Death at Blenheim Palace (20 page)

The stationmaster lifted his hand and dropped it, and Fair Rosamund began to pull out of the station, blowing her whistle shrilly, much to the delight of the schoolboys, who cheered and threw their caps into the air. The stationmaster turned, saw Winston, and said, “If you’ve a ticket, sir, and look smart, you can just catch ’er. She’s going slow enough for you to hop onto that last carriage.”

“Thank you, no,” Winston said. “I’ve come for some information. Were you on duty this morning?”

“Since Bob Pomeroy took the first run out at six,” the stationmaster said, hooking his thumbs into his blue serge vest. “And I’ll be here ’til he brings ’er back at six this evening. Same thing every day, six t’six.”

“I wonder,” Winston said, “if you happen to know whether Lord Henry Northcote was on that train.”

“ ’Fraid I couldn’t say, sir,” the station master replied with a cheerful air. He bent over and began to load a stack of boxes onto a hand trolley. “He’s not one I know. Now, if you was to ask me if His Grace the Duke took the train, or the mayor of Woodstock, or Mr. Budd, the baker, I’d tell you right off, ’cause I know ’em well. But lords and other such, they come and go here all the time, on their way to Blenheim and back to Lonnun, and I couldn’t tell one from another, if y’ take my point, sir. Lords all look the same to me.” He straightened, lifted his blue cap, and wiped his forehead with his coat sleeve.

“A tall gentleman,” Winston persisted. “Military bearing, dark mustache.”

The stationmaster replaced his cap. “A tall military gentleman? Well, now, come to think on’t, believe I did see such a one go out on the first train.” He grinned slightly. “In rather a foul mood, he was.”

“Thank you,” Winston said. It was as good an identification as he was likely to get. “And perhaps you noticed a lady,” he added hopefully. “A very pretty young lady. She might have been in the company of the tall gentleman. Or she might have been traveling alone, either on the early train, or a later.”

“A lady, sir?” The stationmaster pulled his brows together. “And how would she be dressed, sir?”

Winston was nonplussed. Quite obviously, if Gladys Deacon had taken the train, she would not have been wearing the gold evening dress in which she had vanished. “I can’t say, I’m afraid,” he replied ruefully. “But she has red-gold hair.” He put on a knowing smile. “And rather a fine figure.”

Pulling his mustache, the stationmaster considered for a moment. “Sorry to say, sir, but I don’t b’lieve such a lady rode out on Fair Rosamund today.” He gave Winston a wink. “B’lieve I’d remember a lady like that, sir. Fine figure and all, I mean.”

“I see,” Winston said, swallowing his regret. He had almost convinced himself that Northcote had persuaded Gladys to go off with him—a preferable outcome, of course. Sunny would then have realized that the relationship promised nothing but trouble and would have given it up. Unfortunately, this did not appear to be the case. Still, the circumstances of Northcote’s abrupt departure suggested that the man had something to do with Gladys’s disappearance. Winston frowned. One did not like to dwell on the possibility of violence, of course, but Botsy was known for his difficult temper. What if—

With a shudder, Winston turned back to the stationmaster. “I should like to send a telegram,” he said, hoping that George Cornwallis-West was at the London house and would be willing to tell him what he knew about Lord Henry Northcote’s background.

Some twenty minutes later, the telegram to George having been composed and dispatched, Winston tied up the pony beside the Black Prince at the other end of Woodstock, a seedy-looking pub on the main road from Oxford to points north. It was not the sort of pub that catered to gentlemen, and he had never been inside. But Sheridan had asked him to find out what he could about the housemaid who had gone missing, and—

Winston frowned. That wretched housemaid. Damn it all, what
was
the girl’s name? He furrowed his brow, trying to remember, but all he could recall was that she had been seen at some point chatting up a man with a red beard. Well, it wasn’t likely he’d turn up anything important at the pub, but he wanted to report to Sheridan that he had done all he was asked, so he would inquire and see what could be found out.

As Winston went inside, the fragrance of hot eel pie reminded him that, in his haste to carry out his investigative duties, he had missed his luncheon. He stepped up to the bar and bought a pie, a chunk of bread, and a mug of ale, which he carried to an empty table.

