Death at Blenheim Palace (28 page)

The quarter moon, beset with moving clouds, was making a poor showing just over the trees, and the warm breeze carried a light pelting of rain. Hearing thunder rumbling somewhere in the distance, Badger put on his mackintosh. He had already brought up one large pike—twelve pounds, if it was an ounce—and his fingers were beginning to tingle the way they always did when he was about to bring up an even bigger one.

The great fierce pike—they could grow to nearly fifty pounds—inhabited the deepest part of the lake, its coldest, darkest waters. They sported a formidable set of jagged, knifelike teeth set in powerful, springlike jaws that could catch and hold the largest prey, alive or dead. The occasional guest who fished on the lake rarely caught one, for pike were shy and elusive, easily spooked by the shadow of a boat above them, or even by the moving track of clouds across the water. This was why dead lines were so effective, and while the Duke’s gentlemen guests sneered at them as “unsporting,” that was of no concern to Badger. His purpose was to catch these illicit fish, not just for the extra coins they put in his pocket but for the deep and rich satisfaction he felt in his soul when he reflected on the fact that His Grace’s fish—indeed, the very best and the largest of his fish, the fish he most coveted for his table—were going to feed His Grace’s poorest neighbors.
And that, sirs,
he thought to himself with pleasure,
is sport enough
.

But Badger’s tingling fingers seemed to have misled him after all, for that first large pike was the only one yielded up by the lake. The hooks rebaited and the lines replaced, Badger took up the oars and, keeping to the tree-lined shore, rowed downstream toward the dam and the sluicegate, where the trammel net lay. If all else failed, the net, well hidden in the weeds, would certainly fill the basket in the bottom of his boat with tench and roach and perch, which would do as well among the poor as pike. And there was just time to clear it out before the storm broke. Already the rain was coming harder, and he was glad for the mackintosh.

In a few moments, he had reached the edge of the shallower, weed-filled stretch where the trammel net was staked. He shipped the oars, stood up in the boat, and took up the twelve-foot wooden pole that he used to propel the rowboat through the weeds. When he reached the net, which was held up by large flat corks, he laid the pole aside and began to haul it in.

But the net was extraordinarily heavy in his hands, either with the weight of a tremendous lot of fish, or having snagged something under the surface of the water, so that the more he pulled, the more difficult pulling became. Finally, he let it go and began to pole along the length of it, looking (as he now thought) for the snag and thinking that he should have to light the bull’s-eye lantern he had brought along with him, to see how to work the net free, if he could without tearing it. And if he could not, he should have to come back tomorrow night, when the weather was more kindly.

A few yards along, he saw where the net was sagging, weighted by something beneath the water. Cursing under his breath, Badger took the net in both his hands and pulled up on it with great effort. At that moment, a jagged flash of lightning lit the sky, and he saw that the net was not snagged on something, but that something large and inert was caught
in
it—and not a fish, either, for the net was designed to hold fish alive and wriggling. It might be a submerged tree branch, except that the foresters kept the Park trees so neatly groomed that this did not seem likely. Bent double, breathing hard, Badger hauled, and stopped, and peered down into the water. And then hauled again, harder and faster and with a mounting panic, as he realized that the large, inert thing that was caught and held in the net was a human body.

There was another flash of lightning and a thudding, rolling rumble of thunder. As the horrible thing rose toward him out of the depths, the dead flesh gleaming whitely in the dark water like the bloated belly of a dead carp, the mass of long, loose reddish hair floating like trailing weed, Badger saw to his horror that it was a woman, and that she had not died by drowning. Her throat had been slashed from ear to ear, and the pike had been at her face.

At that moment, the heavens opened and the rain came crashing down.

CHAPTER THIRTY

 
Captains Courageous
Rudyard Kipling

 
 
 
After dinner upstairs was finished, Ned had helped Alfred load the last dishes on the carts and push them from the dining room back to the kitchen, a distance that seemed like a dozen miles. When people built such bloody great houses, they obviously didn’t have the efficiency of their service in mind or the labor of their servants, and they couldn’t much care about hot food, either. When Alfred said that the kitchen was so far away because aristocrats hated the smell of food cooking almost as much as the look of a bare working hand, Ned could only laugh and be at least temporarily glad that he was neither aristocrat nor servant.

