Death at Blenheim Palace (32 page)

“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.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

 
 
 
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.

“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—”

She stopped as if to steady herself and gather her strength, as if she had come to a crucial turning point and needed to acknowledge its importance. She turned to Kate, her large dark eyes full of pain, her lips trembling. But her voice held firm and her words were emphatic as she said: “Now, I believe that Gladys does what she does deliberately and with malice, to betray those who care for her. I don’t understand her design or her motives, but I know that it’s so. Perhaps she tells herself that she’s only pulling a prank, but much of what she does is meant to embarrass, or hurt, or even wound deeply.”

“Like that business with the gemstones?” Kate asked quietly.

“Yes, exactly.” Consuelo frowned. “But I still don’t understand her object—for taking them to the Ashmolean Museum, I mean. She knew they belonged to Marlborough, and that they were important to him. Did she actually intend to sell them? Or perhaps she meant simply to embarrass me, by pretending—or implying, at any rate—that she was my employee.”

Or, Kate thought, it was as Charles suspected: that Gladys Deacon was a member of the ring of thieves, practicing the same modus operandi that had been successful in other burglaries.

“I wish we could ask her,” Kate said aloud. “If only we could know where she is!”

Consuelo put down her teacup. Her lips had thinned and her face had grown paler, but her voice was still steady. “I’ve been giving this a great deal of thought since we talked yesterday, Kate. I think it’s entirely possible that Gladys has simply gone away—that she planned to disappear and stay away for a while.”

“But why?” Kate asked, although she thought she knew the answer. When Consuelo replied, it appeared that they had come to the same conclusion.

“To make Marlborough realize how much he cares for her.” Her tone was despondent and her mouth curved downward.

Beryl Bardwell was almost jumping up and down with excitement.
Planned to disappear!
she exclaimed.
Of course, Kate! Remember that business about the missing trousers and
jacket, and the valise Gladys took from the luggage room? Maybe she cached the clothing somewhere, at Rosamund’s Well, say, and left a trail of clues.

Kate considered. Beryl often flew off on wild tangents, but this certainly seemed plausible. Gladys’s gold evening slipper in the rowboat, the scrap of gold cloth on the bush at the Well. Clues pointing to something—

Something nefarious,
Beryl interrupted in a conspiratorial tone.
Maybe she wanted to make it appear that she had been abducted, although in that case, you’d think she would’ve sent some kind of ransom note.

“Marlborough’s heard nothing at all from her, I suppose,” Kate said. She glanced at Consuelo, trying to gauge how much she knew, or guessed.

“If he has, he hasn’t said anything to me—and I think he would, if only to let me know she hasn’t simply deserted him.” Consuelo shook her head despairingly. “I don’t love him, Kate, but I’m sorry to see him in such torment. He’s simply out of his mind with fear for her safety. I think he’d do anything, pay any amount of money, if only it would bring her back.”

Pay any amount of money?
Beryl asked meaningfully.
There it is, Kate! That’s the answer!

Kate frowned to herself. The answer to what? Really, sometimes Beryl took things much too far. Aloud, she said, “If Gladys went away, Consuelo, where would she go?”

Consuelo sat for a long moment, saying nothing. Then, as if she had suddenly made up her mind, she stood.

“Come, Kate,” she said. “I have an idea.”

Kate stood, too. “I’ll get my jacket and hat.” She said.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

 
Daniel Deronda
George Eliot

 
 
 
 
Charles had been up and about since very early that morning. He had gone to the railway depot to send a telegram to Leander Norwood, Chief of the Burglary Division at the Yard. Then he had returned to photograph the two bodies that were now in the game larder at Blenheim and write an affidavit briefly describing the circumstances surrounding the murder of Kitty Drake and the shooting death of Bulls-eye, whose surname was still a mystery—but not quite all of the circumstances. He omitted, for instance, the business about the planned burglary during the Royal visit, feeling that it was more the concern of the Yard than that of the local constabulary. And he did not explain why Bulls-eye, Ned, and Alfred had been at Rosamund’s Well, or how it happened that he and Winston had been there, too.

Charles had just finished the affidavit when the telegram arrived from Chief Norwood, saying that he would be arriving by the afternoon train. Charles breathed a sigh of relief, glad to know that the larger investigation would be taken out of his hands.

He took his watch from his pocket and noted the time with satisfaction. The first train should have left Woodstock with the two boys aboard: Ned on the short trip back to Oxford, Alfred to a less certain future in Brighton. There had been no point in detaining Alfred, for there was no proof of his role in previous robberies, and he had earned his release by his valuable service the night before. Ned had vigorously protested his own banishment, arguing that his services might still be required, but Charles had assured him that nothing remained but some rather boring administrative details. It was his objective, of course, to keep both the young men clear of any investigation that might follow. Also, Charles could not be certain that, even at this point, the gang would abandon their plan. He blamed himself for having exposed Ned to far more danger than he had anticipated. If Marlborough could not be persuaded to cancel the house party, a small army of Pinkertons would be wanted to provide even the most minimal security.

Charles slipped the watch back into his pocket. Then, with the telegram and the affidavit, he and Winston drove the Panhard to Woodstock, to the police station, and presented themselves to Constable Grant.