Death at Blenheim Palace (26 page)

“My guv went off to Australia when I was five,” Alfred replied reminiscently. “Missed his lashings a fair treat, I did.” He gave an ironic chuckle. “Well, come along, then. Hang up that apron and wash those hands and I’ll show you the way. When you get back, it will be nearly time for dinner, and you can help Conrad and me bring the food from the kitchen to the dining room.” He looked at Ned critically. “And don’t forget to put on your gloves. Gloves is part o’ the uniform. The blue bloods don’t like to see our hands—reminds ’em that we’re working and they’re not.”

The billiard room—a large oak-paneled room hung with trophy bucks, mounted game fish, and stuffed birds, with a large brown bear standing on its hind legs in the corner—was in the lowest level of the family quarters, next to the gun room. Lord Sheridan was not alone, Ned discovered when he was admitted. The gentleman with him, a brash-looking young man with red hair and a roundish, florid face, was introduced as Mr. Churchill, cousin to the Duke. The two men, both of whom wore evening dress, appeared to have just finished their game when he came in.

Lord Sheridan racked his cue. “Well, Ned,” he said, taking out his handkerchief and wiping the chalk off his hands, “you certainly look like a page.” He eyed Ned’s costume approvingly. “White gloves, too. They’ve put you to work, I take it.”

“Drudge work,” Ned said, looking down at his hands in the unfamiliar gloves. “Blacking boots and hauling coal.” Anxious not to be thought complaining, he added quickly, “I don’t mind, of course, sir. It’s all part of the job. I shan’t muck it.”

“I know you won’t,” his lordship said. “Have you managed to get a word with Alfred yet?”

Ned straightened his shoulders. “Oh, yes, I have, sir.” He grinned. “He immediately leapt to the conclusion that I’m a messenger or go-between or something of the sort, sir. From a fellow named Bulls-eye, at the Black Prince in Woodstock.”

“Bulls-eye!” Mr. Churchill exclaimed in dismay. “At the Prince!”

“Yes, sir,” Ned said, wondering how this Churchill fellow came into it. But since Lord Sheridan had allowed him to stay, he supposed that the man could be trusted. “Alfred said he didn’t like being alone here,” he added, “and he was glad I’d come, if only for the company. He asked me about Kitty, and seems to’ve been . . . well, rather fond of her. He’s awf’lly cut up about her leaving without telling him where she’s going.”

“Did he say anything about the Royal visit?” Lord Sheridan asked.

“Yes.” Ned stopped, trying to pull out Alfred’s exact words. He felt it important to report as accurately as he could.

“Well, get on with it,” Churchill urged impatiently. “Don’t keep us in suspense, young fellow!”

Lord Sheridan put his hand on Churchill’s sleeve. “Give the lad a moment, Winston,” he said quietly. “He’s recalling details.”

Ned threw his lordship a grateful glance. “About the King,” he said. “Alfred is worried that the Royal party are coming in two weeks, and he doesn’t know anything about the plan. ‘Who’s to do the work?’ he was asking me. ‘Who’s to be the cracksman?’”

“The cracksman!” exclaimed Churchill, with relish. “You were right, Sheridan! There
is
a robbery plot afoot!” He dropped his voice, rubbing his forehead in a dramatic gesture. “And I had the ringleaders right in front of me, at the Prince. In my very grasp!”

“That was the pair you talked to, then?” Lord Sheridan asked.

“One of them was called Bulls-eye,” Churchill replied. He gave an exaggerated moan. “Oh, what a dunce I am, to be taken in by that damned red-bearded rascal’s hail-fellow-well-met! I’m a fool, a bloody blockhead!”

Ned had no idea what this was all about, and he privately thought that Mr. Churchill’s histrionic mummery was foolish and self-centered. But he plowed on, addressing himself to Lord Sheridan.

“The thing is, you see, sir, that Alfred doesn’t know anything about what’s going on. He’s had no word and he feels as if he’s been cut off. ‘Stuck in this place and forgotten,’ was the way he put it. Whatever the plan is, he’s not in on it.”

“Interesting,” Lord Sheridan remarked.

Churchill put on a frown. “Unlikely, seems to me. P’rhaps he suspects you, and he’s trying to throw you off the scent. Make you think he doesn’t know.”

Ned shook his head. “Alfred isn’t . . . well, he isn’t that sort of person, at least as far as I can see. That is, he’s not devious. He’s . . . well, trusting, if you know what I mean. Maybe because he feels so desperate, and has nowhere else to turn. He asked me to find out from Bulls-eye what’s going on, and tell him.”

