Death at Blenheim Palace (29 page)

Then he went back down the corridor to the room he shared with Ned. He changed from his page’s costume into his own clothing, then hesitated, wondering if he should leave a note. He thought he ought to tell somebody where he was going, in the unlikely event that there was some sort of trouble. But he didn’t like to tell Alfred, since he was under the impression that Ned had already gone out long ago, to meet Bulls-eye in Woodstock.

After some thought, he took a pencil, turned Bulls-eye’s note over, and on the back wrote:
This came for Alfred. I’m going to R’s Well to meet Bulls-eye and learn the plan.

With a school-boy flourish, he signed the note “T.E.L.” and put it in his pocket. Then he went back down the hall to the bell-panel and stood for a moment, studying the floor plan of the upstairs halls. Finally, sure that he knew what he was looking for, he opened the door to the service stairs and went to find Lord Sheridan’s room.

A little later, having put the note under the door, Ned went back downstairs, put on the mackintosh and hat, and stepped out into the dark and blowing night.

If he had known what awful thing had been dragged up out of the lake and was at that very moment being laid out on the floor in the game larder, he might have thought better of what he was about to do.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

 
Anonymous

 
 
 
 
Kate was beginning to wish that she and Beryl had chosen another subject for their book. After an awkward dinner, she and the Duchess had left the men to their port and cigars and gone to the family sitting room, where Consuelo played the piano and sang several pensive German lieder that seemed to reflect her melancholy. After a time, Winston joined them. He seemed distracted, though, as if his attention lay elsewhere, and a little later they bade each other goodnight and went off to their rooms.

Now, sitting at her dressing table, Kate began to brush her hair with a sense of positive relief, glad that the long evening was at last over. She had already found what she’d come to Bleheim for—good background and some strong ideas for her novel—and under other circumstances, she would be getting ready to return to Bishop’s Keep, where life was a great deal more enjoyable. But Beryl wouldn’t let her leave until the mystery of Gladys’s disappearance was solved. And Charles wouldn’t leave until he had unraveled the theft plot, if that’s what it was, involving the servants.

Kate put down her hairbrush and lifted her heavy hair with her hands, letting it fall loosely again, down her back. She frowned, returning to what Charles had said that afternoon: that there had been a theft at Welbeck Abbey in which two servants, recently employed at Blenheim, were involved, and perhaps even Gladys and Northcote. But there was something else that was nibbling away at her, something odd that she had wondered about briefly and then forgotten. What was it?

It’s Bess,
Beryl said.
Her question about the crime at Welbeck.

Ah, yes, Bess’s question. And that sudden, wary look that had crossed her face. Why the question? Why the look? Surely, an unusual response to an idle musing.

And the keys,
Beryl prompted.
She’s not the housekeeper. So why is she carrying keys?

Why, indeed? In a well-managed household, the housemaids wouldn’t be allowed to have keys—that was a prerogative that Mrs. Raleigh would guard jealously. And Bess had been hired recently, Kate understood; surely she had not yet achieved enough seniority to be permitted to even use the keys without supervision. That way led to unauthorized admission to the family and guest bedrooms, like those Kate and Charles occupied.

Kate glanced around the large, beautifully appointed room, which in spite of warmth of the night and the glowing splendor of its draperies, carpets, and wall hangings, still felt chilly. She and Charles shared adjoining rooms, the door left open between them, and slept in the same bed—breaking an established rule, Kate knew. When spouses were guests at a country house, they usually slept apart, the better to participate in the midnight revels. However, Kate and Charles had each found exactly what they wanted in the other; they preferred to sleep together when they were visiting, just as they slept together when they were at home, and Kate could not imagine it otherwise.

But why would Bess have keys to these rooms?
Beryl asked impatiently.
Unless—

There was a light tap at the hallway door and Charles came in. Pausing to drop a kiss on Kate’s hair, he went to stand at the window, pulling the rose-colored damask draperies aside so that he could look out at the darkened landscape. A noisy thunderstorm had passed over an hour or so before, with flashes of lightning, claps of ferocious thunder, and a brief, gusty downpour. The storm had moved off to the east, but an occasional lightning flash still lit the night sky.

