He who asks questions cannot avoid the answers.
As Charles had feared, he was very late to tea. In fact, as he came down the hall toward the Saloon, the Duke was just leaving.
“Ah, Sheridan!” Marlborough seemed tired and nervy, and an almost pathetic eagerness was written across his aristocratic face. “What news have you? Has Miss Deacon been found?”
Charles shook his head. “I’m sorry to say, Your Grace, that she has not. It is rather more complicated than-”
“She has not!” the Duke exploded angrily. “Why, man, what have you been doing all day? I thought you were supposed to be an equal to Holmes!”
“I doubt, Your Grace,” Charles said in a dry tone, “that anyone could be Holmes’s equal. He is, after all, a fiction, and does not work or live in the real world.” Neither, he thought, did Marlborough.
“That’s an excuse.” The Duke pushed out his lower lip. “I won’t have excuses. I want action, I tell you. I want answers. I want Miss Deacon found.” He raised a clenched fist, his face contorted, his voice at an hysterical pitch. “I want her found, do you hear? Now, go and do it. Immediately!”
Charles felt the anger rise within him. Most of the realm’s peers seemed to him to demonstrate this same blind, unreasoning arrogance, this unconscionable idea that all men were theirs to command. They did not seem to understand that the center of political power was shifting-had indeed already shifted-and that a new, more democratic order had already replaced the authority of the traditional landed aristocracy. Inevitably, the power of the House of Lords would be broken, and the old nobility rendered irrelevant. Marlborough was a dinosaur. He was among the last of his kind, and was not wise enough to know it.
But Charles bit back the sharp retort that came to his tongue and said, in the mildest tone he could manage, “If His Grace will reflect, he may recall that I am not his servant, but his invited guest. Whatever I do to help him, I do of my own free will, rather than at his bidding.” And with that, he turned on his heel and left Marlborough sputtering.
In the Saloon, the Duchess, Winston, and Kate-looking unusually beautiful, he thought, in mist-green chiffon-were gathered in front of the fireplace, just finishing their tea.
But the Duchess, dressed in an ivory-lace tea gown that emphasized her youthfulness and doll-like fragility, was also leaving. “I do hope you’ll excuse me, Lord Sheridan,” she said, coming toward him with a bright smile. “I am expected upstairs in the nursery, to read to my sons after they’ve had their tea. It is one of the greatest pleasures of my day, and I try never to miss it.” She gestured to the footman standing behind the tea table. “Conrad, please see to Lord Sheridan’s tea.”
As the footman poured a cup of tea for him, Charles watched Consuelo out the door, thinking that she seemed too young and fragile to carry the responsibility of such a huge house on her shoulders, without (as far as he could tell) the support and assistance, or even the encouragement, of her husband.
But young as she was, she had already performed the Duchess of Marlborough’s most important function: She had produced not just one male heir-the future Duke-but two, ensuring that Blenheim would remain in the hands of the immediate Churchill family. Charles knew many men who married only to beget an heir and carry on the name; that crucial obligation accomplished, they simply ignored their wives and turned elsewhere for their pleasures, as Marlborough seemed to have turned to Gladys Deacon. He wondered when the Duchess would begin to do as other women in her position usually did: take a lover for herself, if only to relieve the monotony of her life and reassure herself that she was desirable and desired.
Charles took his cup of tea and plate of pastry and walked over to Winston, who was sitting with Kate in front of the fireplace. “I wonder,” he said quietly, “if you would mind dismissing the footman, Winston. I’d like a word with both of you, privately.”
And while Winston was speaking to the footman, Charles bent over and kissed the back of Kate’s neck with a greater tenderness than usual, wanting her to know that she was both desirable and desired. She reached for his hand, turned it over, and kissed the palm, an intimate gesture that touched him deeply. He was indeed a fortunate man to have this woman for his wife.
The footman having left the room, Winston came to stand in front of the fireplace. With a businesslike air, he said, “I spoke to Stevens just before tea, Charles. Your young man Lawrence seems to have made quite a favorable impression, in both appearance and manner. He is now in Alfred’s care, being instructed in his duties. He will, however, be free to come to us when he is sent for.”
“Very good,” Charles said with some relief. “Very good, indeed.” He sat beside Kate on the velvet settee, put his cup and saucer on the side table, and crossed his legs. At least that part of the business was underway, although it was too early to know whether the boy would meet with any success.
“Lawrence?” Kate asked curiously. “Who is that?”
“A young man of my acquaintance who has agreed to be our eyes and ears among the servants,” Charles said. He smiled at Kate’s questioning look and pressed her hand. “I’m afraid the story will have to wait, my dear. We have more urgent things to deal with, I think. Winston, what were you able to learn about Northcote in Woodstock?”
