Death at Blenheim Palace

CHAPTER SEVEN

It was early Wednesday evening as Alfred hurried through the small gate beside the River Glyme where it flowed under the Park wall. In fact, the hour was so early that Bulls-eye might not yet have put in an appearance at the pub. But Alfred had no choice-it was now or not at all. And by this time, he was feeling desperate.

Alfred’s destination, the pub called the Black Prince, was located just across Manor Road, a much-traveled coach-road which ran from London to Oxford and Woodstock, then northward to Chipping Norton and Stratford-upon-Avon. Alfred darted across the road, busy with the usual clattering traffic of carts and drays, and pushed through the crowd of hooting children and barking dogs which was trailing a noisy motorcar. He paused at the door of the Prince, pulling down his cap to hide his powdered hair and allowing his eyes to grow accustomed to the dimness.

The Prince was certainly not one of Woodstock’s poshest pubs. The ceiling was low and smoke-stained, shoals of filthy sawdust drifted across the stone floor, and the company was rowdy and quarrelsome. But the place was dark as a pit, even in broad daylight, and the din of the crowd blanketed private conversation, which made it a right-enough place to meet somebody if you didn’t want to be noticed or overheard. Over the weeks he’d been in service at Blenheim, Alfred had spent a leisurely evening or two here, in the company of one or another of the other footmen.

But tonight Alfred was in a hurry. It was his half-day off, officially, but Manning had hurt his hand and Alfred was made to serve at tea. He would have to serve at dinner, too, which meant that he had to get this business done and get back before old Stevens missed him. The butler wasn’t hard on the footmen, but he was particular about seeing that everyone kept to the duty roster. With relief, he spotted Bulls-eye at his usual table in a far dark corner, hunched over a mug and a pitcher of ale. He pushed his way through the crowd toward him.

At the table, Bulls-eye lifted his head and regarded Alfred with a frown. “Wot’re ye doin’ ’ere?” he demanded, over a roar of laughter at the bar. If he was surprised, he didn’t betray it, only looked annoyed. “There’s a rule ’bout meetings, y’know. Less we’re seen together, the better fer all concerned.”

“I had to come,” Alfred said breathlessly. “Something’s gone wrong.”

“Gone wrong, ’as it?” Bulls-eye kicked out a chair and Alfred seated himself. “Wot’s gone wrong?”

At the bar, there was a loud clink of glasses and another roar of laughter. “It’s the girl,” Alfred said, trying to be offhand. He cast an uneasy glance over his shoulder, hoping that none of the other servants were here. He couldn’t be charged with doing anything wrong, of course. It was his half-day off, even if he’d had to stand in for Manning. He had every bit as much right to be here as the next man. Still and all, Bulls-eye’s remark had reminded him that this wasn’t an ordinary meeting, and he felt apprehensive.

“The girl?” Bulls-eye scowled. “She’s keeping up ’er end, ain’t she?” He paused, seemed to collect himself, and picked up the pitcher. “If ye want a glass, get one from the bar.”

Alfred shook his head. He couldn’t serve at dinner smelling like a brewery. “I don’t know whether she is or not,” he said. “I haven’t seen her since Friday, and that’s a fact.”

“Since Friday?” Bulls-eye’s forehead puckered. He was a short man, stout and thick-chested, with heavy shoulders, beefy hands, and thick, bushy black hair that stuck out in all directions. “An’ today’s Wednesday. I shouldn’t think ye’d be likely t’see ’er all that much.” He frowned at Alfred. “Doan’t work in the same places, d’ye? Doan’t take yer meals together, d’ye?” He paused, lowering his brows. “Anybody at the house askin’ questions ’bout ’er?”

“Questions?” Alfred repeated uneasily. “Not that I’ve heard.”

Bulls-eye’s comments were to the point, however, because under ordinary circumstances and in most of the big houses, a footman would cross a housemaid’s path only occasionally. At Blenheim, the housemaids ate with the lower servants in the servants’ hall, while the six footmen took their meals together in the butler’s pantry. During the working day, the footmen waited on the family and guests in the drawing rooms and Saloon and rarely found their way into the private quarters, while the housemaids mostly worked in the upstairs bedrooms, with only short stints in rota for dusting and carpets downstairs.