“That rain was fairly heavy,” Charles said thoughtfully. “I’m glad I was able to photograph the heel print and collect the blood sample at Rosamund’s Well. The evidence, if that’s what it was, may have disappeared by now.” He sighed and closed the draperies. “Of course, it might merely be evidence of a poacher’s kill. Winston says there’s plenty of that. And at this point, there’s no way of knowing.”

Kate turned from the mirror. She and Charles had not had a chance to talk privately since their conversation after tea, and there were things she needed to know. “You were going to have a look at Gladys Deacon’s diary, Charles, and in the housemaid’s trunk. What did you find?”

Charles turned back to the room. “The diary was a loss, Kate. Every page was completely blank. I suppose Miss Deacon had nothing of any importance to say.” He grinned wryly. “Or perhaps she didn’t want to write something down for fear it might be read and she would be held to account for it.”

Kate sighed, feeling a sharp sense of disappointment. “I’m sorry. I was hoping you might find something that would give us some clue to her disappearance.”

“I was disappointed, as well,” Charles replied. “But I found that pouch of stones in her drawer, Kate. They’re what’s left of the Marlborough Gemstones, all right, without a doubt. I showed them to Winston a few minutes ago, and he identified them. Gladys Deacon must be the woman who talked to Buttersworth at the Ashmolean.”

The Marlborough Gemstones? Kate got up from her dressing table and went to stand close to Charles, putting her arms around his waist and resting her cheek against his chest. “It seems so puzzling, Charles. So . . . well, almost silly, like a schoolgirl prank. What in the world could she have hoped to accomplish?”

“It is either very silly, or very serious,” Charles said gravely. He lifted his hand to brush a lock of hair off her forehead. “Let’s hope that the foolish girl has not got herself mixed up with the gang of thieves that seems to be operating here—and elsewhere, as well.”

“You’ve confirmed that, then?” Charles’s arms were around her and Kate leaned against him, feeling his familiar warmth, smelling the fragrance of pipe tobacco on his robe.

“Yes. Winston and I had a talk with Ned just before dinner. The lad’s already made a good start. He’s talked to the footman and learned that there is definitely a plan afoot. He’s also found out the name of the contact at a Woodstock pub.”

Kate tilted her head, looking up into Charles’s face. “My gracious,” she said, surprised. “That was fast work.”

“Ned is an unusual young man,” Charles replied wryly, “although he may be inclined to think rather too well of himself.” He paused. “But it looks as if Alfred may have been excommunicated by the gang—perhaps because he became romantically involved with the housemaid who seems to have been his partner. Kitty, I mean. Of course,” he added, “I’m only speculating. But there’s that love note you found, and Ned reported that Alfred was very concerned about her. I heard as much myself, when I talked to him.”

“But no clue to what’s become of Kitty?” Kate asked urgently. “Did you find anything in her trunk that might explain her absence?”

Charles kissed her forehead and went to poke up the fire. “No explanation for her absence,” he said, pulling up a chair. “But I found a newspaper clipping and a photograph that give me the idea that she might have come by some rather dangerous information, and tried to profit by it.”

“Dangerous information?” Kate asked.

“I believe that what’s going on here is only one part of a larger criminal enterprise, Kate.” Charles sat down in the chair and put his feet on the fender. “Kitty may have discovered the identity of one of the ringleaders and tried to use it to extort money from the gang.”

Extort money!
Beryl exclaimed excitedly.
Now, there’s an idea, Kate. What if—

“More speculation, I admit,” Charles said. “But if that’s what happened, they may have decided that she knew too much and—”

“And disposed of her,” Kate said aloud, finishing the sentence for him.

“Perhaps,” Charles said. “I hate to think that’s what might have happened, but it’s a possibility.”

Kate pulled her gown tighter around her. The whole thing was beginning to sound like one of Beryl’s penny dreadfuls, the kind they used to write years before, filled with criminal intrigues and skulduggery.

“And Winston has come up with something that seems to support this line of reasoning,” Charles went on. “He asked Stevens to show him the wage book, so he could see who’s been hired in the past several weeks—since Alfred and Kitty arrived.”