“Only that he took a room at The Bear very early this morning, and then caught the first train to Kidlington and points beyond,” Winston replied, clasping his hands behind his back, under the skirts of his coat. “He’s sent a telegram to the Duchess, begging her pardon for his sudden departure, which he blames on unexpected business. It arrived just before tea, she said.”
“It was sent from-”
“From London,” Winston replied.
“I take it that Miss Deacon was not with him when he left Woodstock,” Charles said.
“That’s correct. And the stationmaster does not recall seeing a young lady of her description at any point during the day.”
“A young lady?” Kate put in eagerly. “What about a young man?” Winston looked confused, and Kate subsided. “Forgive me for interrupting,” she said. “Please go on, Winston.”
Winston nodded. “I sent a telegram to Cornwallis-West, asking him for whatever information he might be willing to send me. I expect to hear tomorrow or the next day, by post.”
“Ah,” Charles said. “And your visit to the Black Prince?”
Winston put on a nonchalant expression. “Drew a blank, I’m afraid. I met a fellow with a red beard, but he could tell me nothing about the missing housemaid.” He went to the tea table, poured himself a cup of tea, and helped himself to a slice of cake. “More tea, Kate?” he asked, over his shoulder.
“Thank you, no,” Kate said. She turned to Charles. “Missing housemaids? What are you up to, Charles?”
“Bear with me, Kate,” Charles said. “First, I would like to hear what you found when you searched Miss Deacon’s room.”
Winston rejoined them, eyebrows lifted. “Kate searched Miss Deacon’s room?” He sat down in the chair across from them, boyishly stretching out his legs.
“I thought it should be done,” Charles replied, adding, with a hint of a smile, “It seemed more appropriate that it should be done by a lady, in case there was something that ought not be seen by male eyes.”
“There was nothing in the room that should shock anyone,” Kate replied. “And as it turned out, I was there twice. Once to find what was there, and once to find out what was missing.”
“That,” said Winston definitively, “has a whiff of intrigue.”
Kate gave them a small smile. “Her room was exactly as might be expected. Several photographs of admirers, signed with effusive endearments. The usual hairpieces and cosmetics possessed by a young lady in Society. A locked diary, which I did not open.” She reached down, picked up a tapestry bag, and took something out. “And this letter from Northcote.” She handed it to Charles. “It was lying, unfolded, on her bedside table.”
Charles opened and read it. When he had finished, without a word, he rose and handed it to Winston. Winston read it silently, pressing his lips together, until he reached nearly the end, and then began to read aloud.
“ ‘And if you refuse, why then I shall simply carry you off straightaway and the devil take he who tries to stop me-Marlborough or anyone else!’” With an indignant expression, he handed the letter back to Charles. “I guessed as much. Northcote is behind this whole affair. I don’t know what he’s done with her, but he’s clearly no gentleman. No gentleman at all!”
“Perhaps one cannot blame him,” Charles remarked, refolding the letter and putting it into the inside breast pocket of his jacket. “When he wrote this, he seems to have been laboring under the apprehension that Miss Deacon had accepted his offer of marriage, along with the family diamonds.” He smiled. “Although perhaps their conversation in the garden last night disabused him of that notion.”
“In the garden?” Kate asked in surprise. “But I thought Miss Deacon was there with the Duke.”
“Marlborough says that the two of them had a disagreement and that he left her there before ten-thirty,” Charles replied. “I rather imagine that Northcote was watching from an upstairs window, because he joined her shortly after. According to one of the footmen, who happened to witness the encounter, Northcote became rather heated. About twelve-thirty, the same footman saw him fleeing, bag in hand, from the house. He seems to have fetched up at The Bear, alone, and thence at the train.”
Winston looked at Kate. “The diamond necklace Northcote gave her,” he said tersely. “Did you find it in her room?”
“No necklace,” Kate said, shaking her head. “Only the gems we’ve seen her wear-some of them quite fine-and a few others. Oh, and a pouch of odd-looking stones, trinkets, really. They were in the drawer with her diary, rather than in her jewelry box. I doubt that they have any particular value.”
Not sure whether he was surprised or not, Charles turned to face her. “A pouch of stones?”
“Yes. A half-dozen or so, five, perhaps.” She gave him a quizzical look. “They were individually wrapped in tissue.”
“And what did they look like?”
“Like trinkets,” Kate said. “One was a scarab beetle-the sort of thing you’d find in Egypt. The others were of different colors, cut in odd shapes, with carvings all over them.” She frowned. “Are they important?”
Winston’s eyes had darkened and he was leaning forward, urgently. “Charles, you don’t imagine that-”
“Pound to a penny they’re what’s left of the Marlborough Gemstones,” Charles said. “Did you have a look in the Red Drawing-Room?”
