Death at Blenheim Palace

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Winston had begun working on his father’s Life the summer before, and was already nearing the end of what he planned as the first of a two-volume work. He knew, though, that he was going to have to spend quite a bit more time polishing the text than he would like. His task was to redeem Lord Randolph from the portrayals of his more malicious peers, as a conniving, capricious politician who had thrown up a promising career on a crazy whim. While others might suggest that Lord Randolph had been an angry, spendthrift, syphilitic husband and a cold and uncaring father, Winston saw him as a great statesman who was too busy about the affairs of the Empire to squander his energies on his family, and especially his undeserving eldest son. Lord Randolph was a Churchill, cast in the same mold as that noble duke, the first Marlborough, and it was Winston’s job to guard that memory and the Churchill name, and to do all he could to enhance it.

This morning, Winston was scribbling away at a paragraph about his father’s abrupt breach with his party. But he put down his pen when Consuelo came into the room, not stopping to knock. She was followed by Kate Sheridan. Both were breathless, and the Duchess wore an almost distracted look.

“Why, my dear Connie!” he exclaimed, rising and holding out his hands. “Whatever is wrong?”

“It’s Gladys,” Consuelo said wretchedly, “and the Duke. They’re gone!”

“Gone?” Winston echoed stupidly. Her hands in his were very cold, and her fingers were trembling. “Gone? Both of them?” His thoughts immediately went to the gesture he had seen the night before, the public touch, the open declaration. What a wretched business! And where the devil was Marlborough? He hadn’t gone off with that foolish girl, had he? By Jove, if he had But that was unthinkable. Marlborough might fancy himself in love, but he could never bring himself to drag the family name through the dirt, or risk a break with the Vanderbilts-and the Vanderbilt money.

Kate Sheridan put a steadying hand on Consuelo’s shoulder. “What Consuelo means,” she said in a calm, quiet voice, “is that Gladys did not sleep in her bed last night, nor change clothes.”

“Did not sleep in her bed!” Winston exclaimed in agitation.

Kate nodded. “And since her absence struck us as a rather serious matter, we thought that the Duke ought to be informed-except that we’ve not been able to locate him.” She paused. “We spoke to Mr. Meloy, who has not seen him. Mallory, his valet, did not see him this morning, either. It doesn’t seem helpful to alarm the servants, so we thought that perhaps you might have a look for the Duke and-”

“Yes, of course,” Winston interrupted. “I should be glad to, very glad.” He kissed Consuelo’s hands and let them go. “You can count on me,” he said comfortingly, suppressing his own rising alarm. “I’ll find Sunny, and then we can sit down together and discuss what should be done about Gladys.” By heaven, he would force Sunny to come to terms on this business, and make a final break with Gladys. Marlborough had to be made to see the danger the woman posed. “She can’t have wandered far,” he added, putting on a reassuring smile, “not dressed as she was. In fact, she may have already returned to her room.”

From the beginning of his acquaintance with Sunny’s wife, Winston had gone out of his way to cultivate a strong friendship with her. That had not been difficult, for Consuelo was shy and lacking in confidence and had accepted him happily as an ally who helped her face her husband’s family. He wanted her to see him in all matters as her advocate and champion, as well as her representative among the Churchills, who were quite a formidable lot, all in all, extremely judgmental and critical.

Of course, Winston realized that this advocacy position was not an entirely unselfish one. It was sometimes hard to know what was going on in the Duke’s mind, but Consuelo was much more artless and transparent, and she confided in him things-private family matters-that her husband would have concealed. If Consuelo saw him as her confidant, Winston would always know what was going on at Blenheim, which, after all, was his home, too.

“Oh, thank you, Winston,” Consuelo said, her voice lightened with relief, some of the strain in her face easing. “What do you… what are you going to do? And what do you think Kate and I should do?”

“Well, for a start,” Winston said, with more careless confidence than he felt, “you and Lady Sheridan could take your little electric car and go for a drive around the Park. You might run into Sunny, he’s probably just gone out for a morning ride. And you might even catch a glimpse of Gladys.” Although as to why Miss Deacon would be wandering around the Park in her evening dress and slippers, Winston couldn’t hazard a guess. But he had to say something, and apparently Consuelo was satisfied.

“Yes, of course,” she said, sounding relieved. “The car. What a very good idea, Winston. Kate and I will go immediately.” She paused, frowning. “But what will you do?”

“I? Why, I’m off to the stables,” Winston replied easily. “Sunny may have mentioned to the groom which way he intended to ride.” He bent over to kiss Consuelo’s pale cheek. “Don’t fret, my dear. I’m sure we’ll find each of them, safe and sound.”

And pray God, he thought fervently, we don’t find them together. He had put the best face on things for Consuelo, but he was deeply troubled, and by the time he had reached the stables, Winston had worked himself into a fine frenzy. If it were just Gladys who had gone missing, it was probably just one of her madcap escapades. The girl was prone to pranks and high jinks and had little regard for proper conduct or for the feelings of others, although he had to admit that it was rather odd that she had disappeared in her dinner dress. The Duke’s absence raised another urgent question, though, one that he hoped very much would be answered at the stables.

But Winston was to be disappointed, for no one at the stables had a clue as to Marlborough’s whereabouts. Sunny had not taken one of the horses, and while there were any number of bicycles around the estate, Winston could not imagine his aristocratic cousin actually riding one. As to going off on foot, well, that seemed equally improbable. Unless he was hunting, the Duke did not enjoy tramping through the fields and woods.

Winston prided himself on his reputation as a man of action and a quick thinker who was never at a loss for ideas. But at this moment, Winston couldn’t think of a single thing-except to turn out all the servants and question every one of them, which of course he could not do.

It was at that moment that a new possibility suggested itself to Winston in the person of Charles Sheridan, who was walking jauntily across the stable yard, dressed in a somewhat disreputable Norfolk jacket, with a camera bag over one shoulder and a tripod over the other. He was whistling.

Winston suddenly discovered that he had been holding his breath and let it out. He strode toward Charles, speaking eagerly.

“I say, Sheridan, might we have a private word?”