Death at Blenheim Palace (7 page)

“I had to come,” Alfred said breathlessly. “Something’s gone wrong.”

“Gone wrong, ’as it?” Bulls-eye kicked out a chair and Alfred seated himself. “Wot’s gone wrong?”

At the bar, there was a loud clink of glasses and another roar of laughter. “It’s the girl,” Alfred said, trying to be offhand. He cast an uneasy glance over his shoulder, hoping that none of the other servants were here. He couldn’t be charged with doing anything wrong, of course. It
was
his half-day off, even if he’d had to stand in for Manning. He had every bit as much right to be here as the next man. Still and all, Bulls-eye’s remark had reminded him that this wasn’t an ordinary meeting, and he felt apprehensive.

“The girl?” Bulls-eye scowled. “She’s keeping up ’er end, ain’t she?” He paused, seemed to collect himself, and picked up the pitcher. “If ye want a glass, get one from the bar.”

Alfred shook his head. He couldn’t serve at dinner smelling like a brewery. “I don’t know whether she is or not,” he said. “I haven’t seen her since Friday, and that’s a fact.”

“Since Friday?” Bulls-eye’s forehead puckered. He was a short man, stout and thick-chested, with heavy shoulders, beefy hands, and thick, bushy black hair that stuck out in all directions. “An’ today’s Wednesday. I shouldn’t think ye’d be likely t’see ’er all that much.” He frowned at Alfred. “Doan’t work in the same places, d’ye? Doan’t take yer meals together, d’ye?” He paused, lowering his brows. “Anybody at the house askin’ questions ’bout ’er?”

“Questions?” Alfred repeated uneasily. “Not that I’ve heard.”

Bulls-eye’s comments were to the point, however, because under ordinary circumstances and in most of the big houses, a footman would cross a housemaid’s path only occasionally. At Blenheim, the housemaids ate with the lower servants in the servants’ hall, while the six footmen took their meals together in the butler’s pantry. During the working day, the footmen waited on the family and guests in the drawing rooms and Saloon and rarely found their way into the private quarters, while the housemaids mostly worked in the upstairs bedrooms, with only short stints in rota for dusting and carpets downstairs.

However, Blenheim wasn’t the first place Alfred and Kitty had worked together, and they had become friends. Much more than friends, at least as far as Alfred was concerned. Kitty wasn’t any prettier than other girls, but she had a lovely head of abundant hair the color of strawberries in the sun. And she was crafty and resourceful and enterprising and used her wits in a way that Alfred—for all his other good qualities—knew that he didn’t. She always had a sharp eye out for the main chance. She could see possibilities for independent enterprise when Alfred himself would simply do what he was told. At Welbeck Abbey, their second assignment together, Kitty had suggested that they might find it to their mutual advantage to join forces, not just to get the job done, but to make sure that there’d be a little something extra in it for themselves at the end. Alfred, a simpler soul, had agreed, and they had come out of it very much to the good and nobody the wiser.

And after Welbeck, there had been those two nights in London—Alfred’s heart burned inside him to think about it—two long, delicious nights, filled with exotic and unimaginable pleasures, for Kitty, undressed and uncorsetted, was a creature of wildly abandoned charms, and she had bestowed all of them, with an uninhibited generosity, upon Alfred, who’d never in his life thought to receive such gifts.

In return for these treasures, Alfred had fallen fiercely, frantically in love with Kitty, and thought—hoped, rather, for she kept her feelings veiled and never gave him so much as a hint—that she might come to love him, if not now, then soon. If all went well with this job, he had begun to think that it was time to leave off what they were doing and take their earnings and set themselves up in Brighton, where his cousin owned a pub just off the Pier and would be glad to take Alfred as a partner. Kitty could stay at home and raise their children—the dear little Alfreds and Kittys who would come along—and they would all be blissfully happy together.

Which was why Alfred had managed to keep an eye out for Kitty in more than the usual way, and why he had written to her, and why he was unhappily aware that Friday was the last day she had been in her regular place. But he kept all this to himself, saying only, with a careless little shrug, that the girl hadn’t been at morning prayers or in her rota in the drawing room and he was just wondering if perhaps she’d made some sort of contact with Bulls-eye, and if so, whether there had been a change in plans.

