Death at Blenheim Palace (33 page)

The constable was a man of few words. He read Charles’s affidavit, and then read the Chief’s telegram, and then put both down on the desk in front of him. “Bodies?” he grunted.

“In the game larder, at the palace,” Charles replied.

The constable looked at Winston, who was standing uncomfortably, holding his hat in his hand. “Didn’t mean t’ kill ’im, eh?” he said, skeptical. “Fired to wound, did ye?”

Winston cleared his throat. “That’s right, Constable. But it was very dark, y’see, and he was holding a knife to the footman’s throat, and my aim was not as true as it should’ve been.” He cleared his throat again. “It seemed to us—to Lord Sheridan and myself, that is—that since these deaths occurred on the estate of the Duke of Marlborough, it would be better if the investigation were turned over to the Yard, rather than handled as a local matter. We hope you agree.”

“And wot would it earn me if I didn’t?” the constable replied darkly. “You lot at Blenheim are going t’ do wot you please, wotever I say.”

Winston reddened. “Now, Constable, that’s no way to—”

“Thank you, Constable Grant,” Charles said, taking Winston’s arm. “You can reach us at the palace if there are any other questions. I’m sure that Chief Norwood will be glad to keep you posted on the progress of the investigation.”

The constable growled something unintelligible, and they left. A few minutes later, they pulled up in front of the Fishery Cottage, got out, and went around the back.

An old man looked up from the task of cleaning a large pike on a plank table under a willow tree, a collie dog lying at his feet. Charles introduced himself and Winston and explained that they had come to hear the circumstances of his discovery of the body, and to ask a few general questions.

The man—Badger—put down his knife, wiped his hand on his tunic, lit a cigarette and told his story. He’d been busy all day—on Fisheries business, of course—and hadn’t had been able to check the net by the dam. Thinking he should do it before the storm, he rowed directly there and found the body of the woman entangled in the net. With great difficulty, he had hauled the foul thing into the boat, rowed it to shore, and trucked it up to the palace forthwith, where, not wanting to make a stir and commotion, he had quietly knocked up the butler and the two of them determined that the corpse should be stowed in the game larder.

“And quite right, too,” Winston said, having been instructed by Charles not to mention the word poaching. “His Grace is grateful for your discretion.”

“Thank’ee, sir,” Badger said solemnly. “The Duke c’n count on me, sir.” He wiped the other hand on his tunic and Winston, taking the hint, took a five-pound note out of his wallet and gave it to the old man.

“One or two other questions, if you don’t mind,” Charles said quietly, when the note had been folded and safely stowed in Badger’s pocket. “I wonder whether you have noticed any unauthorized use of your boats in the past week or so.”

“Unauth’rized, ye say?” Badger squinted. “Well, at the last weekend, I found the yellow rowboat adrift, if that’s wot ye mean, sir.”

“That would’ve been Saturday or Sunday?” Charles asked. The housemaid had gone missing on Friday night. She might have gone over to Rosamund’s Well, where Bulls-eye had slashed her throat and dragged her to the rowboat, and then rowed her out to the middle of the lake.

“Satiddy, sir,” Badger said. “Reckoned it was one o’ the servants, though they’re s’posed t’ know better.”

Charles nodded. “And any other use?” he asked in a casual tone. “Someone, perhaps, who paid you to row her across the lake—say, on Wednesday night, rather late?”

Badger’s eyes opened very wide in an expression of injured innocence. “Paid
me?
Why, m’lord, I—”

“A lady dressed in a gold evening gown and wearing a diamond necklace. Who gave you some of the Duke’s cigarettes.” Charles hardened his voice. “Come, now, Badger. I’ll have the truth.”

Badger squirmed, coughed, and said, at last, in a sulky tone: “Well, since ye know. Yes, she paid me t’ row ’er.”

Charles heard Winston’s quick intake of breath, and shot him a warning glance. To Badger, he said, “When did she first speak to you about it?”

“Monday or Tuesday,” Badger said.

Charles considered. So Gladys had made the arrangement for her disappearance well in advance. It had all been part of a scheme, arranged, perhaps, to give everyone—especially the Duke—a scare. “Did she tell you why she was doing such a thing?” he asked.

