Death at Blenheim Palace (18 page)

Today was one of the days when he was getting what he wanted. He had asked Buttersworth for a day’s holiday from his work at the Ashmolean and—clad in tweed knickers, a sweater, and a tweed cap—had ridden his bicycle to All Saints, a small stone church with a square Norman tower in the country near the hamlet of Derwood. He’d brought his brass-rubbing kit and planned to spend the day making rubbings from some brasses he had noticed in the church when he’d gone scouting there some weeks before.

Ned’s passion for antiquarianism had become an obsession, all but taking over his life. He worked at the museum during the summers and on Saturdays throughout the school year. As he prowled through the city, he loved to stop at new building sites and search for medieval artifacts: coins and tiles and bits of pottery and metal. He would often trade his pocket money to the laborers for things they’d found, and some of them had learned to save promising items for him. He kept everything on the shelves in the room he shared with his older brother—there were five boys in the Lawrence family—and his growing collection fueled his enthusiasm for the Middle Ages.

Imagining himself already an archaeologist and adventurer, Ned dreamed of traveling through Egypt and Africa, crossing perilous wildernesses, fighting savage tribesmen, and giving his life in the defense of a doomed city, as General Gordon had done. He devoured the action-filled adventure stories of G. A. Henty, whose fictional boy heroes met real men—Robert the Bruce, Sir Francis Drake, the Duke of Marlborough, Napoleon—in a variety of historical situations. He dreamed of performing great deeds in the company of someone like Charles Sheridan, who had distinguished himself as a military officer in the Sudan, very nearly getting himself killed in a brave attempt to rescue General Gordon and free Khartoum from the awful onslaught of the Mahdi’s Dervishes.

Yes, Sheridan would be a perfect companion, although Ned knew that he had a great deal of work to do before he was ready. He was planning to read Modern History when he got to Oxford, so he’d understand the politics and history of the places they would go. He’d have to win a scholarship for that, though, for although his father was a gentleman with an independent income, the income was small and five boys were rather a lot to send to school.

Brass rubbings were one of Ned’s recent obsessions, and over the past few months, he had bicycled to almost every church within a half-day’s ride of Oxford to record the brasses he found there. Brass-rubbers were supposed to get written permission from the appropriate authority, but Ned had never bothered. Somebody who cared as much about the brasses as he did ought to be entitled to do whatever he liked with them, as long as he didn’t damage them, of course. And anyway, being where he shouldn’t be, doing something he shouldn’t do, only lent a greater sense of danger and intrigue to the adventure.

The heavy wooden door of All Saints stood ajar when he arrived, shortly before one. The church was deserted, as he’d hoped it would be, so he hid his bicycle behind some shrubbery and went inside, closing the door behind him. He looked around, reveling in the dusky quiet, redolent of old hymnals and lemon-polished oak. Ned sometimes dreamed of becoming a monk—when he wasn’t dreaming of being an adventurer. He loved the idea of the introspective, ascetic life, with regular fasts and rigorous physical exercise and long days when he was entirely alone, when he spoke to no one at all.

But he wasn’t thinking of that at the moment. The brasses he had come to rub—three small, square ones, two feet wide by two feet high—were attached to the stone wall near the altar. On their faces, they were all Tudor, one engraved with a coat of arms, two with Latin texts, and dated 1598. Well and good, and he was glad to have them for his collection. But Ned had the idea that they might have been looted from a local monastery and bought as reusable metal by the engravers. To test his theory, he took a screwdriver out of his kit, unfastened the four screws securing one of the brasses to the wall, and took it down. Holding his breath, he turned it over.

To his inexpressible joy, he was right! On the reverse, there was what looked to be the head and shoulders of a priest in Mass vestments. He stared at it, feeling his heart pound. It was extraordinary, really, this idea that an object from the sixteenth century—old enough, certainly—might conceal an object from the fourteenth century, both hidden away in a church that itself had been built sometime in the twelfth century.

