Death at Blenheim Palace (10 page)

“I believe it was Friday night at bedtime, Your Grace,” Mrs. Raleigh replied thinly. “Ruth, who slept with her, missed her in the morning when she woke up.”

Friday night, and today was Thursday. “A search was made, I suppose,” Consuelo said, thinking uneasily of the gardener who had drowned himself in the lake in a fit of despair the winter before.

“Oh, yes, Your Grace,” Mrs. Raleigh replied quickly. “There wasn’t a sign of her anywhere. She had been here just since May, so I supposed she got homesick and left. Nothing is missing,” she added, pursing her narrow lips. “I made a careful check of all the rooms she worked in, just to be sure.”

Consuelo felt a sudden impatience with the woman, although she understood Mrs. Raleigh’s concern. Not long ago, a valuable china box had disappeared from a table in the Green Drawing Room. Marlborough had discovered it missing, and a housemaid was accused. After everyone was thoroughly upset, he had told Consuelo that he himself had taken the box to see if its absence would be noticed. Since then, Mrs. Raleigh had supervised the housemaids more closely, although her supervision did not appear to extend to the nighttime hours, or to the locking of doors. Presumably, the missing maid had got out through an unlocked door.

Consuelo tried to conceal her impatience. “What was the girl’s name? Who on the staff knew her best?”

“Her name was Kitty, Your Grace.” Mrs. Raleigh watched uneasily as Consuelo wrote it down. “I suppose Ruth would have known her best.”

“Then I should like to speak to Ruth,” Consuelo said, feeling that somebody ought to make an effort to get to the bottom of this, and if Mrs. Raleigh wouldn’t do it, she would have to. What’s more, she was curious. It wasn’t like housemaids to disappear without their wages. “
Now,
if you please,” she added firmly.

Ruth was summoned from her duties and stood nervously before her, a sturdy young girl, pleasant-faced, her thick brown hair bound up under her cap. She could scarcely be sixteen.

Consuelo softened her tone. “Tell me, Ruth, what you think might have become of—” She looked down at her notes. “Of Kitty.”

“I’m sure I don’t know, Your Grace,” Ruth said, biting her lip. “She went to bed same as me, but when morning come, that would be Saturday morning, she was gone. Sneaked right out, she did. Quietlike, or I would’ve heard her. I told Mrs. Raleigh straightaway,” she added, as though she were afraid she might be accused of concealment.

“Did she go off with someone, do you think?” Consuelo asked. “Did she have a young man?”

The girl frowned. “A . . . young man? I don’t think so, Your Grace. She never said.”

Consuelo tried another tack. “Well, then, where was she in service before she came here?”

“Welbeck Abbey, Your Grace,” Mrs. Raleigh put in officiously. “She had a fine character from the Duchess of Portland’s housekeeper. And before that, at Carleton House, in Manchester.”

A fine character. Consuelo knew what that meant. It wouldn’t surprise her if half the characters the new hires presented were forged, and although the housekeeper and butler were supposed to check, they didn’t always. But perhaps Ruth knew where the girl came from.

“Where was her home, Ruth?” she asked in a gentle voice. “Where are her people?”

Ruth shook her head, and then, as if she felt she should explain, added, “Us maids don’t talk much about ourselves, Your Grace. There’s not hardly time in the day, what with the work and that, and at meals there’s always somebody listenin’.” Her voice became self-pitying. “And at night we’re wore out. We’re asleep soon’s our heads hit the pillow.”

Consuelo suspected that there was plenty of time during the day for the maids to share personal secrets and household gossip, but she could not deny that by bedtime, they would be exhausted. A servant’s life was not an easy one. She would have done more to make it easier, if she could—would at least have heated the tower rooms where the girls slept, and laid on running water. But Marlborough disapproved of innovations in the house. Her Vanderbilt dowry was meant to restore Blenheim to its earlier glory, not to make it more habitable.

There was a little silence, and then Ruth added, almost as an afterthought, “But we did talk once, now that I think on’t. We walked to the village together on our last half-day off. Kitty wanted to see Fair Rosamund’s Well, and it was only a little out of the way, so we stopped for a look. She said she was meeting someone at the Black Prince, in Manor Road.”

“Meeting someone?” Mrs. Raleigh stared at the maid disapprovingly, over the tops of her glasses. “A young man?”

