Death at Blenheim Palace

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Charles, a photographer of some note, had spent the morning with his camera on the eastern side of the Park, where he had photographed the picturesque Swiss Cottage, a timbered house with roundel windows and a curious spired turret, set within a grove of trees that made for some rather pretty pictures.

But on the whole, the photographic expedition had been a pretext to get away from the palace and reflect upon a number of puzzling facts, some of which might be entirely unimportant, or vital to some sequence of events that he did not yet understand. While Charles pointed his camera here and there, he was reviewing what he knew about the theft of the Warrington Hoard-an inside job, so to speak, accomplished with the aid of a recently hired char woman and a certain mysterious lady who offered the stolen items for sale to Mr. Dreighson. He was also thinking of what he knew of the theft at Welbeck Abbey, where the Duchess of Portland’s famous emeralds had disappeared, along with a great deal of valuable jewelry belonging to her guests.

News of the theft had been hushed up to protect the Duchess from embarrassment, but Charles had learned of it from Leander Norwood, the chief of the Yard’s burglary division. Norwood had been called in to conduct the investigation, which had been so far fruitless. He’d told Charles that the theft looked to him to be the work of employees, even though servants did not usually steal significant and unique items of property because of the difficulty involved in selling them. The Portland emeralds, for instance, which had once belonged to Marie Antoinette, would be almost impossible to fence. It was Norwood’s opinion that the job had been managed by a ring of sophisticated thieves with connections on the Continent, where the jewels might be more easily got rid of, sold to collectors who would not question their pedigree. And that one or more servants had been involved, as well as, quite possibly, one of the female guests, who might have had access to the bedrooms. Norwood wouldn’t offer details, since the investigation was continuing, but he had also hinted that there may have been a similar theft or two in the past year, during large weekend houseparties at other country estates.

With these things in the back of his mind, Charles was thinking of what John Buttersworth had told him about the mysterious woman who had showed him the seal stones-stones that reminded Buttersworth of the Marlborough Gems. Buttersworth’s first thought seemed to be that the Duchess of Marlborough was offering them for a clandestine sale, something that was not too unusual in these days of declining personal fortunes. A great many titled ladies, duchesses among them, were forced to sell what they could to keep ahead of their dressmakers’ and jewelers’ bills-and their gambling debts. While Consuelo did not strike Charles as the kind of woman who would squander a fortune, it wasn’t entirely out of the question. Even as wealthy a lady as the Duchess of Marlborough, nee Vanderbilt, would not necessarily be immune from financial exigencies, especially a temporary one that had thrown her into a sudden panic.

Charles, however, was beginning to suspect that there might be a very different game afoot, and that the woman who appeared at Dreighson’s, offering to sell the Hoard, might also be associated with the robbery at Welbeck Abbey. And there was more. Thieves had struck at Welbeck during one of the Portlands’ houseparty weekends, when the ladies had brought their favorite jewels. Blenheim was an even more tantalizing target, and the natural time to strike was the weekend set for the visit of King Edward and Queen Alexandra, three weeks hence, Winston had told him last night. The King loved seeing gentlemen dressed in splendid uniforms and ladies wearing silk and their finest ornaments, so there would be several fortunes in jewels lying about the bedrooms, when they weren’t fastened at their owners’ throats, ears, and wrists.

And at Blenheim as at most other country houses, there would be no attention paid to security, except for the one or two special agents who were assigned to safeguard the Royal persons. Such events, with the influx of the guests’ personal servants and additional help hired from the local village, always involved a state of general household confusion and chaos, below-stairs and above. A Royal houseparty at Blenheim would be perfect pickings, to use an American phrase, for a ring of thieves.

Given these facts and speculations, Charles was becoming increasingly concerned, to the point where he was almost ready to lay his suspicions before the Duke, who would certainly not want to be disgraced by a theft at Blenheim Palace. However, where the Duke was concerned, there was one additional bit of information that troubled Charles, although he had no way of knowing whether it was incidental or vital. Buttersworth had said that the woman who showed him the gemstones had a nose like that of Sappho, a female poet of classical Greece, a description which, Charles thought, fit Miss Deacon remarkably well.

Was it possible that it had been Miss Deacon who presented the stones at the Ashmolean?

Was she somehow involved with the thieves?

A ridiculous idea, on the face of it, or so the Duke would certainly think. But the preceding year, the Times had carried the story of a certain Lady Tallarde, who had been found guilty of a similar association in France and sentenced to a lengthy prison term. And Chief Norwood had mentioned that a woman guest had fallen under suspicion at Welbeck. Charles could not discount the possibility.

But this was only speculation, and Charles had no way of determining the truth. Because of this, he felt that it would not be quite prudent to discuss the matter with the Duke, at least, not yet. He needed more inside information, and he had thought of a way to get it. But he would first have to consult with Winston. If the Duke’s cousin could be convinced that the matter was urgent, he was in a position to help implement the scheme…

These were the thoughts that were passing through Charles Sheridan’s mind as he went across the stableyard on his way back to the palace, his camera bag over one shoulder and his tripod over the other, whistling tunelessly as he walked. In fact, he was so preoccupied that he scarcely knew where he was, and didn’t hear Winston calling until he nearly bumped into him.