Reflecting reverently on these mysteries, Ned took out a brush, tape, a roll of paper, and his heelball, a cake of black wax that fit neatly into the palm of his hand. Getting down on his knees, he dusted the grit from the brass, taped the paper to it, and began to rub, working carefully, watching with amazement as the artistry of the long-ago engraver—dead some five centuries, unseen for three—appeared as if by magic under his hands.

Ned was so intent on his work that he did not hear a motor car approach the church and stop along the verge. Congratulating himself on being skilled enough to do the whole job in less than fifteen minutes—and a good job it was, too, one of his best—he removed the paper, rolled it, and prepared to refasten the brass to the wall.

But the brass was easier to take down than to put back up. He was struggling with the unwieldy object when he heard the creak of the door opening. Startled, he lost his grip and the brass fell to the stone floor with an echoing metallic clang. He turned to see Lord Sheridan strolling toward him down the aisle, his hands in his pockets and a severe look on his face.

Ned’s heart plummeted into his boots. Of all the people to find him here, it would have to be Lord Sheridan, whom he admired and respected so highly. In an instant, his fantasies of doing heroic deeds with this man vanished like a puff of cloud. His dreams for the future were gone, his work at the Ashmolean a thing of the past. He would be publically disgraced, perhaps even sent to jail or—

“Doing a little investigation on the sly, are you, Ned?” Lord Sheridan asked.

Ned let out his breath and bent to pick up the brass. “You startled me. Sir,” he added.

“Be glad I’m not the sexton or the vicar,” Lord Sheridan said with a half-smile. “Or the local constable. He might have you up before the magistrate for something like this, especially if you haven’t asked permission.” He paused. “Let me see what you have there.”

He took the brass from Ned and examined both sides. Then he handed it back and picked up the rubbing. “Quite nice,” he said after a moment. “Quite nice indeed.” He rolled it up again and put it with Ned’s kit. “You’ll be sure to sign and date it, won’t you? And include the name and location of the church.”

Ned squirmed, suddenly aware that the rubbing was evidence of his trespass. “It’s for my private collection, sir,” he muttered. “No one else will see it.”

“Doesn’t matter. You may think this is private, but you have no idea where it might end up—in a public museum, for instance. And if you don’t properly identify your work, you’ll have people prying brasses off church walls all over the kingdom, trying to locate this one.” Lord Sheridan leaned one shoulder against the wall. “I came to take you up on your offer, Ned. If it’s still good, that is.”

Ned stared at him. “My . . . offer?”

“Yes. It turns out that I need an assistant.” The corners of his mouth rose. “A Doctor Watson, so to speak. As I recall, you mentioned something of the sort to me, a short time ago.”

Ned felt the joy and excitement rise in his throat, but disciplined his expression and forced himself to sound casual. “Well, if old Buttersworth can spare me, I s’pose I might be able to lend you a hand. What’s doing?”

There was a glint in Lord Sheridan’s eyes. “I wonder whether you’ve ever considered going into service.”

Ned felt the disappointment twist in his gut and knew that it showed on his face. He had thought, he had
hoped,
that Lord Sheridan was asking something more than mere service of him, for if that’s what he wanted, Ned would be forced to say no. It was true that he did not come from a wealthy family, and that boys from his class did not usually aspire to great heights of social ambition. But while his mother had been a nanny, his father was the grandson of a baronet and sprang from a family of Irish gentry that included (or so it was said) Sir Walter Raleigh. Ned was determined to make what he could of the noble blood that flowed through his veins, and service was demeaning. But it was Lord Sheridan who was making the proposal, so he replied with more tact than he might have done otherwise.

“I was hoping that your lordship might have something different in mind. Something with a little more . . . scope.”

“A little more scope, eh?” Lord Sheridan smiled. “Actually, I do, Ned. What I have in mind is a spot of espionage, a bit of secret agent work. The servant’s role—you would work as a page in a large country house—would be, in effect, your disguise.”

“I say, that’s jolly good!” Ned exclaimed happily. He clicked his heels together and swept off his cap in an exaggerated bow. “Indeed, I am entirely at your service, m’lord. Ask and I shall perform your every command, m’lord! What would you have me do, m’lord?” And he made another bow.

