him to cleaning and polishing the nursery boots. That chore done, he was sent off to tea with the scullery maids, kitchen maids, and odd man, and after that, was instructed to bring in a dozen buckets of coal and line them up in the lower hallway, where the footmen would carry them upstairs so that the maids could stoke the bedroom fires. All the while he did these chores, Ned was mulling over what Alfred had said to him about Bulls-eye and Kitty and the King, and wondering what Lord Sheridan would make of it all and how he would manage to get the information to his lordship.

He had just put down the last two buckets of coal when Alfred appeared. “You’ve been sent for,” he said shortly. “Lord Sheridan’s asked to see you, in the billiard room, right away.” He wore a suspicious frown. “Didn’t mention you was friendly with upstairs, now, did you?”

“Friendly, my hat,” Ned replied, taking off his apron. “His lordship’s an acquaintance of my father’s.” He made a face. “Haven’t seen the guv for a while, and the nob prob’ly feels he has t’ jaw me for it.” The explanation sounded a little lame, to his ears, but Alfred didn’t seem to notice.