Death at Blenheim Palace (17 page)

Kate stood with her back to the door for a few moments, looking around the room, wondering where she should begin and what she should look for. Something that might explain what had happened to Gladys? Some clue to her whereabouts?

But Kate was not optimistic that she would find anything bearing directly on this situation. The best she could do, she thought, was to develop a more complete picture of Gladys, which in turn might offer Charles some sort of guidance. This was not Gladys’s personal room, however; it was only a Blenheim guest room. Although Gladys might stay here frequently, the room would bear few traces of her personality.

But Kate had been commissioned to search, and search she would. She went to the wardrobe and opened it, noticing that the gowns were elaborate and expensive, several rather flamboyantly exotic. The clothing was that of a wealthy young woman who spent a great deal of money on personal finery, some of it in questionable taste, or at least so it would be perceived by the more conservative ladies of Society. The garments bore Gladys’s favorite scent, musky and provocative. Closing the wardrobe, Kate made a mental note to ask Bess, the Blenheim maid who had the task of looking after Gladys, whether any garments were missing. (Gladys’s own maid would not be with her until the following week; she was in Naples, with Gladys’s mother.) She wasn’t sure Bess would know very much about the clothing, but it was worth an inquiry.

A chest of drawers stood against one wall, and Kate went to it next. On the marble top was displayed a jewelled Cartier clock, a blue porcelain bowl, a jade ash tray, and a Fabergé cigarette box filled with cigarettes bearing the gold Marlborough crest. Several seemed to be missing, and Kate remembered that she had seen Gladys smoking after dinner. There were also two silver-framed photographs of handsome young men, one in cricket whites, the other in a yachting jacket and jaunty cap, both photos inscribed to their darling Gladys in terms of such effusive endearment that Kate had to smile, thinking that Gladys seemed to win men’s hearts wherever she went.

There was another, larger photograph in a gold frame—a mustachioed man with eyeglasses, signed “To little Gladys, from her loving Papa.” Edward Deacon, Kate thought, the jealous husband who had shot his wife’s French lover. The story had been in all the newspapers while she was still living in New York. Gladys’s mother was reputed to be a foolish woman with an endless string of European lovers, playing one of them against another in a dangerous game. Like mother, like daughter? Kate wondered, her glance lighting on a tiny snapshot of Botsy Northcote, stuck crookedly in a corner of one of the frames—not an indication of a very great affection.

However, there was another photograph, this one unframed and hidden. Kate found it, face-down, beneath a stack of lace underwear in the top drawer. It was a studio portrait of the Duke, inscribed “Ever only your own Marlborough.” Kate stared at it for a moment, at the hooded eyes, void of any expression, the arrogant mouth framed by a delicate mustache, the smooth boyish cheeks, the hair swept back from the brows. There was no hint of passion in that perfectly composed face, no hint of emotion, of desire, even of ordinary human tenderness. If she were choosing a lover or a husband, Kate thought, she would not choose this chilly, remote little man, who had only his title and the family estate to recommend him. Of course, Consuelo’s ambitious mother had chosen him for her—or so Kate had heard—but Gladys had chosen him freely. What did the choice say about
her
? With a shiver, Kate turned the photograph over and replaced it.

The other drawers seemed to contain nothing but untidy heaps of clothing: lingerie, nightgowns, filmy stockings, lace shawls, silk scarves, all of it very expensive. In the bottom drawer, however, she found something much more interesting. It looked to be a diary, bound in supple blue leather and fastened with a tab inserted into a small golden lock. Kate turned it over in her hands, intensely curious.

Go on, Kate,
Beryl whispered urgently.
What in the world are you waiting for? It’s a tiny lock, of no consequence at all. You can pick it with a bent pin. Just think of the secrets inside!

Kate held the diary for a moment, considering. If she opened and read it, she would be privy to Gladys’s secrets, all of them profoundly intimate, most of them embarrassing, and some of them childish and silly. How would she choose which ones to confide to Charles, and which to keep to herself? If Gladys had not safely returned by the time she had reported to Charles, she decided, she would tell him where to find it, and he could determine for himself whether it should be opened and read.

This plan did not satisfy Beryl, of course.
Oh, pooh!
she said disgustedly.
Your heroines would not hesitate to read something like this, would they? So why not you?

But Kate stood firm against Beryl’s urging, and put the diary back in the drawer. As she did so, her fingers touched a pouch made of supple leather. She took it out and opened it, spilling small five tissue-wrapped bundles onto the marble-topped chest. She pulled the tissue off and saw five polished stones. The most intriguing was a blue-green piece she recognized as an Egyptian scarab, with marks carved into it. The other four—red, green, blue, and smoke-colored—also had engraved marks cut into various polished faces. Perhaps Gladys had collected them as a child and they had some sentimental value. She rewrapped them and replaced the pouch beside the diary.

Finding nothing more of interest in the chest of drawers, Kate turned her attention to the glass-topped dressing table, which was crowded with baskets of ribbons and silks and natural hairpieces, exactly the color of Gladys’s hair, and bottles and jars of lotions and cosmetics. Kate picked up a small pot of French rouge, recollecting the heightened color of Gladys’s lips and cheeks the night before. It was easy to conclude that she was a woman deeply concerned with her physical appearance, a conclusion borne out by something Consuelo had mentioned to Kate this morning: that Gladys had paraffin wax injected into her nose to enhance its Hellenic profile.

Kate put down the pot of rouge with a wry face. She was of the opinion that one took what one was given, although there was no special harm in making the best of it with rouge or powder or other cosmetics. However, paraffin injection—which had become popular over the past decade or so, especially among those who frequented Continental beauty salons—was not only foolish, it was dangerous, and Kate had seen photographs of the misshapen faces which proved it so.

