by Robin Paige
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
We hold several threads in our hands, and the odds are that one or other of them guides us to the truth. We may waste time in following the wrong one, but sooner or later we must come upon the right.
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.
Inside the boat house, the air smelled of weeds and rotting wood, and the silvery light danced across the surface of the water. Off to the left, in the shadows, Kate saw a pile of fishing gear, a heap of netting, and some fishing poles. To her right, there was a stack of wooden crates and baskets. A dock extended some six or eight feet into the water in front of her. A green-painted rowboat was tied to the dock on one side, with a pair of oars in the bottom. A yellow-painted rowboat was tied on the other.
Kate hesitated for a moment, as her eyes became accustomed to the shadowy gloom and the dazzling reflections. Then she stepped forward onto the dock, to a point where she could see down into the rowboat.
Look! Beryl exclaimed, with an excited nudge. What’s that in the bottom of the boat? It looks like Kate got down on her knees, be
nt over the boat, and picked up a golden evening slipper, somewhat damp from lying in a puddle.
It is! Beryl cried. It’s Gladys’s shoe!
Kate straightened up, still on her knees. It was indeed Gladys’s shoe-at least, it was the same color as the dress she had worn the night before. So Gladys really had gone across the lake in the rowboat.
There was a moment’s silence. But did she go by herself? Beryl asked, in a significant tone.
Kate frowned. Then, with no hesitation at all, she gathered her skirts, clambered down into the rocking boat, and began a thorough search, from prow to stern. She had just picked up several bits of litter when a dark shape loomed over her and a rough male voice demanded, “Here, now, Miss! Wot d’ye think yer doin’?”
Kate’s head snapped up. The man was small and wizened, with a gray beard and a thick shock of gray hair, as shaggy as a terrier. He was dressed in worn corduroy trousers, a jacket made of sacking, a brown leather hat, and workmen’s leather boots.
“I… I was just looking for something,” Kate stammered, straightening hastily and thrusting her left hand into her pocket. The boat rocked wildly, and the man leaned over and grabbed her right arm.
“Hey, now, Miss!” he cried. “Steady! Watch wot yer doin’ there, or ye’ll find yerself in the water!”
Kate recovered her balance. “Thank you,” she said. Accepting his extended hand, she climbed out of the boat, adding, somewhat breathlessly, “What did you say your name was?”
“Di’n’t,” the old man growled. “Badger’s wot they call me.”
“Well, thank you, Badger,” Kate said briskly, dusting her hands. “Are you responsible for these boats?”
The man looked even fiercer. “ ’Deed I am,” he said. “I’m ’sponsible fer the fish’ry on this lake, and I minds the boats. These be workin’ boats,” he added with a dark emphasis. “If ye’re wantin’ one o’ the Duke’s boats t’ go out for a row, ye need t’ go down the shore ’t the Duke’s boathouse.”
“I see,” Kate said. “So guests aren’t encouraged to take these boats?”
Badger pushed his hands into his pockets. “These be workin’ boats,” he growled again. “T’other boats’re better ’n’ cleaner. They’re fer the Duke’s guests. Wish they’d tell ’em that, up ’t the house,” he added in a disgruntled tone, “so people ’ud stop botherin’ me. Damn nuisance, is wot it is.”
“Bothering you?” Kate asked. “Have other guests inquired about these boats?”
Instead of answering, Badger squinted at her. “What’s that ye’ve got in yer hand?”
“Something I found in the boat,” Kate said, holding it up. “A woman’s slipper. It appears that one of the other guests, Miss Gladys Deacon, was in this rowboat last night, and may have gone across to Rosamund’s Well. Most likely, she was with someone-a man. Might you have seen them?”
A crafty look crossed Badger’s face, but it was gone as soon as it came. “Nobody but me uses these boats,” he said, in a gruff, ill-humored tone, evading Kate’s question. “Anyway, it’s dang’rous here. Rotten boards, deep water, nobody ’round to hear ye if ye call fer help.” He paused and added, ominously, “Nivver kin tell wot might happen in a place like this. Losin’ a shoe ’ud be a small thing, compared.”
Hearing the warning-or was it a threat? — in his tone, Kate nodded. “Thank you,” she said, thinking that Badger knew more than he was willing to tell her. It might be a good idea if Charles talked to the man. “And how do I reach the Duke’s boats?”
Badger jerked his thumb. “That way. Take the path.”
Feeling Badger’s dark glance following her until she was out of sight, Kate did as she was bid, taking a path that meandered for fifty yards along the shore of the lake. The Duke’s boathouse, it turned out, was large and ornate, rather like a picnic pavilion. However, as Kate discovered, it was securely locked, which answered one question that had come to her mind: why Gladys-and her rowing partner, if she was not alone-had taken one of the working boats instead of the boats available for guests.
In the distance, Kate heard the resounding gong that signaled luncheon. She’d have to hurry, or she’d be late. But as she went up the hill toward the palace, she couldn’t resist taking her finds from her skirt pocket and looking at them again.