Behind his detached demeanor, Ned felt a twinge of guilt. Alfred was quite a decent fellow, and here he was, ratting on him, spilling his secrets. But that was part of his job, wasn’t it? A spy couldn’t have friends.

Churchill’s frown deepened. “Sounds to me as if they’ve given it up,” he said. “Pulled out. Having one of their people disappear—the woman, I mean—well, it must’ve made them think twice. If you ask me, she funked it and took herself off to London, or wherever she came from.”

“Let’s not grab at straws,” Lord Sheridan said in a thoughtful tone. “They may have put someone else into the house.”

“Another servant, you mean, sir?” Ned asked quickly. “Well, if that’s the case, the new man hasn’t got in touch with Alfred. He thinks I’m his new contact. I’ll stake my life on that,” he added, feeling that he ought to defend Alfred, who somehow struck him as a person who needed defending.

Lord Sheridan nodded. “You may very well be right, Ned. It sounds to me as if, for some reason or another, they’ve ceased to trust Alfred, so they’re no longer communicating with him. However, he has already told us what we needed to know: the name of his contact and where he can be found.” He turned to Churchill. “Winston, I wonder—would you be able to get a look at the estate’s wage book for the past few months? Without giving a reason, of course.”

“I suppose I might,” Churchill said slowly, knitting his brows. “Both inside and outside staff?”

“No, just inside, I should think. The upstairs people—both male and female. We’re looking for a lady’s maid, perhaps, or a housemaid, rather than someone in the kitchen. Or an upper man servant. Has the Duke brought in a new valet recently?”

“No. Marlborough’s man has been with him since he came into the dukedom.” Churchill pursed his lips, giving him rather, Ned thought, the expression of a petulant bulldog. “About the household staff, I shall have to ask Stevens. He’s the one who keeps the wage book, I’m sure.”

“Oh, and while you’re about it,” Lord Sheridan added, “ask to have a look at their character references.”

Ned cast an admiring look at Lord Sheridan. Character references would show what agency they came from. Really, for someone who spoke so modestly and unassumingly, the man was a first-class thinker.

But Churchill seemed puzzled. “Their characters? Whatever for?”

“Because it would be helpful to know which agency referred Alfred and Kitty,” Lord Sheridan replied. “And any other recently hired staff.”

“I’ll do as you ask, of course,” Churchill said, frowning. “But I’m not quite sure I see what you’re getting at, Sheridan.” He added, in a rather more apologetic tone. “Afraid all this sleuthing isn’t exactly up my line. Now, if a gun were called for, I’d be glad to oblige. I’ve my Mauser, you know. Take it with me on general principles, though there’s not much call for it in civilized society.”

A gun! Ned thought, with a surge of barely repressed excitement. Would it come to that? Oh, topping, simply topping!

“I doubt that your Mauser will be needed,” Lord Sheridan said matter-of-factly, and Ned felt disappointed. “However,” he went on, “the evidence seems to suggest that this is all part of a larger plot. If that’s so, it must involve substantial planning at various levels. We can quash a robbery here at Blenheim, but if we allow those who conceived the plan to get away, the same business will simply be repeated elsewhere.” He paused, and added gravely. “As well-organized as this group seems to be, the chances are that it is engaged in other kinds of criminal activities as well. We need to get our hands on the ringleader.”

“You must be looking for a man like Moriarty, sir,” Ned said, now feeling thoroughly stirred up. Moriarty was the arch-villain who once went up against Sherlock Holmes. He grinned and recited, from memory and with dramatic emphasis: “‘A man with a criminal strain, increased and rendered infinitely more dangerous by his extraordinary powers.’”

“Ah,
that
man!” Churchill replied with an answering grin. He raised an eyebrow and declaimed theatrically, “‘Fenced round with safeguards so cunningly devised that it seemed impossible to get evidence which would convict in a court of law.’”

“Oh, yes, sir!” Ned exclaimed. “The very one, sir! ‘The greatest schemer of all time, the organizer of every deviltry, the controlling brain of the underworld—’”

“‘A brain which might have made or marred the destiny of nations—that’s the man,’” Lord Sheridan concluded with a crooked smile. “The Napoleon of crime. A lot of pumped-up nonsense, of course, but somewhat apt to our case.”