In fact, Ned was something in between, for although his father was descended from the Irish aristocracy, the connection couldn’t be claimed. Ned had discovered that his father—his real name was Thomas Chapman, not Thomas Lawrence—was not married to his mother, Sarah Junner, whom he had met when she became a servant in the Chapman household. For Sarah’s sake, Thomas had abandoned his wife and four young daughters in Ireland, removing himself, his mistress, and their sons to Wales, then to France, and finally to Oxford. There, Thomas and Sarah took the surname Lawrence and held themselves out as man and wife, concealing the illegitimacy of their five sons. Ned might be privately comforted by his aristocratic ancestry, but his birth disbarred him from assuming his rightful place as a gentleman. It was an uneasy knowledge that this current bit of work brought to the forefront of his mind.

Alfred had duty in the main hallway upstairs, where he would stay at his station until time to begin his locking-up rounds at midnight. He paused beside Ned in the hallway and bent close to his ear to say, with a passionate urgency, “Remember, lad, I’m hoping for some news of Kitty.”

This remark took Ned aback briefly, until he remembered that he had told Alfred he would be meeting Bulls-eye that night—a suggestion that had been scotched by Lord Sheridan. He would have to come up with some story or another to satisfy Alfred. But short of a plan for the theft or word from the absent Kitty, he didn’t know what that would be.

The other servants went off to their beds as soon as their evening work was done, but Ned was rather at loose ends. He could not go to bed in the room he shared with Alfred, since the footman thought he was meeting Bulls-eye in Woodstock; if Alfred should stop by his room and find Ned there, the truth would come to light. For the same reason, Ned did not dare to stay in the servants’ hall, where coals still burned in the fireplace, or anywhere else Alfred might conceivably appear. On another night, he would have gone outdoors for a walk, but thunder was growling and lightning flashing, and a storm had been in progress for some time.

So Ned took himself off to the lamp-and-candle room, where the brass candlesticks were cleaned, the lamp chimneys polished, and all the lighting supplies and spare lamps stored. He shut and locked the door, lit several candles for good light, took a small book out of his jacket pocket, and sat on the floor with his back to the wall to finish reading Mr. Kipling’s
Captains Courageous,
which he had brought with him from home.

Engrossed, he finished the book in an hour. He stood up and stretched, feeling restlessly that perhaps he was being a bit too cautious. After all, Alfred was on duty in the great hall upstairs, and it wasn’t very likely that he would appear downstairs, was it? He could put the time to better use by exploring the labyrinth of hallways and corridors below-stairs. A real spy, he reminded himself, would undoubtedly use the opportunity to look around, reconnoiter, get the lay of the land. Anyway, he was hungry. And if memory served him correctly, he had seen one of the kitchen maids put a loaf of bread and some cheese into the corner cupboard.

So he took one of the candles and set off cautiously along the deserted back passage, making his way gingerly through the shadows cast by the flickering candle, feeling more and more like a spy. In the cavernous kitchen, the fire in the great iron range was banked for the night and the pans and dishes laid out in readiness for cooking breakfast. It took only a moment to ascertain that, indeed, the loaf and cheese were still in the corner cupboard and to cut off a sizable hunk of each, which he stowed in his jacket pocket.

Then he went down the corridor, past the empty servants’ hall and the locked butler’s pantry. Ahead of him, on the wall to his right, a variety of hats and umbrellas and jumpers hung from pegs, and beyond, there was an outer door. On the left, he noticed the large panel of electric bells labeled with the names of upstairs bedrooms—the Green Room, the Blue Room, the Yellow Room, all on the second floor, east wing—and on the wall beside the bell panel, a large, carefully drawn floor plan of the bedrooms and a roster listing the names of the guests in residence. He stopped to scrutinize the floor plan. Mr. Churchill, he saw with some interest, was in the Green Room, while Lord and Lady Sheridan were in the Blue Room. A real spy, he thought, would memorize the drawing, fixing all the points of interest in his mind so that when he had to creep about the house at night without a light, he would not be lost.