Gladys Deacon’s golden slipper, slightly damp.
A cigarette bearing the Marlborough crest, half-smoked, also damp and trodden upon, found in the bottom of the boat.
And what looked like a letter written in ink in an unskilled hand on a ragged piece of paper, crumpled and much blotted, found with the cigarette.
Dearest Kitty,
I need to talk to you, soon as ever posibel. You know I luv you dearest and long too hold you close.
Yours ’til death
Alfred
A touching little love note, Beryl sniffed, but I doubt it has anything to do with Gladys.
Kate agreed. It had probably been written by one of the male servants to a female servant, and suggested that Badger’s rowboats were more commonly used than he liked to acknowledge. It might even have been one of the servants who arranged for the lock to be unfastened.
But the slipper certainly belonged to Gladys, and the cigarette, too, most likely, although Kate would have expected that if it were Gladys’s cigarette, it would have borne traces of her lip coloring. It did not. Kate wondered whether it was possible to take a fingerprint from a half-smoked cigarette, and handled it carefully. She was anxious to see Charles and give everything over to him, including Northcote’s letter.
And if Beryl was feeling smug about the course of their investigations this morning, who could blame her? They had, after all, answered their initial question. But the answer raised still other questions, and Kate frowned as she pondered them.
Gladys seemed to have gone across the lake in the rowboat. Did she go voluntarily, or against her will, as the shoe seemed to suggest? And who had rowed the boat back across the lake and returned it to the boat house? The passionate Northcote, who threatened to spirit Gladys away? The secretive Duke of Marlborough, whose taciturnity might conceal an even greater passion? Some as-yet-unidentified third man, perhaps a spurned lover? And where in the world could Gladys have gone, minus one shoe? Kate shivered, liking neither the questions nor the possible answers, all of which seemed to her to be ominous.
And as she went into the palace through a rear door, a line from one of Conan Doyle’s recent novels came into her mind. “We hold several threads in our hands,” Sherlock Holmes had said to Watson, “and the odds are that one or other of them guides us to the truth.”
She held several threads of a mystery in her hand, like the golden thread that had led Eleanor straight to the heart of Rosamund’s labyrinth.
But what exactly was the mystery?
And did any of the threads lead to the truth?
CHAPTER TWENTY
Circumstantial evidence is a very tricky thing. It may seem to point very straight to one thing, but if you shift your own point of view a little, you may find it pointing in an equally uncompromising manner to something entirely different.
The Boscombe Valley Mystery, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Winston Churchill thought of himself as a man of some importance, and under other circumstances might have resisted the suggestion that he make inquiries at an hotel or a railway station, as if he were a policeman or a private inquiry agent.
However, he knew that it was of the utmost urgency that he and Charles discover Gladys’s whereabouts and get her safely back to Blenheim Palace. Since he refused to believe that Sunny might have had anything to do with her disappearance, that left only that blasted Northcote. Or some unknown person, of course-a possibility that, where Gladys was concerned, ought perhaps not be discounted. Miss Deacon had a great many suitors, both past and present, and one never knew how a disappointed fellow might take it into his head to behave.
But first there was that other business to attend to-Charles Sherid
an’s scheme designed to obstruct a possible robbery attempt during Edward’s and Alexandra’s visit. It was very hard for him to imagine a ring of thieves daring to infiltrate Blenheim Palace and target its illustrious guests. But even Winston had to admit the awful possibility of such a thing, and he was all for any plan that would keep the family from the public humiliation of a jewel theft during a Royal weekend! And when it was all over and the danger had passed, he would be glad to receive the Duke’s gratitude for having rescued the Marlborough name from disgrace.
So, spurred by a sense of familial responsibility, Winston had located the butler and informed him that Lord Sheridan wanted to find a place for a worthy young man of his acquaintance and that he, Winston, had agreed to look into the possibility of obtaining a page’s position for the boy at Blenheim. Lord Sheridan hoped to send the young man along later in the afternoon, and both he and Winston would very much appreciate it if Stevens might accomodate him.
Bowing, Stevens had conceded that it would indeed be possible to find a place for Lord Sheridan’s young acquaintance, since he had only that morning obtained Her Grace’s permission to hire a new page. Winston assured Stevens that he and Lord Sheridan could vouch for the young man’s suitability, and suggested that Alfred be assigned to supervise the boy.
“Alfred, sir?” Stevens asked with a frown. “But he has not been here long himself and-”
“Yes, Alfred,” Winston said peremptorily. He did not intend to explain. “As well, I should like you to allow the young man some latitude in the execution of his duties, in case either Lord Sheridan or I have special tasks for him.”
Stevens’s audible sigh was resigned. He was obviously accustomed to dealing with peremptory persons. “Certainly, sir,” he said.
“Very good, Stevens,” Winston said. “I regret that both Lord Sheridan and I shall have to miss luncheon. Would you convey our apologies to the Duchess, please?” Then he went out to the stables, where he got a cart and pony and drove off to Woodstock with the intention of seeing if he could discover any bit of information relating to Northcote and Gladys Deacon.
