Death at Blenheim Palace (14 page)

“I need a word with you first, Charles,” Winston said urgently.

Within a few minutes, Charles had heard the news that Miss Deacon had disappeared the night before, dressed in evening clothes and wearing her diamond necklace. And that Marlborough seemed to be missing as well.

Charles felt a sharp stirring of concern. “You’ve checked the Duke’s room? And Miss Deacon’s? Is there any luggage missing, or any indication that they went off together? What about horses? Motor cars?”

“I haven’t checked the rooms,” Winston said, “although Kate and Consuelo have done so. There are no horses missing, and the only motor car on the property is Consuelo’s little electric runabout. Consuelo and Kate have driven it out to look around the estate, hoping that they’ll catch sight of one or the other of our—” He cleared his throat and said dryly, “Our missing persons.”

Charles heard the crunch of wheels on gravel, and looked up. “And there they are,” he said, with a strong sense of relief, seeing a small electric motorcar, with Consuelo driving. Kate was sitting beside her, and on the engine box behind them sat the Duke of Marlborough, holding a fishing rod and wearing a distinctly disagreeable look.

Ten minutes later, they were all back at the palace. Winston and the Duke went off together, Charles agreeing to meet them shortly in the Duke’s private study. Consuelo said she had a wretched headache and went to lie down, and Kate had followed her upstairs, but not before telling Charles privately how she and Consuelo had chanced on the Duke walking along a narrow lane near High Lodge, on the west side of the Park. Marlborough had told them he had been fishing at the southern end of the lake since very early in the morning, although he did not seem to have caught any fish and volunteered no explanation for missing his appointment with the estate agent. He had seemed astonished to learn of Gladys’s disappearance and kept shaking his head and muttering darkly that it must not be true, that he could not believe that Gladys would leave without a word of explanation to
him
.

“Which hurt Consuelo deeply,” Kate added with a sober expression. “Really, Charles, this affair, or whatever it is, is becoming very difficult for her. And here is something that makes it even worse.” She put her hand into the pocket of her skirt and brought out a scrap of gold silk. “I found this at Rosamund’s Well before breakfast this morning, caught on a bush. I believe it’s from Gladys’s dress, the one she was wearing last night. When I saw it, I immediately assumed that she and the Duke had rowed over there together, a sort of romantic tryst. You remember that she talked about the Well at dinner.”

“I remember,” Charles said, taking the scrap and looking at it closely. “She cast herself in the role of Rosamund, with Marlborough as Henry, and the Duchess, implicitly, as the jealous Eleanor.”

“And Botsy Northcote as Roger of Salisbury,” Kate said. “A ready-made cast for a tragic theatrical.” She paused. “There’s something odd about that torn piece, Charles, now that I come to think about it. I found it on a small bush, but the bush wasn’t sturdy enough to have snagged and torn that heavy silk.”

“Rosamund’s Well,” Charles mused, pocketing the scrap. “Thank you, Kate. I’ll have a look around the place.” He leaned forward and took her arm. “Listen, my dear, it’s very important that Miss Deacon’s bedroom be immediately locked. Can you find the housekeeper and make sure that’s done? I don’t want the maids going in there until it’s been thoroughly searched.”

With a little smile, Kate put a key into his hand. “It’s done already,” she said. “I locked the door when Consuelo and I left this morning. No one’s been in there, at least since we left.”

“Ah, my Kate,” Charles said with pleasure, and kissed her cheek. “What a treasure of a wife you are.” He paused, thinking. “But perhaps it would be better if you’d search the room. I have a number of urgent things to see to, and you may find something that should be acted upon right away. Would you mind?”

“Of course not,” Kate said with satisfaction, taking the key back. “It will make me feel that I am being of some use.”

“And one more question,” Charles said. “Have you seen Lord Northcote this morning?”

“Botsy?” Kate’s hazel eyes widened. “Oh, my goodness, Charles. No, I haven’t seen him!”

As it turned out, no one else had seen Northcote, either. An inquiry of the housemaids—deliberately casual, so as not to raise suspicion—told Charles that Botsy’s bed had not been slept in, and that all of his clothing, together with the Gladstone bag he’d brought it in, was gone from his room.