Ned was still studying the floor plan when the outer door opened and an old man stepped through, shaking himself like a dog. The shoulders of his canvas jacket were wet, his leather hat dripped rain, and his boots were muddy. His face was pock-marked and leathery, and the red kerchief tied loosely around his neck gave him the look of a gypsy.

“I’m here fer Alfred,” he said in a low voice. “I been sent to ’liver a message to ’im.”

The skin on the back of Ned’s neck prickled. Without a second’s hesitation, he said, “You’ve found him.” He leaned forward. “Bulls-eye sent you?”

The man took a step backward and eyed him up and down. “Bulls-eye sez Alfred’s a footman,” he said with a genial snort. He rubbed his knuckles, chuckling. “Ye’re nor big ’nough t’ be a footman. Nor old ’nough, neither. Ye’re jes’ a boy.”

Ned pulled himself up and put on a rakish grin, enjoying the pretense. “P’rhaps the Duchess thinks I have other talents.” He thrust his chin forward and, in a tone of threatening bravado, growled, “Bulls-eye won’t be pleased if you don’t hand that message over. Want me to tell him that you kept me waiting?”

“Ye’re a rough ’un, ye are, lad,” the man said sarcastically, “ ’specially fer such a young chap, and not a very big ’un, neither.” He sighed heavily, as if he were conscious of being terribly put upon. “Howbeit, it’s here in me pocket, so I ’spose ye should have it, if ye’re determined t’ be Alfred. Save me the trouble o’ looking fer ’im.” He fished in the pocket of his jacket and took out a folded piece of paper. Still holding it in his hand, he tilted his head with an inquiring look. “Well?”

“If you didn’t get your shillings from Bulls-eye, you’re not going to get them from me,” Ned retorted smartly. Then he grinned. “But if you’d like some bread and cheese to warm your belly on your way back to the Black Prince, you’re in luck. It just happens I’ve got some here.” He pulled the bread and cheese out of his pocket.

The man eyed the food. “Well, I reckon that’ll serve,” he said in a resigned tone. “But it do look dry. ’Ow ’bout a bot’le o’ beer t’ wash it down?

“Beer.” Ned laughed in an ugly way. “Not bloody likely, old man.”

“Ah, well,” the man said regretfully. The paper and the bread and cheese changed hands, and the man touched his cap. “G’night, Alfred,” he said with a broad wink, and went back out into the darkness.

Ned regarded the note. Pretending to be Alfred was one thing. But now what should he do? Take the note to Alfred, or—

He would read it first. He opened the note and held it up to the candle. It was rudely printed in pencil on unlined paper, and unsigned.

Rosamund’s Well was just across the lake from Blenheim Palace. Ned knew what it was and where it was, of course, for he had been there, with the other tourists. He could follow Alfred there, and hide in the bushes and listen to their conversation, or . . .

He stopped. Or he could go there himself,
instead of
Alfred. He could tell Bulls-eye that Alfred had been taken desperately ill, and had sent him in his place. He could pretend that he was anxious to join the gang and help with the robbery they were planning. That would put him in a position to learn much more than—

He stopped again. But Lord Sheridan had told him he couldn’t meet Bulls-eye, and he hated to violate his lordship’s direct order. He frowned, going back over the words in his mind. No, that wasn’t what his lordship had said, exactly. He had forbidden Ned to go into Woodstock to the Black Prince, for he considered that too dangerous. Ned could understand that line of reasoning; Woodstock was rather like enemy territory. But Rosamund’s Well was just on the other side of the lake, in Blenheim Park. Lord Sheridan hadn’t forbidden him to go there. He could—

A loud crack of thunder and the sound of rushing rain recalled him to the immediate moment, and Ned frowned. He had no light and no rain gear, and if he went out into the storm, he would be thoroughly sodden in a matter of minutes—not that a real spy would be concerned about such a minor inconvenience, of course, but still, there it was.

And then, with a sudden thought, he looked up. Directly in front of him, on one of the pegs beside the door, hung a mackintosh and hat. He stared at them for a moment, then he made up his mind. He took down the rain gear, bundled it under his arm, and went back to the lamp-and-candle room. Yes, there was an old-fashioned brass candle-lantern on a shelf, just as he had remembered. He made sure that there was a stub of candle in it, and pocketed matches and an extra candle. Best to be prepared.