It was bright daylight out-of-doors, but the pub was windowless and lit only by gas lights that hung from the low ceiling. A dozen or so men were in the dusky room, several lounging at the bar, the rest seated around tables. The air was flavored by beer and unwashed clothes. Winston put his hat on the chair beside him, settled down to his lunch, and finished it in good order, finding the eel pie all he might have wished. As he was wiping his mouth on the back of his hand (a napkin not being part of the service), he happened to notice a pair of fellows in a far corner. One of them had copper-colored hair and a reddish beard.

Recalling his errand, Winston pushed back his chair, put on his hat, and sauntered over to the table. The men looked up at him, not cordially. The one with the red beard was nattily dressed in a black jacket, blue waistcoat, and red-striped cravat, with a blue silk handkerchief in one pocket—a commercial traveler, no doubt. The other, of a more common appearance, was stout and thick-chested, with broad shoulders, beefy hands, and thick black hair. He was dressed in a dark corduroy jacket, rather out of repair, and fustian trousers. A red kerchief was tied around his neck.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Winston said, adopting the amiable manner with which he usually addressed his Oldham constituents when he went electioneering. He pushed his hat to the back of his head and put out his hand. “My name is Winston Churchill. I’m—”

“Wot’s yer bus’ness, Churchill?” growled the dark-haired man, ignoring the outstretched hand.

“Forgive my companion, sir,” the red-bearded man said with a genial deference. He jumped up and pumped Winston’s hand vigorously. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Churchill, and I do mean pleased, sir. I’ve heard you speak about your experiences in South Africa. Thrillin’ escape that was, sir! Bloody good show all ’round! Flummoxed them stinkin’ Boers right proper, you did, sir!”

Winston felt himself warmed by the man’s admiration. “Thank you,” he said modestly, retrieving his hand. “Very kind of you to say so.” He paused and added, apologetically, “I’ve taken the liberty to introduce myself because I’m looking for someone, and wondered if you might be that person, sir. One of the young women at Blenheim—the household of my cousin, the Duke of Marlborough—seems to have gone off without letting anyone know. It’s thought that she might have spoken to a red-bearded man here at the Prince. That wouldn’t by any chance have been yourself, sir?”

The red-bearded man laughed easily. “A young lady from Blenheim? Not jolly likely, I’d say, Mr. Churchill. I just arrived here not two hours ago, on business.” He looked inquiringly at his companion. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about a young woman, would you, Bulls-eye?”

Bulls-eye drained his mug of ale in one large gulp. “’Fraid not,” he muttered. “Not ’xactly in my line.”

“I fear we can’t be of much help to you, sir,” the red-bearded man said.

“Well, then, I’ll wish you good day,” Winston said, and tipped his hat. “Forgive me for intruding, gentlemen. I’ll be on my way.”

“Oh, no intrusion at all, sir!” cried the red-bearded man with enthusiasm. “It’s a great pleasure to have shaken the hand of a man who escaped from them bloody Boers and lived to tell the tale. I wish you luck in the House, sir. We need men like you there, sir, ’deed we do!”

It wasn’t until Winston was nearly back to Blenheim that he recalled with some chagrin that he had not asked the man’s name.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

 
Adam Worth, known to Scotland Yard as “the Napoleon of the criminal world”

 
 
 
“Bloody hell,” growled Bulls-eye.

“Too bloody right,” said Dawkins, sinking into his chair. “Rotten damned luck, his showing up here. But it would’ve been worse, if I hadn’t kept my head.”

“You don’t think ’e knows, d’ye?” Bulls-eye heard the nervous tinniness of his voice and hoped that Dawkins hadn’t noticed. He shouldn’t like Dawkins to know that he was afraid.

“Knows? Knows what?” Dawkins was careless. “The way he asked about her, he didn’t strike me as a man who knows much about anything.”

Bulls-eye lowered his glance. “Well, ye didn’t ’ave to jump up and jaw away like you wuz some jolly old barracks mate,” he said defensively. “You could’ve sent him out the door, flat.”

“And have him suspect we’d something to hide?” Dawkins retorted. “Soon as he said he was a Churchill, I knew we could be in for it. But now when he thinks of me, it’ll be as one of his admirers.” He grew thoughtful. “He did tell us something useful—that she’s been missed upstairs, and they’re looking for her.”

“Don’t see ’ow that’s of any use,” Bulls-eye said darkly. He stroked his chin and added, after a moment, “Don’t suppose she told ’em anything, do you?”

“How could she? She didn’t know anything. Well, not much.”