“Ah, Winston,” he said, blinking in surprise. “I was just thinking about you. I’d like to discuss an important matter with you. I think you might be able to-”

“I need a word with you first, Charles,” Winston said urgently.

Within a few minutes, Charles had heard the news that Miss Deacon had disappeared the night before, dressed in evening clothes and wearing her diamond necklace. And that Marlborough seemed to be missing as well.

Charles felt a sharp stirring of concern. “You’ve checked the Duke’s room? And Miss Deacon’s? Is there any luggage missing, or any indication that they went off together? What about horses? Motor cars?”

“I haven’t checked the rooms,” Winston said, “although Kate and Consuelo have done so. There are no horses missing, and the only motor car on the property is Consuelo’s little electric runabout. Consuelo and Kate have driven it out to look around the estate, hoping that they’ll catch sight of one or the other of our-” He cleared his throat and said dryly, “Our missing persons.”

Charles heard the crunch of wheels on gravel, and looked up. “And there they are,” he said, with a strong sense of relief, seeing a small electric motorcar, with Consuelo driving. Kate was sitting beside her, and on the engine box behind them sat the Duke of Marlborough, holding a fishing rod and wearing a distinctly disagreeable look.

Ten minutes later, they were all back at the palace. Winston and the Duke went off together, Charles agreeing to meet them shortly in the Duke’s private study. Consuelo said she had a wretched headache and went to lie down, and Kate had followed her upstairs, but not before telling Charles privately how she and Consuelo had chanced on the Duke walking along a narrow lane near High Lodge, on the west side of the Park. Marlborough had told them he had been fishing at the southern end of the lake since very early in the morning, although he did not seem to have caught any fish and volunteered no explanation for missing his appointment with the estate agent. He had seemed astonished to learn of Gladys’s disappearance and kept shaking his head and muttering darkly that it must not be true, that he could not believe that Gladys would leave without a word of explanation to him.

“Which hurt Consuelo deeply,” Kate added with a sober expression. “Really, Charles, this affair, or whatever it is, is becoming very difficult for her. And here is something that makes it even worse.” She put her hand into the pocket of her skirt and brought out a scrap of gold silk. “I found this at Rosamund’s Well before breakfast this morning, caught on a bush. I believe it’s from Gladys’s dress, the one she was wearing last night. When I saw it, I immediately assumed that she and the Duke had rowed over there together, a sort of romantic tryst. You remember that she talked about the Well at dinner.”

“I remember,” Charles said, taking the scrap and looking at it closely. “She cast herself in the role of Rosamund, with Marlborough as Henry, and the Duchess, implicitly, as the jealous Eleanor.”

“And Botsy Northcote as Roger of Salisbury,” Kate said. “A ready-made cast for a tragic theatrical.” She paused. “There’s something odd about that torn piece, Charles, now that I come to think about it. I found it on a small bush, but the bush wasn’t sturdy enough to have snagged and torn that heavy silk.”

“Rosamund’s Well,” Charles mused, pocketing the scrap. “Thank you, Kate. I’ll have a look around the place.” He leaned forward and took her arm. “Listen, my dear, it’s very important that Miss Deacon’s bedroom be immediately locked. Can you find the housekeeper and make sure that’s done? I don’t want the maids going in there until it’s been thoroughly searched.”

With a little smile, Kate put a key into his hand. “It’s done already,” she said. “I locked the door when Consuelo and I left this morning. No one’s been in there, at least since we left.”

“Ah, my Kate,” Charles said with pleasure, and kissed her cheek. “What a treasure of a wife you are.” He paused, thinking. “But perhaps it would be better if you’d search the room. I have a number of urgent things to see to, and you may find something that should be acted upon right away. Would you mind?”

“Of course not,” Kate said with satisfaction, taking the key back. “It will make me feel that I am being of some use.”

“And one more question,” Charles said. “Have you seen Lord Northcote this morning?”

“Botsy?” Kate’s hazel eyes widened. “Oh, my goodness, Charles. No, I haven’t seen him!”

As it turned out, no one else had seen Northcote, either. An inquiry of the housemaids-deliberately casual, so as not to raise suspicion-told Charles that Botsy’s bed had not been slept in, and that all of his clothing, together with the Gladstone bag he’d brought it in, was gone from his room.

Charles then made a quick visit to the butler’s pantry, a large, well-lit room off the main corridor below stairs, where he found Mr. Stevens reviewing the wine and spirits inventories and preparing an order for the King’s visit.

The butler, a man in his sixties, was stooped and almost frail, but he still held himself with a dignified reserve. He listened gravely to Charles’s question and explanation and agreed to look into the matter. “Rest assured, m’lord,” he said with equanimity, “that if there’s anything to be learned, it will be reported to you at once.”

Charles thanked the butler, and then, telling himself that he had done as much as one reasonably could in such a short while, he took himself off to the Duke’s study.