“No change in plans,” growled Bulls-eye darkly. He leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. “You and the girl—friends, are ye? Been talkin’ t’ye, has she? Sharin’ ’er secrets, like?”

Alfred stiffened, not liking the other’s accusing attitude. “Why shouldn’t we be friends?” he asked defensively. “Why shouldn’t we talk, or share secrets?” Bulls-eye seemed to be watching him with a different interest now, and he began to wonder uneasily if it was considered unwise to be involved with one’s confederates. He added, more carefully, “Of course, we have to share secrets, don’t we? Working together as we do, each of us has to know what the other knows. Believe me, we’ll make good use of it when the time comes.”

Bulls-eye regarded him narrowly, as if he were trying to make up his mind about something. Alfred waited for the lecture he feared was forthcoming.

But Bulls-eye said only, “Ye’d do well, young fellow, t’concentrate yer mind on the business at ’and. I trust ye’ve been noticing the ways in and out and wot doors’re locked and when and by ’oo. I trust ye’ll not come up short on the day.”

“Of course not,” Alfred said indignantly. “I simply wondered if something had happened and Kitty’d been pulled out of the game. I—”

“If anybody’s pulled, ye’ll know it,” Bulls-eye said in a definitive tone. “Now, you go back and do yer business and keep yer mouth shut. Oh, an’ keep yer eye out for a new hire who’ll ’ave yer instructions.” It had been the Syndicate’s habit, Alfred knew, to use a local boy or young man to carry messages. Boys could go from the palace to the village and back again, without suspicion. “An’ doan’t come round ’ere lookin’ fer me,” he added sternly. “It’s dang’rous business, an’ it’s bad practice. Not t’ say against the rules.”

Alfred nodded. From the tone of Bulls-eye’s voice, he knew he’d got all he was going to get. None the wiser about Kitty, and with a dreadfully heavy heart, he got up and left.

CHAPTER EIGHT

 
The Glitter and the Gold
Consuelo Vanderbilt Balsam

 
 
 
Seated at the round dining table which was always used when there were only a few guests, Winston bestowed an approving glance at his fish soufflé—pale gold, dressed with a frill of parsley and decorated with prawns. For him, dinners at Blenheim were the most enjoyable part of the day, for the French chef in the Marlborough kitchen was outstanding, the wines in the Marlborough cellar were the best that Vanderbilt money could buy, and the Saloon—the state dining room, used when the Marlboroughs entertained—was a glorious room, with its red marble dadoes and
trompe l’oeil
wall frescoes rising some thirty feet to a frieze of military scenes and then another ten feet to the frescoed ceiling.

The effect was martial, and although some felt it overwhelming, Winston always found it inspiring.

The first Duke, Winston’s own forebear, was indisputably one of the nation’s greatest military heroes. Winston felt that he himself had made no little contribution to the family’s reputation by offering his own efforts in that regard, including his participation in the splendid cavalry charge at Omdurman in the Sudan and his daring escape from the Boers during the war in South Africa, and he would count himself fortunate if fate gave him other opportunities to bring military glory to the Churchill name.

The Marlboroughs were always the consummate host and hostess, but Winston enjoyed the other guests as well: Kate Sheridan, with her easy, unpretentious American charm, so like that of his own American mother; and Charles Sheridan, with his wide range of intellectual and scientific interests and his willingness to talk liberal politics and the need for social reform. He even rather liked Botsy Northcote, a tall, good-looking fellow with a military moustache. Botsy was a lively conversationalist with a wide acquaintance of people and ideas, when he was not off his head with love and despair—as he seemed to be now, no doubt because Miss Deacon was not paying him the kind of attention he deserved, in view of the fact that she was wearing the diamond necklace he had given her. And of course, there was Consuelo, gracious and elegant, whose first care was to make her guests comfortable and happy and see that each one had everything his or her heart could desire.

But therein lay a dilemma, for Miss Deacon was the heart’s desire of at least two men at the table—the Duke and his friend Botsy. Tonight, seated across from Botsy and between Winston and Marlborough, she was wearing a low-cut silk gown of an unusual shade of burnished gold that highlighted her red-gold hair and displayed a perfect curve of breast and shoulder, as well as that splendid diamond necklace. Perhaps it was the danger she posed to Blenheim and the Marlboroughs that made it difficult for Winston to keep his eyes off her, or perhaps it was her outrageously flirtatious glance, her exotic conversation (one could never predict what she might say next), or even the heightened color of her cheeks and lips. She certainly seemed to be flirting with him—although he suspected that she was only doing so to make Botsy even more jealous than he already was, poor chap.