Charles then made a quick visit to the butler’s pantry, a large, well-lit room off the main corridor below stairs, where he found Mr. Stevens reviewing the wine and spirits inventories and preparing an order for the King’s visit.

The butler, a man in his sixties, was stooped and almost frail, but he still held himself with a dignified reserve. He listened gravely to Charles’s question and explanation and agreed to look into the matter. “Rest assured, m’lord,” he said with equanimity, “that if there’s anything to be learned, it will be reported to you at once.”

Charles thanked the butler, and then, telling himself that he had done as much as one reasonably could in such a short while, he took himself off to the Duke’s study.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

 
Journal,
November 11-14, 1850
Henry David Thoreau

 
 
 
“Northcote’s gone
too?
” the Duke croaked in a voice that was harsh with alarm and disbelief. He dropped back into a leather chair so large that it made him look like a boy. “Bag and baggage?”

“So the housemaids tell me,” Charles replied evenly. “I haven’t yet checked his room.”

With a moan, the Duke buried his face in his hands.

“Old Northcote,” Winston muttered. “Didn’t think he was up to it.”

“Up to what?” Charles asked, thinking of the torn scrap of fabric Kate had given him. Had Botsy Northcote taken Miss Deacon to Rosamund’s Well, assaulted her and torn her dress and, perhaps, inflicted some physical harm on her?

But Winston seemed to have something rather different in mind. “Of convincing Gladys to go off with him,” he said in a low voice. “Of course, he’s a good-looking chap and all that, but after all, he was a guest here. And it’s not exactly—”

“What makes you think he convinced her to go off with him?” The Duke’s voice was muffled by his hands.

Winston looked surprised. “Why, what other explanation can there possibly be? Northcote considered that she engaged herself to him when she accepted his family diamonds at Welbeck. Of course, it seems a bit strange that Miss Deacon went off in her evening dress and without taking leave. But we both know . . .” He paused, cleared his throat, and said, rather pompously, “We both know, my dear Sunny, that she has on occasion behaved in rather an eccentric fashion.”

The Duke, his face still buried, made a low sound.

“At Welbeck?” Charles asked.

Winston nodded. “That’s where the engagement took place, I understand. Family heirloom, that necklace. Rumor has it that Botsy’s mother is furious with him.” Squaring his shoulders, he turned to his cousin. “We’ve got to face facts, Sunny. Can’t let ourselves be misled. Fact is, she’s gone off with—”

“I don’t want to hear it!” Marlborough shouted, jumping out of his chair and pacing up and down in front of the fire. “I don’t believe it! She’d never agree to go off with that blathering fool. I want her found, do you hear? I don’t give a damn about Northcote, but I want Miss Deacon found and returned, safely.” He whirled upon Charles, the muscles in his jaw working furiously. “You’re supposed to be something of a detective, aren’t you, Sheridan? Well,
find
her, damn it! And make it quick! There’s not a minute to lose. She’s in danger. She must be, or she would have contacted me.”

Charles felt a flare of irritation at the imperious tone, but did not allow it to show in his voice. “I think,” he said steadily, “that we might come closer to finding both of them if we understood what went on last night. What time, for instance, did you leave Miss Deacon? And where?”

“What time?” The Duke’s eyes narrowed. “Why is that important?”

“We need to establish who saw her last,” Charles said, “and when. The Duchess and Lady Sheridan retired early.

Northcote left the Saloon not long after you and Miss Deacon went into the garden, saying that he was going up to bed. Winston and I went off to the smoking room, where we stayed until past eleven, and then went upstairs. I left Winston at his door, and neither of us saw Miss Deacon after she went out with you.” He paused. “Did you take leave of her in the garden? In the Saloon? Or upstairs, perhaps?”

There was a silence. “In the . . . the garden,” Marlborough said in a despairing tone. He turned toward the fire, his hands behind his back. And then, when the silence had lengthened still further, he added stiffly, “We had a . . . a bit of a row, if you must know.”

Winston opened his mouth to say something, but Charles shook his head. To Marlborough he said, “What kind of a row?”

Marlborough’s narrow shoulders became taut. He did not turn around, but Charles could guess the look on his face by the strain in his voice.