Badger shook his head. “Only that it was a joke she was playin’,” he said glumly.

Some joke, Charles thought. He was only surprised that the Duke had not yet received a ransom note.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

 
Pascal
Pensées, 1670

 
 
 
Gladys Deacon put down her pencil and stared, frowning, at her third attempt at writing a note. The handwriting sloped crookedly across the page, she had misspelled two of the words, and the bottom of the paper was smeared with something that seemed to be blood but was really only the juice of a ripe strawberry. It certainly looked convincing, but was it? Would Marlborough be taken in by it? Did he care enough to pay the ransom? How
much
did he care?

 
Gladys got up, went to the shelf where she’d put her small supply of food, and took down a loaf of bread, a pot of butter, a slab of cheese, a knife, and an earthenware plate. She could have purchased anything the Woodstock shops had on offer, of course, or she could have gone to one of the local pubs for a meal. Dressed as she was in trousers and a jacket, her hair pinned up firmly under a cap, she was in no danger of being recognized. But it suited her, while she was staying in this rustic woodsman’s cottage at the very edge of the Blenheim estate, to eat like a woodsman: plain, solid, nourishing food, no frills, no fancies. She had found a rabbit snare in a shed—why, she might even set it and trap a rabbit to roast on the spit in the fireplace.

But she wouldn’t be staying here long, Gladys reminded herself with a brief smile. Tonight, she’d give a village lad a shilling to deliver the note, and then—

She stopped, frowning. Where should she tell Marlborough to leave the money? And in what form? Coins were too bulky. Bank notes were better—a thousand five-pound notes would easily fit into a valise.

But where should he be instructed to put it? A busy place, where there was a great deal of commotion, and where she could watch from a distance to find out whether he cared enough to pay the money to insure her release from the appalling criminals who had abducted her. But where?

And then she thought of it, and smiled at the amusing irony. Fair Rosamund, the name of the locomotive that pulled the railway train to Kennington. Marlborough could put a satchel containing the bank notes on the train—of course, she’d add that instruction to the note. No doubt he would employ several private inquiry agents to ride the train and pounce on whoever picked it up. If some hapless person were so unfortunate as to look inside the bag, there would be a great commotion and he would be hauled off to jail.

She sighed. Unfortunately, she wouldn’t be there to see all the fuss, for she wouldn’t be riding the train. She didn’t give a fig for the money, of course; she only cared that Marlborough loved her enough to pay for her release. In the safety of her disguise, she would enjoy watching him put it on the train, and after that, it was no business of hers. After that, she would hide herself away in France for a week or so, selling Botsy’s grandmother’s diamond necklace to fund her stay, then reappear at Blenheim just as the Royal entourage descended on the palace. Marlborough would tell her how deliriously happy he was that she was safe, and she would tell him what a narrow escape she had had. And it would be immediately clear to everyone, including the King and Queen, exactly what her position was with the Duke.

Gladys’s smile grew wider, and she sat down to her simple meal with a genuine enthusiasm. Her position with the Duke, indeed! She had been only fourteen when Marlborough had engaged himself to Consuelo, in October of 1895. She had read the stories in the newspapers—really, the entire world had been full of the news!—and it had so entirely captured her imagination that it came to obsess her. Unable to think of anything else, she had written to her mother,

 
Remembering her childish letter, she laughed aloud, for she had never given up the chance to get Marlborough, and when she understood that his marriage to Consuelo was no bar, she had done exactly as she’d intended: She had
got
him. And she had him still, she told herself triumphantly, for even though Consuelo had given him an heir, she could not give him what he wanted most, love and adoration and—

At the sound of wheels crunching in the gravel outside the door, Gladys felt suddenly alarmed. She pushed her plate aside and stood up. The cottage was abandoned, Consuelo had told her, when they had passed it on one of their drives in the electric motor car; no one had lived here for some years, nor was expected to, since the fields to which it was attached had been sold. So who—

The door opened without a knock and Consuelo came in, followed by Lady Sheridan.