Ruth shook her head. “Oh, no, not a
young
man. He was waiting in front of the Prince for her, and I’d say he’s as old as my father. He had a red beard. She—”

“Well, then,” Mrs. Raleigh interrupted, obviously relieved. “I expect he was a relation.”

Consuelo wasn’t so sure of that, but there was no use in speculating. “Very well, Ruth,” she said. “Can you think of anything else?”

The girl glanced hesitantly at Mrs. Raleigh, then at Consuelo, then seemed to pluck up her courage. She licked her lips. “Well, yes, I can, Your Grace. You see, I’ve been wondering . . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“Yes?” With an inner sigh, Consuelo looked down at the seemingly endless list of chores in front of her. The weekend menu was next, a task she always dreaded, for the French chef was inclined to be a prima donna. Whenever he wanted to show his displeasure with her, he would serve ortolans—rare songbirds, considered a gourmet delight—to her guests for breakfast, because he knew that she considered these mortifyingly nouveau riche. One never knew what might set the man off. He hadn’t been at all pleased, for instance, when she’d sent word that they wanted a picnic lunch today.

She looked up to find the girl still standing there. “What were you wondering, Ruth?”

The girl ducked her head. “Whether I could have Kitty’s best dress. It would exactly fit my sister. She’s—”

“Kitty’s dress?” Consuelo asked, startled. “You mean, she went away and left her clothing behind, as well as her earnings?” She turned to Mrs. Raleigh. “Is this true?”

“I don’t know, Your Grace,” Mrs. Raleigh replied, flustered. “I didn’t think to ask—”

“So her things are still in the tower?” Consuelo asked the maid.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Ruth said, “in a trunk.” She went on eagerly, “There’s a skirt and blouse and winter cloak, if they’re wanted for the other maids. But this dress is made of blue wool, you see, with blue and black braid, and my sister is getting married and—”

“I think we might wait a while before we give away Kitty’s clothing,” Consuelo said quietly. “Thank you, Ruth. That will be all.”

After the girl had left the room, Consuelo sat for a moment, thinking. If the housemaid had left her clothing behind, especially her best dress, she had not gone off with some young man. But where could she be?

To Mrs. Raleigh, she said, “I think you should ask the other servants what they know about this missing girl. Since she has left both clothes and money, it is not unreasonable to think that she might have met with an accident.”

Mrs. Raleigh looked uncomfortable. “Yes, Your Grace. I’ll have it looked into right away. And about the clothing, I must say that I—”

“Thank you,” Consuelo said firmly. “I also think that inquiries should be made at the Black Prince. The person Ruth mentioned, the man with the red beard, may still be there. Perhaps he can offer some clue as to Kitty’s whereabouts. And if he is indeed a relative, he will need to know that she is gone.”

Mrs. Raleigh stiffened. Even though she may have felt in the wrong about the girl, it was clear that she would go only so far to make amends. “If you will pardon me, Your Grace, inquiries at a village pub are the sort of thing the footmen should be asked to carry out. Shall I ring?”

Consuelo frowned. Perhaps it wasn’t a good idea to send one of the footmen on this errand, for they would only gossip about it in the servants’ hall. It might be better if she asked the butler, who could perhaps manage it himself, without causing a commotion or creating gossip among the servants.

“I’ll speak to Mr. Stevens about it.” She glanced at the ormolu clock on the desk, stifling a sigh. It was nearly nine-thirty. “It’s time to get on with our work. Please tell Monsieur Carnot that I am ready to discuss the menus with him. And don’t forget that lunch is to be a picnic. Be sure that it is sent over to the Well so it’s waiting when we arrive. There’s to be champagne, of course, so don’t forget to arrange for the ice.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Mrs. Raleigh said. She went to the door, then hesitated indecisively.

Consuelo looked up. “Was there something else?”

“Yes, Your Grace, I’m afraid there is. I don’t like to mention it, but . . .”

“But what, Mrs. Raleigh?” Consuelo felt impatient. There was so much to do, and never enough time. “Please, we don’t have all morning.”

Mrs. Raleigh’s lips thinned. “It’s Miss Deacon, Your Grace.”

