Then he went down the corridor, past the empty servants’ hall and the locked butler’s pantry. Ahead of him, on the wall to his right, a variety of hats and umbrellas and jumpers hung from pegs, and beyond, there was an outer door. On the left, he noticed the large panel of electric bells labeled with the names of upstairs bedrooms-the Green Room, the Blue Room, the Yellow Room, all on the second floor, east wing-and on the wall beside the bell panel, a large, carefully drawn floor plan of the bedrooms and a roster listing the names of the guests in residence. He stopped to scrutinize the floor plan. Mr. Churchill, he saw with some interest, was in the Green Room, while Lord and Lady Sheridan were in the Blue Room. A real spy, he thought, would memorize the drawing, fixing all the points of interest in his mind so that when he had to creep about the house at night without a light, he would not be lost.
Ned was still studying the floor plan when the outer door opened and an old man stepped through, shaking himself like a dog. The shoulders of his canvas jacket were wet, his leather hat dripped rain, and his boots were muddy. His face was pock-marked and leathery, and the red kerchief tied loosely around his neck gave him the look of a gypsy.
“I’m here fer Alfred,” he said in a low voice. “I been sent to ’liver a message to ’im.”
The skin on the back of Ned’s neck prickled. Without a second’s hesitation, he said, “You’ve found him.” He leaned forward. “Bulls-eye sent you?”
The man took a step backward and eyed him up and down. “Bulls-eye sez Alfred’s a footman,” he said with a genial snort. He rubbed his knuckles, chuckling. “Ye’re nor big ’nough t’ be a footman. Nor old ’nough, neither. Ye’re jes’ a boy.”
Ned pulled himself up and put on a rakish grin, enjoying the pretense. “P’rhaps the Duchess thinks I have other talents.” He thrust his chin forward and, in a tone of threatening bravado, growled, “Bulls-eye won’t be pleased if you don’t hand that message over. Want me to tell him that you kept me waiting?”
“Ye’re a rough ’un, ye are, lad,” the man said sarcastically, “ ’specially fer such a young chap, and not a very big ’un, neither.” He sighed heavily, as if he were conscious of being terribly put upon. “Howbeit, it’s here in me pocket, so I ’spose ye should have it, if ye’re determined t’ be Alfred. Save me the trouble o’ looking fer ’im.” He fished in the pocket of his jacket and took out a folded piece of paper. Still holding it in his hand, he tilted his head with an inquiring look. “Well?”
“If you didn’t get your shillings from Bulls-eye, you’re not going to get them from me,” Ned retorted smartly. Then he grinned. “But if you’d like some bread and cheese to warm your belly on your way back to the Black Prince, you’re in luck. It just happens I’ve got some here.” He pulled the bread and cheese out of his pocket.
The man eyed the food. “Well, I reckon that’ll serve,” he said in a resigned tone. “But it do look dry. ’Ow ’bout a bot’le o’ beer t’ wash it down?
“Beer.” Ned laughed in an ugly way. “Not bloody likely, old man.”
“Ah, well,” the man said regretfully. The paper and the bread and cheese changed hands, and the man touched his cap. “G’night, Alfred,” he said with a broad wink, and went back out into the darkness.
Ned regarded the note. Pretending to be Alfred was one thing. But now what should he do? Take the note to Alfred, or He would read it first. He opened the note and held it up to the candle. It was rudely printed in pencil on unlined paper, and unsigned.
Alfred,
For word about Kitty and to hear the plan, come to Rosamund’s Well. Midnight, no later.
Rosamund’s Well was just across the lake from Blenheim Palace. Ned knew what it was and where it was, of course, for he had been there, with the other tourists. He could follow Alfred there, and hide in the bushes and listen to their conversation, or…
He stopped. Or he could go there himself, instead of Alfred. He could tell Bulls-eye that Alfred had been taken desperately ill, and had sent him in his place. He could pretend that he was anxious to join the gang and help with the robbery they were planning. That would put him in a position to learn much more than He stopped again. But Lord Sheridan had told him he couldn’t meet Bulls-eye, and he hated to violate his lordship’s direct order. He frowned, going back over the words in his mind. No, that wasn’t what his lordship had said, exactly. He had forbidden Ned to go into Woodstock to the Black Prince, for he considered that too dangerous. Ned could understand that line of reasoning; Woodstock was rather like enemy territory. But Rosamund’s Well was just on the other side of the lake, in Blenheim Park. Lord Sheridan hadn’t forbidden him to go there. He could A loud crack of thunder and the sound of rushing rain recalled him to the immediate moment, and Ned frowned. He had no light and no rain gear, and if he went out into the storm, he would be thoroughly sodden in a matter of minutes-not that a real spy would be concerned about such a minor inconvenience, of course, but still, there it was.
And then, with a sudden thought, he looked up. Directly in front of him, on one of the pegs beside the door, hung a mackintosh and hat. He stared at them for a moment, then he made up his mind. He took down the rain gear, bundled it under his arm, and went back to the lamp-and-candle room. Yes, there was an old-fashioned brass candle-lantern on a shelf, just as he had remembered. He made sure that there was a stub of candle in it, and pocketed matches and an extra candle. Best to be prepared.
Then he went back down the corridor to the room he shared with Ned. He changed from his page’s costume into his own clothing, then hesitated, wondering if he should leave a note. He thought he ought to tell somebody where he was going, in the unlikely event that there was some sort of trouble. But he didn’t like to tell Alfred, since he was under the impression that Ned had already gone out long ago, to meet Bulls-eye in Woodstock.
After some thought, he took a pencil, turned Bulls-eye’s note over, and on the back wrote: This came for Alfred. I’m going to R’s Well to meet Bulls-eye and learn the plan.
With a school-boy flourish, he signed the note “T.E.L.” and put it in his pocket. Then he went back down the hall to the bell-panel and stood for a moment, studying the floor plan of the upstairs halls. Finally, sure that he knew what he was looking for, he opened the door to the service stairs and went to find Lord Sheridan’s room.
A little later, having put the note under the door, Ned went back downstairs, put on the mackintosh and hat, and stepped out into the dark and blowing night.
If he had known what awful thing had been dragged up out of the lake and was at that very moment being laid out on the floor in the game larder, he might have thought better of what he was about to do.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Death cancels everything but truth.
Kate was beginning to wish that she and Beryl had chosen another subject for their book. After an awkward dinner, she and the Duchess had left the men to their port and cigars and gone to the family sitting room, where Consuelo played the piano and sang several pensive German lieder that seemed to reflect her melancholy. After a time, Winston joined them. He seemed distracted, though, as if his attention lay elsewhere, and a little later they bade each other goodnight and went off to their rooms.
Now, sitting at her dressing table, Kate began to brush her hair with a sense of positive relief, glad that the long evening was at last over. She had already found what she’d come to Bleheim for-good background and some strong ideas for her novel-and under other circumstances, she would be getting ready to return to Bishop’s Keep, where life was a great deal more enjoyable. But Beryl wouldn’t let her leave until the mystery of Gladys’s disappearance was solved. And Charles wouldn’t leave until he had unraveled the theft plot, if that’s what it was, involving the servants.