Lord Sheridan chuckled. “That’s a bit strong, I’d say, but you have the right idea, and with coaching, I daresay you’ll do just fine. Most of your work as a page won’t involve the upstairs people, though. What I need you to do is definitely below-stairs work.” He paused. “However, I shall have to ask your father’s approval for this, since it will involve your being away from home for perhaps as long as a fortnight.”

“A fortnight!” Ned said breathlessly, feeling that he must be dreaming. Either that, or he had just stepped into the pages of one of Mr. Henty’s grand adventure stories.

“I trust that Mr. Buttersworth will release you from your work at the museum for that period of time,” Lord Sheridan said. “Of course, you will receives wages as a page and a stipend as an informant. It should make up for the loss of the museum’s wages.”

An informant,
Ned thought, elated, not quite believing it.
I’m going to be a spy. A real spy!

“I can assure both you and your father that your work will not involve any danger,” Lord Sheridan continued. “And I will always be close at hand, as will one or two other people to whom you can go in the event of . . . difficulty. You will not be on your own.”

“Danger,” Ned scoffed carelessly. “I have no concerns for my personal safety.”

Lord Sheridan eyed him. “I don’t believe you do,” he said thoughtfully. “A young man who is daring enough to pry a brass off a church wall has more than enough audacity to carry out my small task.” He pursed his lips. “However, I hope you will not have to learn your first lessons about real danger when you have been put in command of other men. It wouldn’t hurt you to face a hazard or two now, if only to see what it feels like. You might then have more respect for those who are mindful of the dangers you so eagerly disregard.”

Ned had the vague sense that this was a rebuke, but since he didn’t know how to reply, he ignored it. “Where am I to work?” he demanded eagerly. “A country house, you said?”

“We’ll be at Blenheim Palace.”

“Blenheim Palace!”

Now Ned was sure that he was dreaming. He had gone through the palace on Tourist Day, of course, and more than once. He had reveled in its architectural glories, its martial magnificence, which symbolized all the achievements of the Empire. He had stood at the foot of the Column of Victory and imagined himself as the first Duke of Marlborough, riding out to battle, flags and pennants flying. He had stood at Rosamund’s Well, across the lake from the palace, picturing himself as Henry, with all of England and the Aquitaine at his feet. And now he was to be a spy. A
spy
in Blenheim Palace!

Lord Sheridan nodded. “The King and Queen will be arriving for a visit the first weekend of August. I should think our work will be over as soon as they have left, and you’ll be free to return home.” He paused, eyeing Ned. “Will that be satisfactory, do you think?”

Satisfactory! It was splendid, it was magnificent, it was . . . Ned had run out of superlatives and could scarcely speak for crowing. He would be at Blenheim Palace during a visit by the King and Queen of England!

“Of . . . course,” he managed. “It will be most . . . satisfactory.”

Lord Sheridan became serious. “I should caution you, though, that everything you learn from this moment on must be kept entirely confidential, Ned, now and in future. You may want to boast about your exploits with your friends, but you must not share this with anyone.” He paused. “Do you understand? Can I trust you?”

Solemnly, Ned raised his hand. “I’ll never say a word to anyone. I swear it.”

A smile flicked across Lord Sheridan’s mouth and he nodded. “Right, then. I’d like to get on with the business, so if you wouldn’t mind replacing that brass I’d appreciate it. Let’s fasten your bicycle onto the back of my motor car, and go to Oxford. Are we likely to catch your father at home?”

“Yes,
sir,
” Ned said smartly.

What were a few brasses compared to the opportunity to serve as a spy at Blenheim Palace?

CHAPTER NINETEEN

 
The Hound of the Baskervilles
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

 
 
 
The boat house, which Kate had noticed on one of her previous rambles, stood at the edge of the lake, partly concealed by a screen of shrubbery. It was a utilitarian wooden building, rather ramshackle, constructed on pilings sunk into the lake bed. There was a crudely painted sign on the door—NO ADMITTANCE—and a padlock, but the hasp was unshackled and the door hung open. Ignoring the sign, Kate cautiously pushed the door wide and went through.