Consuelo frowned. “What about Miss Deacon?” The week before, Mrs. Raleigh had reported that Gladys had accused one of the housemaids of having taken a silver comb. The comb had subsequently been found under the bed, but the hard feelings had lingered. She hoped this wasn’t another report of the same sort.

The housekeeper spoke with obvious reluctance. “The maid went in to take her tea and open the drapes, and she—Well, she wasn’t there.”

Consuelo felt a chill of unease. “Well, then, she’s gone out, I expect,” she said. “Perhaps she’s walking with Lady Sheridan, who loves early-morning tramps.”

“Walking?” Mrs. Raleigh’s tone was colored with a delicate disapproval. “Pardon, but I shouldn’t think so, Your Grace. Bess says her bed hasn’t been slept in. I realize that Miss Deacon has her own way of doing things. But if she intended to go off last night, she might at least have let someone know.”

Consuelo swallowed, grasping for control. As a hostess, she was certainly very much aware of the customs of English houseparties, which involved a great many noctural frolics—surreptitious tip-toeings down the carpeted halls, delicate tappings on doors, and muffled sounds of pleasure from the curtained beds. But everyone, even Gladys, knew the rules. It was always the gentlemen who went tip-toeing down the hall, never the ladies. And all must be back in their assigned rooms before the housemaids came with tea and a pitcher of hot water. If Gladys had not slept in her room—

Consuelo put down her pen and stood. She could feel her knees wobbling, and when she spoke, she was surprised to hear her voice sounding normal. “I imagine that she’s gotten back already,” she said. “But perhaps we’d better go and have a look.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

 
“A Bird in a Gilded Cage,” 1899 Words by Arthur J. Lamb, music by Harry von Tilzer

 
 
 
It had been shortly after eight-thirty in the morning when Kate returned to Blenheim. She went upstairs and changed quickly out of her walking costume and into the slim blue skirt and white silk blouse she planned to wear until dinner, with the addition of an embroidered tunic at teatime.

The usual rule for houseparties was four changes of clothing: a relatively simple morning costume; a more elaborate luncheon and afternoon dress; a loose, luxurious tea gown—a
teagie,
it was called; and a sumptuous dinner gown. Each costume, of course, had its own accessories and jewels. Ladies who cared about such things made sure they didn’t wear the same outfit twice. For them, a four-day houseparty required sixteen different costumes and appropriate accessories, and since some of the skirts were voluminous, their luggage might include three or four large trunks.

Kate, however, viewed the business of multiple costumes as silly. She packed what she felt she needed—skirts and blouses for day, a tea gown, and one or two dinner gowns—and that was that. She did not require a maid to help her dress, and she wore her hair in a simple style that she could manage herself. If other guests were offended by her casual attitude toward dress and her natural look, well, so be it. Kate might have married into the peerage, but she valued her comfort and convenience much more than the opinions of ladies who chiefly dressed to impress.

A few minutes later, she was opening the door to the breakfast room—a lovely, light room wallpapered in green and ivory, with a wide window that overlooked the Italian garden. She had tucked the scrap of burnished gold cloth into her skirt pocket, hoping to see Gladys Deacon and give it to her privately. Winston and Charles were already there, discussing Chamberlain’s Imperial Preference proposal over plates of eggs and kidneys.

In the last few weeks, Winston had come out hard on the side of free trade, creating a great deal of bad feeling among his fellow Tories, who stood with Chamberlain and his protectionist policies. “But they’re going to have to hear me out,” he was saying gruffly, as Kate came into the room.

“If you’re not careful, Winston,” Charles replied, “you’ll find yourself crossing the floor and joining the Liberals.”

“Would that be such a terrible mistake?” Winston asked. He pulled his brows together and pushed out his mouth in what Kate had come to think of as his “bulldog” look. “And don’t smile, Charles. I’m in deadly earnest.”

“I’m not smiling,” Charles said soberly. “In fact, I should think you could work far more effectively from the Liberal bench.” He glanced up as the footman seated Kate at the table. “Good morning, my dear. Did you enjoy your walk to Rosamund’s Well?”

“Yes, thank you,” Kate said. She added strawberry jam to her buttered toast and accepted a cup of tea from the footman. “Thank you, Alfred,” she said with a smile. Of all the Blenheim footmen, she liked this one the best—a tall, blond young man, with a sweetly pleasant look and an accomodating manner. “Has Miss Deacon come down yet, Charles?”