“Hello, Gladys,” Consuelo said calmly enough, although the two red spots high on her cheeks betrayed her feeling. “I thought we might find you here.” She smiled slightly. “What a charming costume, my dear. Men’s clothing suits you, I must say.”

“Hel . . . hello, dear Connie,” Gladys said, forcing herself to smile. “I . . . I didn’t expect—”

She reached for the unfinished ransom note on the table, but she wasn’t quite quick enough.

Lady Sheridan had it, read it at a glance, and handed it to the Duchess, who read it and folded it carefully, tucking it into her sleeve. “I think I had best keep this,” she said. “I daresay you won’t be wanting to use it, after all.”

Gladys tossed off a light laugh. “It’s just a harmless little joke, you know, dear Connie. Only a prank. You know how I love jokes. Of course, I wouldn’t have taken the money. You and Marlborough would have gotten it back, and we’d all have had a good laugh together—”

“No doubt,” the Duchess said, holding herself in a regal posture, looking at Gladys with distaste as if she were an errant child—no, worse, someone for whom she had no use and no liking. “No doubt we would have laughed ourselves into hysterics at this shabby little bit of trickery, Gladys. And when we were quiet and calm again, I’m sure you would have thought of something else to liven things up.”

“Oh, yes,” Gladys said quickly. “I love Blenheim, you know, but it
is
awfully dull at times.”

“I know exactly how you must feel,” said the Duchess, her voice full of significance. “That’s why I think it’s time that you went back to Paris, my dear. Or Rome, if that’s your pleasure.” She glanced down at the watch pinned to her lapel. “In fact, I believe there’s just time to get you to the station so that you can catch the one o’clock train.” She looked up at Lady Sheridan. “Don’t you agree, Kate?”

Gravely, Lady Sheridan nodded.

“Oh,” cried Gladys, “but I have no suits or gowns or—”

“No matter,” Consuelo said, smiling gaily. “You can travel as you are—you make quite a handsome young man. I’ll have your wardrobe packed and sent to you. It will be there almost as soon as you are.”

“But . . . but I want to say goodbye to Marlborough,” Gladys cried, knowing that although the Duke might be angry at her for deceiving him, he wouldn’t stay angry for long. He would—

“I don’t think that’s wise,” Lady Sheridan said firmly. “You see, there has been quite an upset while you were gone. A housemaid has been found dead, a man has been shot, and a ring of jewel thieves has been discovered.” She cleared her throat delicately. “And there is some suggestion, I’m afraid, that you might have been involved in it. The Duchess and I are sure that it’s a mistake, but you do see the difficulty, don’t you? Poor Lord Northcote’s diamond necklace is gone, which makes it seem that you might be one of the thieves.”

“Oh, but that’s absurd!” Gladys exclaimed. “Totally, entirely absurd!”

“Oh, I’m
sure,
” the Duchess replied. “However, it might be a good idea if I returned Lord Northcote’s jewels to him. He really is quite concerned.”

Gladys flushed. She had not intended to return the necklace, but now it seemed that she had no choice. And no choice but to get on the train, either. As she went to get the necklace, she cast a hard look at Lady Sheridan.
She
was the one who had turned the Duchess against her, and the Duke, too. It was all her fault.

“Here you are,” Gladys said, putting the necklace into the Duchess’s hands. She gave her a hard look. “This will change things, you know, Consuelo. Between us, I mean. You and me. It will be open warfare now. And in the end, I will get him.”

“Of course you will,” the Duchess said gently. She smiled, and there was a genuine compassion in her voice. “I am very sorry for you, Gladys. He will not make you happy.”

“P’rhaps not,” Gladys said, stung. “But there is always Blenheim.”

“Indeed,” said the Duchess. “There is
always
Blenheim.”

AUTHORS’ AFTERWORD

A strange thing happens when you write about people in the public domain. After a while you feel that
you
created them and that nobody else has any rights over them
whatsoever.
What you invent and what you remember become the same in your mind. This might have worried me had I been writing a history piece, but I wasn’t. . . . To an historian this may sound like heresy, but even the strictest biographies are, by definition, subjective and in the end, we all guess.