“And?” Kate pushed the other chair closer to the fire and sat down, pulling her bare feet under her. “What did he learn?”

Charles chuckled. “That servants come and go here with an amazing rapidity. In the last few weeks, they seem to have hired two new scullery maids, a laundry maid, a gardener, and a porter’s assistant, as well as Ned Lawrence, of course. More to the point, the housekeeper hired a maid several weeks ago, from the same agency that sent Kitty and Alfred. And what’s even more curious, when Winston took a look at the character references supplied by the applicants, he saw that all three had been written in the same hand, even though they were signed by different people.”

Kate frowned. “In the same hand? I should have thought that the housekeeper or the butler would have caught that.” It was widely known that many character references were forged, which was an important reason to hire only servants who came recommended by friends—although, of course, that was not always possible. Friends were not usually willing to part with servants they liked, if only because they didn’t want their family secrets being carried off to another household. Even a trusted servant was likely to gossip.

“I gather,” Charles said dryly, “that the situation below-stairs is chaotic. Mrs. Raleigh does not appear to be up to the task of managing the house, and Stevens is getting rather past it, too—at least, that’s what Winston thinks. There’s quite a rapid changeover in staff here.”

“All of which,” Kate said pensively, “would make it easier to arrange a burglary, I suppose—especially at a time when the house is full of visiting servants.” She looked at Charles. “This third person, the one who comes from the same agency as Alfred and Kitty. Who is it?”

“Her name is Bess,” Charles replied. “She’s a housemaid. I’m planning to talk to her first thing tomorrow.”

“Bess!” Kate said, sitting bolt upright, astonished. “Why, Charles, she’s the maid who is looking after Miss Deacon! The one who told me about the missing trousers and jacket!”

The maid with the keys,
Beryl said darkly.
The one who turned wary at the mention of a jewel theft at Welbeck Abbey.

Charles’s eyebrows went up. “You’ve talked to her, then,” he said mildly. “What was your impression of her?”

Kate hesitated, analyzing exactly what she had felt. “That she’s intelligent and observant. I think,” she added, “that she may already have made free with Mrs. Raleigh’s keys. She jingled as she walked.”

“Jingled!” Charles chuckled. “How like you, Kate, to notice the jingle of keys.”

Kate made a rueful face. “Perhaps. But I’m afraid I rather liked Bess, Charles. She seemed like the sort of person who could be given a great deal of responsibility, and she’d handle it very well.”

“I imagine that she’s all of those things,” Charles said dryly. “She’s probably been brought in to sort out the problems created by Kitty’s absence.” He frowned. “No, that can’t be accurate; the timing is wrong. As I understand it, Kitty disappeared only last Friday night, while Bess has been here for longer than that. I wonder if—” He broke off, frowning. “There are too many tangled threads here, Kate.”

“All we need is one,” Kate said rather incoherently, thinking of the golden thread that Eleanor had followed that led her to the heart of the labyrinth. “If only—”

She was interrupted by a loud, excited rapping at the door, and Winston’s booming voice, echoing in the corridor. “Sheridan! Sheridan, get up! You’re needed, immediately.”

With a muttered “What now?” Charles rose and went to the door. Kate heard a low-voiced exchange in the hallway and got up to see for herself what was going on.

As she reached the door, Charles came back into the room, a grave expression on his face. “I must go downstairs,” he said. He put his hand to her cheek, then kissed her gently. “Your friend Badger has fished a body out of the lake, I’m sorry to say. A woman’s body. She’s been put in the game larder.”

An image of Gladys Deacon, laughing and gay, rose unbidden into Kate’s mind, and she put her hand to her mouth. “Charles! It’s not—”

“The body has not yet been identified,” Charles said quietly. “That’s the next step, Kate. Now, go to bed.”

Go to bed!
Beryl exclaimed.

“But I’m coming with you,” Kate protested. “I want to see her. I want—”

“No, you don’t.” Charles’s voice was firm. “The fish have been at her, Winston says, and it’s an ugly sight. You’re to go to bed, Kate, and stay there. I’ll tell you whatever I am able to learn—later.”