“She said she knew the name of—”

“That’s enough,” Dawkins said, his voice flat and hard, all geniality vanished. “We won’t talk about that.” He narrowed his eyes. “You did say it’s taken care of, right?”

“Oh, right,” Bulls-eye said nervously. “I told you. All taken care of.” He felt a tic at the corner of his left eye. He did not like to think how it had been taken care of. That sort of thing wasn’t in his line, either. “But there’s the other one, y’know. Alfred’s ’is name.”

Dawkins’s glance sharpened. “You don’t think she told him, do you?”

Bulls-eye didn’t like to think so, for he did not want to hear the instruction that he knew would follow on the admission. But he had to reply. “I think it’s likely,” he said glumly. “ ’E’s a cool one, ’e is. Acts simple, but ’e’s dang’rous as ’er.”

Dawkins gave him an evil grin. “We’ll deal with him later.”

Bulls-eye sighed. The whole affair had got entirely out of hand. Violence was not his way, nor Mr. N’s way, either, come to that. He leaned forward on his elbows and lowered his voice. “Listen, Dawkins, I’m thinkin’ that mebee we should make our play an’ get out. Wouldn’t take more’n a day or two to get the others ’ere, and—”

“We’re sticking to the plan, and no argument.” Dawkins’s glance was severe and chastening. “Anyway, there’s no point in making a play now. That place may look like a treasure-house from the outside, but inside it’s empty, nothing but a hollow shell, a show, a sham. The Marlboroughs had plenty of valuables once, but they’re all gone now.” He made a wry face. “Hadn’t been for that Vanderbilt woman, the Duke wouldn’t have a shilling in his pocket.”

“But what about the paintings?” Bulls-eye ventured. “Place is full of ’em. Crikey, they got to be worth something, a’n’t they? We could—”

“Paintings?” The red-bearded man laughed contemptuously. “Bloody huge things, and mostly family stuff that no one else wants.”

“All right, but what about the silver? Got to be plenty of that. Gold plate, too.”

Dawkins was emphatic. “I told you, Bulls-eye. Mister N surveyed the place when he went through on Tourist Day and decided there’s nothing in the lot worth the trouble. You know what he always says—there’s no more risk in stealing big than there is in stealing small, so we go for the big money. And there’s nothing big in the house until their Royal Flapdoodles get there, and all the fancy ladies with their fancy jewelry.
That’s
when we make our play and not a minute before. That’s how Mister N planned it, and that’s the way we’ll play it, and that’s that.”

At the mention of Mister N, Bulls-eye abandoned his objections. The
N,
he knew, stood for Napoleon—the Napoleon of crime. Of course, Bulls-eye didn’t know his real name and identity, and didn’t want to. No one knew it, in fact, so it was something of a mystery as to how the girl had found out. Some lucky chance, Bulls-eye guessed, or unlucky, rather.

Mister N, whoever he was, masterminded the entire Syndicate. He chose the targets, organized the members, and crafted the impeccable plans that made everything work. He sat at the top of his command network like a general ordering his troops to attack here and there, but a
covert
general, working in the shadows through various intermediaries, watchfully but anonymously overseeing all the details of half-a-dozen simultaneous operations—forgeries, frauds and swindles, thefts of registered mail from strongboxes carried by train, and (the Syndicate’s specialty) thefts of art objects and jewelry. The subordinate felons who carried out the chief felon’s orders knew only what they were supposed to do, and when, and how. What they never knew was the name of the man at the top, or even the name of the man just above them. Dawkins, for example, was probably not the real name of the red-bearded man sitting across the table from Bulls-eye at this very moment.

“So that’s the way of it,” Dawkins was saying emphatically. “We stick to the plan. Anyway, the girl’s replacement is already in and settled. Has been for over a week.”

Bulls-eye bristled angrily. “Whose idea was that?” He was supposed to be in charge of the Blenheim job, and here was Dawkins, pushing his way in. “And why didn’t I know anything about it?”

“Now, don’t get all frazzled,” Dawkins said in a more conciliatory tone. “It was Mr. N’s idea. When he heard about your little problem, he sent instructions. The replacement is the one he’s been grooming special, y’see, not your usu’l East End lurker, and accustomed to working in the best places. She’s been there over a week already. And as far as you not knowing,” he added blandly, “Mr. N thought it ’ud be best. The fewer who know, the better.”