A difference of taste in jokes is a great strain on the affections.
Charles had been up and about since very early that morning. He had gone to the railway depot to send a telegram to Leander Norwood, Chief of the Burglary Division at the Yard. Then he had returned to photograph the two bodies that were now in the game larder at Blenheim and write an affidavit briefly describing the circumstances surrounding the murder of Kitty Drake and the shooting death of Bulls-eye, whose surname was still a mystery-but not quite all of the circumstances. He omitted, for instance, the business about the planned burglary during the Royal visit, feeling that it was more the concern of the Yard than that of the local constabulary. And he did not explain why Bulls-eye, Ned, and Alfred had been at Rosamund’s Well, or how it happened that he and Winston had been there, too.
Charles had just finished the affidavit when the telegram arrived from Chief Norwood, saying that he would be arriving by the afternoon train. Charles breathed a sigh of relief, glad to know that the larger investigation would be taken out of his hands.
He took his watch from his pocket and noted the time with satisfaction. The first train should have left Woodstock with the two boys aboard: Ned on the short trip back to Oxford, Alfred to a less certain future in Brighton. There had been no point in detaining Alfred, for there was no proof of his role in previous robberies, and he had earned his release by his valuable service the night before. Ned had vigorously protested his own banishment, arguing that his services might still be required, but Charles had assured him that nothing remained but some rather boring administrative details. It was his objective, of course, to keep both the young men clear of any investigation that might follow. Also, Charles could not be certain that, even at this point, the gang would abandon their plan. He blamed himself for having exposed Ned to far more danger than he had anticipated. If Marlborough could not be persuaded to cancel the house party, a small army of Pinkertons would be wanted to provide even the most minimal security.
Charles slipped the watch back into his pocket. Then, with the telegram and the affidavit, he and Winston drove the Panhard to Woodstock, to the police station, and presented themselves to Constable Grant.
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.
Robin Paige
Death at Blenheim Palace