Making men jealous seemed to run in the Deacon family. Winston knew, of course, that Gladys’s father had shot and killed his wife’s lover. Everyone knew, and Gladys herself seemed to take a mischievous delight in the scandal.

“Simply imagine my feelings!” she had whispered to him at teatime. “I was there when it happened, Winston, although I was only twelve at the time.” She opened her beautiful eyes wide. “My mother in hysterics, my father with the gun, still smoking, in his hand. I saw it all!”

Winston could never be sure whether Gladys was telling the truth, for she dramatized everything. But the murder itself was all too real. Gladys’s mother was a great beauty, notorious for a string of adulterous relationships that drove her husband so mad with jealousy that he had fatally shot one of her French lovers. Alexandre Dumas had called Deacon an assassin, and the Paris newspapers were outraged at the notion that an American would kill a Frenchman who was merely engaged in the national pastime. Deacon went to prison and later died in an insane asylum. The scandal, which reverberated throughout Europe and America, inevitably tainted Gladys and her sisters. There were many in England who still regarded her as the daughter of a mad murderer and a woman who trapped unsuspecting men with her deadly beauty and wit.

At that moment, Winston saw Sunny put a finger on Gladys’s wrist—a light touch and quickly withdrawn, but accompanied by a glance that spoke openly of intimacy and intrigue, even a kind of possessiveness. Winston felt himself flush.

This sort of public display is taking things much too far,
he thought, the apprehension pumping through him. What can Sunny be thinking?

Winston was not the only guest who had noticed the Duke’s possessive gesture, as he realized when he glanced up and saw Botsy Northcote’s eyes narrow, his mouth tighten, and his handsome face go purple. So far, Botsy had managed to control himself, but he was not a man who handled his temper or his alcohol well, and he had already drunk several glasses of wine.

Winston gave an internal sigh. They would be lucky if they got through the evening without an explosion of some sort. He cast a surreptitious glance at Consuelo, who was seated to his left, to see if she had noticed the Duke’s hand on Gladys’s wrist, or Botsy’s reaction to it. But the Duchess was chatting gaily with Sheridan, and seemed to take no notice of what was happening on the other side of the table. For that, at least, Winston was thankful. Perhaps it was time he had a talk with Consuelo about the situation and warned her against taking any ill-considered action. In one way or another, they all lived their lives in the public eye, and none of them could afford any sort of scandal.

And then Winston was distracted by Gladys, who bestowed an enchanting smile on him and asked him whether he had ever visited Rosamund’s Well, on the other side of the lake.

“Of course,” he said. “Used to go there often when I was a boy. Not much to see, though. Just a spring flowing out of a stone wall and into a square, shallow pool. Whatever else was there—Rosamund’s Bower, the famous labyrinth—they’ve all disappeared.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Gladys exclaimed with a wistful air. She appealed to the Duke. “Don’t you think, Your Grace, that it would be divinely romantic to build a rustic retreat there, like the house that Henry built for Rosamund? Or perhaps a sort of Gothic ruin, surrounded by a labyrinth, where people could go and pretend to be Rosamund and King Henry, and fall madly in love.” It happened that no one else was speaking at the moment, and her light words seemed to fall like bits of broken crystal in the silence.

“A folly, you mean?” Northcote asked with ironic emphasis. He leaned forward. “Not a romance with a happy end,” he added in a warning tone, his words slurring just slightly. “Rosamund and Henry didn’t get away with it, y’know.”

Gladys’s laugh tinkled up and down a full octave. “Why, of course!” she exclaimed, with a delicate shiver. “Didn’t Eleanor murder poor, sweet Rosamund, to keep Henry for herself? Poison, I’ve always heard. But Eleanor ended her life in prison, poor thing, repenting the whole while.” She seemed to glance toward Consuelo, then leaned toward the Duke and put her hand on his sleeve. “Oh, Sunny, I’ve just thought of the most glorious idea! Let’s all row across the lake tonight after dinner and spy out a place to build the Marlborough Folly. Doesn’t that sound like marvelous fun?”