“No,” Winston said, between his teeth, “although I certainly shall. But why would she-”
“Gemstones?” Kate leaned over and put a hand on Charles’s arm. “Charles, you must tell me what you’re talking about!”
Charles gave a deep sigh. He took no pleasure in the thought that his suspicions had been confirmed, for it only opened other, darker possibilities.
“I was reluctant to share this, but I see that I must. Friday last, a mysterious woman appeared at the Ashmolean. She brought a leather pouch containing five seal-stones, and asked the curator for an idea of their value. John Buttersworth, to whom she spoke, recognized the stones as similar to those in the Marlborough Gemstone collection, which was sold some thirty years ago. She apparently let it slip that she was an employee of the duchess-the Duchess of Marlborough, Buttersworth assumed.” He paused, adding dryly, “The lady in question was veiled, but according to Buttersworth, who is a connoisseur of such things, she had a classical Grecian nose.”
Winston’s face wore a look of astonishment, and he whistled between his teeth. “I can see our Miss Deacon doing many strange things, but it’s well nigh impossible to imagine her attempting to flog the Marlborough Gems. Whatever for? The lady certainly has funds enough of her own, or so she leads one to believe. Inherited a fortune from her father, I understand. And anyway, those stones, by themselves, aren’t worth much-unless she thinks there are others.” He pulled his brows together. “As well she might, if she hasn’t heard of the auction.”
“I can’t speak to motive,” Charles said, “but it’s not difficult to test the hypothesis. If you’ll have a look in the china box in the Red Drawing-Room, Winston, I’ll see to Miss Deacon’s room.” He turned to Kate. “A locked diary as well, you said?”
Kate nodded. “I could have picked the lock easily, but I decided against it.” She paused. “But there’s more to tell you, Charles. I went back to her bedroom a second time, with the maid, and discovered that a suit of men’s clothing is missing from the wardrobe-brown flannel trousers and jacket and brown boots. I also discovered that Miss Deacon took her small valise from the luggage room.”
“Men’s clothing?” Winston asked in astonishment. “And a valise? But what the devil-”
“A disguise,” Charles said. He grinned, amused. “Perhaps our elusive Miss Deacon has done a moonlight flit with Botsy Northcote’s diamonds.” He raised his eyebrows. “Or perhaps she took the train this morning, after all-not in her gold evening gown, but in a man’s brown suit.”
“Oh, surely not,” Winston said. “I can’t believe-” He stopped. “But why a disguise?” He repeated it to himself, puzzled. “Why a disguise?”
The question, Charles thought, had no answer, at least at the moment. But Kate was going on.
“There are some other things I need to show you, Charles,” she said. She reached into the tapestry bag once again and took out a gold leather evening slipper. “I found this in the boat house, in the bottom of the green rowboat. Not one of the Duke’s boats,” she added with a small smile, handing it to him. “A working boat, in the old boat house, according to Badger.”
“Badger?” Winston raised an eyebrow. “He’s Blenheim’s fishery man. A bit of a character, and eccentric. But he knows the lake and the river better than anyone else.” His glance darkened as he focused on the slipper Charles was turning over in his fingers, gazing at thoughtfully. “That slipper-it’s not Miss Deacon’s, is it?”
“I believe it is,” Kate replied. “It is the color of her dress.”
“Cinderella’s slipper,” Charles said, musing. “I wonder-” But again, there was no answer to the question, so he filed it away in his mind. “What other things have you there, Kate?”
Kate took a folded bit of paper out of her bag and opened it to reveal the butt of a cigarette. “I found this partially smoked cigarette in the boat as well, Charles. I doubt that it’s Miss Deacon’s, since she was wearing lip rouge, and there is none on the cigarette. I was hoping you might be able to take a fingerprint from it.”
“I’m afraid not,” Charles said, glancing at it. “But the boat house-of course, Kate! That tells us how she got to the other side of the lake, doesn’t it? To Rosamund’s Well, where you found the scrap of gold silk.”
Winston was looking from one to the other of them, his ginger-colored brows furrowed in puzzlement. “Scrap of silk?”
“I was at Rosamund’s Well this morning, sketching,” Kate explained. “I noticed a scrap of gold silk, which I took to be torn from the dress Miss Deacon was wearing last night. It was snagged on a small bush, a bush that didn’t seem quite sturdy enough to tear such heavy fabric.” She glanced at Charles. “Were you able to get to the Well and see for yourself?”
“That’s why I was late to tea,” Charles said. “I had a look around.” He hesitated. “I found several disquieting pieces of evidence, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, dear,” Kate said.
“Yes. There is a substantial smattering of blood on a paving stone beside the pool, and a bloody heelprint. I also found some marks in the dirt which suggest that something heavy was dragged toward the lake, perhaps to a waiting boat.”