“Gladys—Miss Deacon can become upset very easily. Her feelings . . . matter to her, you see. They matter enormously. Her heart is so tender, and when she cares, she cares with such a passion that it is . . . astonishing. Somewhat frightening, in fact. One does not quite know how one ought to take it.”

He turned suddenly, holding out his hands and saying angrily, “The deuce of it is that she can’t seem to understand how things are
done!
How a man in my position must behave. What’s proper and what’s not.” The anger held a desolation. The Duke was like a boy who has seen something he cherished taken from him through no fault of his own, and now believes that he has lost it forever.

His voice dropped. “Miss Deacon—Gladys is very like her mother, you know. Nothing is ever enough for her. She always wants more, and then more, and more. And when she can’t have it, she . . . well, she can become rather childishly violent. It won’t do, of course. That sort of thing really doesn’t, but there it is. That’s what we rowed about.” He stopped, and dropped his head, and then sank back down in his chair, hiding his eyes with his hand.

Winston said nothing, but his glance at Charles spoke volumes of embarrassment and chagrin.

Charles thought he understood what had happened. Gladys had pressed the Duke for some sort of verbal pledge as openly declarative as his light, impulsive touch on her wrist at table. Perhaps she had insisted that they go away together. Or even that Marlborough separate from his wife, unthinkable as that was. When he refused, pleading public scandal, she might have become distraught. A woman scorned can be dangerous, Charles knew, and Gladys Deacon—willful, impulsive, untrustworthy—seemed to him to be a potentially dangerous woman. Believing herself rebuffed, Gladys might have even threatened the Duke with some sort of public exposure, which would undoubtedly terrify him. What would he do then? To what lengths would he go to keep her from creating a public scandal?

But Charles said nothing of this. “What time did you leave her in the garden?”

“Ten, half-past,” Marlborough said dully. “Perhaps as late as eleven. I don’t know.”

Charles doubted that. The Duke struck him as a man who always knew what time it was. “Did anyone see you after that hour? Your valet, perhaps?”

Angrily, Marlborough started up. “What the devil gives you the right to pry—”

“Sunny,” Winston said, laying a cautioning hand on his cousin’s arm. “If Miss Deacon can’t be found, the police may have to be involved.”

“The police! No, no!” the Duke said wildly. “We can’t have the police! Anything but that!”

“Well, then, let Sheridan have his head,” Winston urged. “He’s a good man. We can trust him. Northcote can go to the devil if he likes, but we absolutely
must
find Miss Deacon.”

“All right, damn it.” The Duke’s voice was thin and flat. “The answer to your question is no, Sheridan. I did not require my valet’s services when I retired. No one saw me after I . . . after I left her.”

Winston coughed slightly. “Well, then, perhaps someone saw you this morning, when you went off to the lake to go fishing.”

The Duke tensed, then seemed to force himself to relax. “No. I . . . I couldn’t sleep, so I got up and dressed and went out very early. It was still rather dark.”

There was a polite tap at the door. Stevens, the butler, appeared and motioned to Charles with a white-gloved hand. “If I might have a word with you, m’lord,” he said quietly.

Charles excused himself and went out into the corridor, closing the door behind him. “Yes, Stevens?” he asked. “You’ve learned something?”

Mr. Stevens, despite his age and frailty, held himself like a man of some personal authority, as well he might, Charles thought. The task of being butler at Blenheim must be a formidable one, not least because of the size of the place.

“Forgive the liberty of the interruption, m’lord, but I believe I may have uncovered the information your lordship requested. Alfred, one of our footmen, has some information he would like to impart.” Stevens motioned to a tall, well-built footman who was standing several paces behind him. “Alfred, this is Lord Sheridan, the gentleman who is making inquiries on behalf of His Grace. You may tell his lordship what you witnessed.”

Alfred stepped forward. Like Mr. Stevens, he was wearing morning dress, white gloves, and his own hair, which Charles infinitely preferred to the idiotic business of powdering.

“I saw Lord Northcote, m’lord,” Alfred said in a voice that had something of the north country richness in it. “I had late duty last night, y’see, sir, and I was just lockin’ the east door when he came flyin’ down the stairs.” Alfred’s eyes were bright, and Charles thought that he was relishing the report.