“Apt, indeed.” Churchill clapped Ned on the back. “My word, young man, you do know your Doyle.”

“Thank you, sir,” Ned said, liking Mr. Churchill rather better now.

“However,” Churchill went on in a cautionary tone, “I don’t believe that we should overstate the case. I sincerely doubt that we are dealing with a villain as black as Moriarty.”

“Perhaps not,” Lord Sheridan agreed, “but the scope of the villainy is yet to be seen. For now, our immediate task is to discover whether other members of the theft ring are at work here at Blenheim, unbeknownst to Alfred. For that, we will rely on your investigation of the wage book and character references. And I think I shall have a look in the missing housemaid’s trunk. It’s still in her room, I’ve been told.”

“And what about me?” Ned asked hopefully. “P’rhaps you’d like me to go to The Prince in Woodstock and see what I can find out about Bulls-eye.” After all, he had told Alfred he’d be talking to Bulls-eye that night. He had been so easily successful in worming significant information out of Alfred that he was sure he could find out just as much, and perhaps even more, from Bulls-eye. A fellow could get to like this spying game.

But Lord Sheridan did not fall in with his suggestion. “You are
not
going to Woodstock, Ned,” he said firmly. “It’s far too dangerous. You are to go back downstairs to your work, and keep a close eye on Alfred. If anyone from the outside attempts to contact him, I want to know about it immediately.”

“Yes, sir,” Ned said glumly, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice. He should like it if they could run into a little danger, and if Mr. Churchill had his gun, they would be all right. He hesitated, thinking of something else. “Sir? What about Alfred? He seems like a decent chap. Will he . . . well, will he get into trouble about this? All he wants to do, you know, is take Kitty and go off to Brighton.”

“Brighton?” Churchill asked.

Ned nodded. “His brother wants him to buy into a pub there.”

“A pub, eh?” Lord Sheridan shook his head ruefully. “I’m sorry, Ned, but it’s too early to say what’s going to happen to Alfred. We don’t know how deeply involved he is. And until we learn the identity of the other person, if there is another person, that is, Alfred remains our only contact with the thieves.” He frowned. “But this business about the missing housemaid concerns me. I wonder—”

From the floor above, Ned heard a loud, hollow gong. It sent a shudder down his spine. How could people abide being ordered about by a gong? If they were as powerful as they wanted everyone to believe, why didn’t they just shut the damned thing up and do whatever they liked, when they liked?

“Time for dinner,” Churchill said in a resigned voice, straightening his cuffs. “Gad, Sheridan, I’m not looking forward to it. Marlborough is nearly off his head about Gladys.”

Lord Sheridan sighed. “Nor I.” He put his hand on Ned’s shoulder. “But you’ve done a fine job, Ned. I didn’t imagine that you would make contact with our target and dig out this information quite so fast.” A smile glinted in his brown eyes. “British Intelligence could make good use of a man like you.”

“Intelligence?” Ned felt quite complimented. But of course, there were other things he wanted to do first. “I’m planning to become an archaeologist, you know. I want to do digs in Egypt and the Sudan, as you did. And on Crete, too,” he added, thinking of the shipments being unpacked at the Ashmolean.

“Ah, yes,” his lordship murmured. “Well, perhaps there’s not much difference between digging artifacts out of the ground and digging information out of people who don’t want you to have it. But we can talk about that later. Off with you, now, Ned. And keep close to Alfred, do you hear? That’s your first order of duty.”

“Oh, yes, m’lord,” Ned promised earnestly. “I’ll keep close to him. You can count on that.”

At the time, he meant it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

 
Self-Help,
1882
Samuel Smiles

 
 
 
Dinner had indeed been a wretched affair, Charles thought. The food had been cold, the Duke and Duchess had had nothing to say to each other or to anyone else, and even Kate’s gaiety, usually so spontaneous, had seemed forced. Marlborough cut short the usual after-dinner port and cigars and retired, leaving Winston free to go off to confer with Stevens over the wage book, and Charles to go in search of the housekeeper.

Mrs. Raleigh did not know in which room of Housemaids’ Heights Kitty had slept—did not know, it appeared, much at all about the housemaids’ habits. She had seemed at a loss when Charles said he wanted to have a look in Kitty’s trunk, and had rung the bell for Ruth, who had been Kitty’s roommate. It was Ruth who, carrying a candle, showed him with alacrity up the steep stairs to the dark, chilly room in which she now slept alone, at the very top of the tower.