However, Blenheim wasn’t the first place Alfred and Kitty had worked together, and they had become friends. Much more than friends, at least as far as Alfred was concerned. Kitty wasn’t any prettier than other girls, but she had a lovely head of abundant hair the color of strawberries in the sun. And she was crafty and resourceful and enterprising and used her wits in a way that Alfred-for all his other good qualities-knew that he didn’t. She always had a sharp eye out for the main chance. She could see possibilities for independent enterprise when Alfred himself would simply do what he was told. At Welbeck Abbey, their second assignment together, Kitty had suggested that they might find it to their mutual advantage to join forces, not just to get the job done, but to make sure that there’d be a little something extra in it for themselves at the end. Alfred, a simpler soul, had agreed, and they had come out of it very much to the good and nobody the wiser.

And after Welbeck, there had been those two nights in London-Alfred’s heart burned inside him to think about it-two long, delicious nights, filled with exotic and unimaginable pleasures, for Kitty, undressed and uncorsetted, was a creature of wildly abandoned charms, and she had bestowed all of them, with an uninhibited generosity, upon Alfred, who’d never in his life thought to receive such gifts.

In return for these treasures, Alfred had fallen fiercely, frantically in love with Kitty, and thought-hoped, rather, for she kept her feelings veiled and never gave him so much as a hint-that she might come to love him, if not now, then soon. If all went well with this job, he had begun to think that it was time to leave off what they were doing and take their earnings and set themselves up in Brighton, where his cousin owned a pub just off the Pier and would be glad to take Alfred as a partner. Kitty could stay at home and raise their children-the dear little Alfreds and Kittys who would come along-and they would all be blissfully happy together.

Which was why Alfred had managed to keep an eye out for Kitty in more than the usual way, and why he had written to her, and why he was unhappily aware that Friday was the last day she had been in her regular place. But he kept all this to himself, saying only, with a careless little shrug, that the girl hadn’t been at morning prayers or in her rota in the drawing room and he was just wondering if perhaps she’d made some sort of contact with Bulls-eye, and if so, whether there had been a change in plans.

“No change in plans,” growled Bulls-eye darkly. He leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. “You and the girl-friends, are ye? Been talkin’ t’ye, has she? Sharin’ ’er secrets, like?”

Alfred stiffened, not liking the other’s accusing attitude. “Why shouldn’t we be friends?” he asked defensively. “Why shouldn’t we talk, or share secrets?” Bulls-eye seemed to be watching him with a different interest now, and he began to wonder uneasily if it was considered unwise to be involved with one’s confederates. He added, more carefully, “Of course, we have to share secrets, don’t we? Working together as we do, each of us has to know what the other knows. Believe me, we’ll make good use of it when the time comes.”

Bulls-eye regarded him narrowly, as if he were trying to make up his mind about something. Alfred waited for the lecture he feared was forthcoming.

But Bulls-eye said only, “Ye’d do well, young fellow, t’concentrate yer mind on the business at ’and. I trust ye’ve been noticing the ways in and out and wot doors’re locked and when and by ’oo. I trust ye’ll not come up short on the day.”

“Of course not,” Alfred said indignantly. “I simply wondered if something had happened and Kitty’d been pulled out of the game. I-”

“If anybody’s pulled, ye’ll know it,” Bulls-eye said in a definitive tone. “Now, you go back and do yer business and keep yer mouth shut. Oh, an’ keep yer eye out for a new hire who’ll ’ave yer instructions.” It had been the Syndicate’s habit, Alfred knew, to use a local boy or young man to carry messages. Boys could go from the palace to the village and back again, without suspicion. “An’ doan’t come round ’ere lookin’ fer me,” he added sternly. “It’s dang’rous business, an’ it’s bad practice. Not t’ say against the rules.”

Alfred nodded. From the tone of Bulls-eye’s voice, he knew he’d got all he was going to get. None the wiser about Kitty, and with a dreadfully heavy heart, he got up and left.