The dressing table and jewel box, filled with elaborate, ornate jewelry, had nothing special to offer, and Kate turned her attention to a shelf of books beside the bed. It contained a somewhat surprising collection of titles, reminding Kate of something else that Consuelo had said: that Gladys was not only beautiful but genuinely brilliant, having learnt seven languages and studied art, literature, mathematics, and music. There were several books of poetry with Gladys’s name in them; a much-thumbed-through book of photographs of classical statuary with the text in Greek; books of German philosophy, with passages underlined; several rather risqué French novels with playful notes in the margins, in French; and Edith Wharton’s just-published and much-discussed first novel,
Valley of Decision
. It was an eclectic collection, to say the least, Kate thought, and it forced her to modify her assessment of Gladys Deacon. The young woman might not be wise, but she was certainly intelligent.

And then, lying half-hidden under a book of French poetry on Gladys’s bedside table, Kate found something of much greater interest. It was a note written in a square masculine hand on the thick, creamy Blenheim stationery which was kept in every room, and dated Tuesday, 12 May, just two days before. Kate hesitated only a moment. This note was not locked with a key, like the diary, and it was clearly of current interest. And besides, Beryl was prodding her, even more urgently than before.
Oh, for pity’s sake, Kate. Read!

Kate picked up the note and read it.

Well, there was no doubting the relevance of this letter, Kate thought, reading it for the second time. Northcote hadn’t yet been seen this morning. What if he had spirited Gladys away, as he threatened in this letter? She suspected that such a violent and precipitous action was not the way to win the young lady’s heart, but perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps an extravagant gesture was exactly the thing that would sweep Gladys off her feet and get her to honor her promise. And Botsy Northcote, Kate had no doubt, was exactly the kind of man who would do it.

She glanced at the Cartier clock on the chest of drawers. The bell for lunch would ring in an hour. She would find Charles straightaway and give him the letter. She locked the room, pocketed the key, and went to inquire after Charles.

Learning that he had left for Oxford and feeling at loose ends, she went downstairs and out into the rose garden, walking slowly along the gravel path, reflecting on the events of the night before. The last time she had seen Gladys, the girl was going into the garden with Marlborough, and yet a scrap of her dress had been found on a bush at Rosamund’s Well, on the other side of the lake.

On the other side of the lake?
Beryl mused.
And just how do you suppose she got there?

Kate paused in the act of burying her nose in a large pink cabbage rose with a delightfully spicy scent. Beryl had raised a very good question. Come to think of it, just how had Gladys crossed the lake?

“She walked over the bridge?” Kate hazarded aloud.

Gladys Deacon walked?
Beryl laughed shortly.
Don’t be ridiculous, Kate. Can you see that young woman taking a half-mile
tramp after dark, along a gravel path and down a steep hill? In her evening dress?

“I suppose you’re right,” Kate murmured. The road across the bridge was graveled, and the path that led from the bridge to the Well was steep and overgrown. It wasn’t something one would do unless one were wearing proper boots.

“Of course I’m right,”
Beryl replied.
And what sort of foot gear was Gladys wearing last night? Evening slippers, that’s what! Gold evening slippers, to match her dress. No woman in her right mind would walk about the countryside in those shoes.

Kate didn’t remember noticing Gladys’s feet, but it was Beryl who was always took notes on details of dress and manner, and Kate didn’t doubt the truth of her observation. She bent to sniff another rose. Well, then, if Gladys didn’t walk around the lake, how
did
she get to Rosamund’s Well? As Kate straightened, her glance happened to light upon the boat house, a rustic building far down at the foot of the garden, behind some shrubbery, next to the lake.

Congratulations, old girl!
Beryl exclaimed triumphantly.
That’s it! Our Gladys
rowed
across the lake!

“Rowed?” Kate replied, with a mildly sarcastic chuckle. “Oh, come, now, Beryl. Gladys Deacon wouldn’t have the slightest idea of what to do with an oar. She could never row a boat all the way across that lake.”

Beryl chuckled maliciously.
Who says
she
rowed it? Maybe Botsy rowed it for her. After all, he promised to carry her off—and what’s more romantic than a rowboat on a moonlit night? Come on, Kate, let’s have a look.

“A look at what?” Kate asked. “The lunch gong will be sounding in just a few minutes. We don’t have time to go anywhere.”

With that, the intrepid Beryl flew off down the path. And Kate had no choice but to follow.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

 
The Seven Pillars of Wisdom
T. E. (Ned) Lawrence

 
 
 
Ned Lawrence had been bitterly disappointed when he learned from John Buttersworth that he had missed Lord Sheridan’s visit to the museum. He had been hoping to see him, and hoping that his lordship would take another criminal case in the Oxford area and, this time, ask him to assist. He admired Lord Sheridan for the cool and careful way he used his wits, but there was more, some of which Ned would not have been able to recognize and acknowledge, at least at this point in his life. He respected men who showed strength of character and physical bravery, and yet were deeply sensitive to the feelings of others; who were sure of themselves but not brazen about it; who were intellectuals but not snobs; who were attractive to women but resisted their power. He would be glad to play Watson to his lordship’s Holmes any day, and he’d told him so, straight to his face. Ned’s mother may have taught him to be deferential to his elders and betters, but his father had taught him to ask for what he wanted from men who had the means to give it, and Ned thought that his best course was to follow both their teachings. Of course, he already knew how to get what he wanted for himself, whenever that was necessary.