Winston leapt from his chair. “The devil you say!” he exclaimed. “Do you think Miss Deacon is dead? Northcote-that cad, that scoundrel! He took her to the Well, killed her, and dumped her body into the lake.” He began striding back and forth, highly agitated. “What an appalling turn of affairs, simply appalling! And just think of the scandal, once this gets into the newspapers!”
“Well, that’s a certainly a hypothesis,” Charles replied, thinking that Winston’s concern for the Churchill reputation seemed rather misplaced. “But I don’t believe there’s any concrete evidence to support it. We don’t know whether Miss Deacon is dead or alive. And it’s entirely possible that the blood is not human blood at all, but that of an animal. A deer, for instance, might have been killed on the spot and the carcass dragged to a boat.”
Winston let out his breath in a gust of noisy relief. “Poachers!” he exclaimed, snapping his fingers. “Yes, of course! Why didn’t I think of that? There have always been people who clip into the Park and help themselves to game every now and then. It’s against the law, and Marlborough sees that they’re punished as severely as possible, but that never stops them.”
Charles did not point out that hungry people were not likely to be deterred by the fact that the deer belonged to the Duke. “And don’t forget,” he went on, “that another person, a servant, seems to have gone missing from this house.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” Kate said. “The housemaid you mentioned a few moments ago. What is her name?”
“Kitty,” Charles said.
Now it was Kate’s eyes that widened, and she dived back into her tapestry bag. “I found this note in the rowboat, as well, Charles.” She smoothed out the crumpled paper and read it aloud: “Dearest Kitty, I need to talk to you, soon as ever possible. You know I love you dearest and long to hold you close.” She looked up. “It’s signed, ‘Yours ’til death, Alfred. ’”
“Alfred!” Winston exclaimed. “The cleverboots! So he and this housemaid-”
“Yes,” Charles said. “Alfred and Kitty were together at Welbeck Abbey. After they left and before they came to take up positions here, they spent some time together in London.” He paused. “It’s time, Kate, that I tell you about this business with the servants. And it’s entirely possible that Northcote and Miss Deacon are involved, as well.”
“Botsy and Miss Deacon!” Winston cried. “In a ring of thieves? But that… that’s impossible! It’s absurd! Why, they are of our class! They-”
“Sit down and listen,” Charles said quietly, thinking that Winston’s noisy, unceasing bluster really did wear on one. “There is a thread here, as our friend Doyle is fond of saying, which may lead us through this tangle.”
It took Charles several moments to lay out the entire story. First, there was the theft during a large houseparty at Welbeck Abbey, where Alfred and Kitty had been employed and Gladys Deacon and Botsy Northcote had been guests. Then there had been the theft from the Ashmolean of the Warrington Hoard, offered for sale to Mr. Dreighson by a mysterious, as-yet-unidentified lady. Then there was the apparent offer of five gemstones, resembling the Marlborough Gemstones, to the museum-again by a mysterious lady. And finally, the appearance of Alfred, Kitty, Miss Deacon, and Botsy Northcote at Blenheim, with the Royal houseparty only three weeks away.
“Perhaps you can see,” Charles said to Kate when he had finished, “why I felt we needed a friendly pair of eyes and ears below-stairs.”
“A spy, you mean,” Kate said eagerly. “You’ve put in a mole, Charles.”
“A mole?” Winston asked dubiously.
“An intelligence agent. I found the word in a shilling-shocker.” Kate turned to Charles. “I can see why you think another theft might be afoot, Charles, given the fact that all four of these people are here. Or were here,” she corrected herself, “since two of the four now seem to be missing, and Northcote appears to have gone back to London.” She paused. “And perhaps a crime of passion, as well. There’s certainly enough animosity in this matter.”
“I’m afraid that’s true,” Charles said. “And if Miss Deacon, disguised or not, has met with foul play, the Duke, the Duchess, and Botsy Northcote must all be among the suspects, or so the police would think.”
“Surely not the Duchess!” Kate objected, as Winston groaned.
“I’m not saying that I suspect her, Kate. I’m only pointing out the possibilities that the police would be required to consider, especially if the Yard becomes involved.”
“As it no doubt would,” Winston said gloomily. “This is not a situation that the local constabulary would be prepared to deal with.”
Kate gave Charles a long look. “But perhaps Gladys didn’t meet with foul play,” she said. “Perhaps it was a deer that was killed at Rosamund’s Well.” She paused. “Or perhaps, well, there is a housemaid missing. Perhaps she’s the one who met with foul play.”
“But what of Gladys?” Winston cried. “Where the devil is she?”
It was not a question that any of them were prepared to answer.