Gladys Deacon. The young woman might not be wise, but she was certainly intelligent.
And then, lying half-hidden under a book of French poetry on Gladys’s bedside table, Kate found something of much greater interest. It was a note written in a square masculine hand on the thick, creamy Blenheim stationery which was kept in every room, and dated Tuesday, 12 May, just two days before. Kate hesitated only a moment. This note was not locked with a key, like the diary, and it was clearly of current interest. And besides, Beryl was prodding her, even more urgently than before. Oh, for pity’s sake, Kate. Read!
Kate picked up the note and read it.
My dearest darling,
I am beside myself with anxiety and apprehension at the cruel indifference you are showing toward your own, your devoted Botsy. You say that my passion distresses you, but surely you must realize and excuse the depths to which I am stirred by my love for you and my desire to make you my wife. (Do I need to remind you that you pledged yourself to accept me when we were together at Welbeck? or that my passion did not distress you then?) You simply must hear me out, Gladys, and agree to set a date for our wedding. And if you refuse, why then I shall simply carry you off straightaway and the devil take he who tries to stop me-Marlborough or anyone else!
With the most ardent passion
N
Well, there was no doubting the relevance of this letter, Kate thought, reading it for the second time. Northcote hadn’t yet been seen this morning. What if he had spirited Gladys away, as he threatened in this letter? She suspected that such a violent and precipitous action was not the way to win the young lady’s heart, but perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps an extravagant gesture was exactly the thing that would sweep Gladys off her feet and get her to honor her promise. And Botsy Northcote, Kate had no doubt, was exactly the kind of man who would do it.
She glanced at the Cartier clock on the chest of drawers. The bell for lunch would ring in an hour. She would find Charles straightaway and give him the letter. She locked the room, pocketed the key, and went to inquire after Charles.
Learning that he had left for Oxford and feeling at loose ends, she went downstairs and out into the rose garden, walking slowly along the gravel path, reflecting on the events of the night before. The last time she had seen Gladys, the girl was going into the garden with Marlborough, and yet a scrap of her dress had been found on a bush at Rosamund’s Well, on the other side of the lake.
On the other side of the lake? Beryl mused. And just how do you suppose she got there?
Kate paused in the act of burying her nose in a large pink cabbage rose with a delightfully spicy scent. Beryl had raised a very good question. Come to think of it, just how had Gladys crossed the lake?
“She walked over the bridge?” Kate hazarded aloud.
Gladys Deacon walked? Beryl laughed shortly. Don’t be ridiculous, Kate. Can you see that young woman taking a half-mile tramp after dark, along a gravel path and down a steep hill? In her evening dress?
“I suppose you’re right,” Kate murmured. The road across the bridge was graveled, and the path that led from the bridge to the Well was steep and overgrown. It wasn’t something one would do unless one were wearing proper boots.
“Of course I’m right,” Beryl replied. And what sort of foot gear was Gladys wearing last night? Evening slippers, that’s what! Gold evening slippers, to match her dress. No woman in her right mind would walk about the countryside in those shoes.
Kate didn’t remember noticing Gladys’s feet, but it was Beryl who was always took notes on details of dress and manner, and Kate didn’t doubt the truth of her observation. She bent to sniff another rose. Well, then, if Gladys didn’t walk around the lake, how did she get to Rosamund’s Well? As Kate straightened, her glance happened to light upon the boat house, a rustic building far down at the foot of the garden, behind some shrubbery, next to the lake.
Congratulations, old girl! Beryl exclaimed triumphantly. That’s it! Our Gladys rowed across the lake!
“Rowed?” Kate replied, with a mildly sarcastic chuckle. “Oh, come, now, Beryl. Gladys Deacon wouldn’t have the slightest idea of what to do with an oar. She could never row a boat all the way across that lake.”
Beryl chuckled maliciously. Who says she rowed it? Maybe Botsy rowed it for her. After all, he promised to carry her off-and what’s more romantic than a rowboat on a moonlit night? Come on, Kate, let’s have a look.
“A look at what?” Kate asked. “The lunch gong will be sounding in just a few minutes. We don’t have time to go anywhere.”
It won’t matter if we’re a little late. Anyway, what’s more important? Sitting down to lunch on time, or finding out what happened to Gladys?
With that, the intrepid Beryl flew off down the path. And Kate had no choice but to follow.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
All men dream, but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dream with open eyes, to make it possible.
Ned Lawrence had been bitterly disappointed when he learned from John Buttersworth that he had missed Lord Sheridan’s visit to the museum. He had been hoping to see him, and hoping that his lordship would take another criminal case in the Oxford area and, this time, ask him to assist. He admired Lord Sheridan for the cool and careful way he used his wits, but there was more, some of which Ned would not have been able to recognize and acknowledge, at least at this point in his life. He respected men who showed strength of character and physical bravery, and yet were deeply sensitive to the feelings of others; who were sure of themselves but not brazen about it; who were intellectuals but not snobs; who were attractive to women but resisted their power. He would be glad to play Watson to his lordship’s Holmes any day, and he’d told him so, straight to his face. Ned’s mother may have taught him to be deferential to his elders and betters, but his father had taught him to ask for what he wanted from men who had the means to give it, and Ned thought that his best course was to follow both their teachings. Of course, he already knew how to get what he wanted for himself, whenever that was necessary.
Today was one of the days when he was getting what he wanted. He had asked Buttersworth for a day’s holiday from his work at the Ashmolean and-clad in tweed knickers, a sweater, and a tweed cap-had ridden his bicycle to All Saints, a small stone church with a square Norman tower in the country near the hamlet of Derwood. He’d brought his brass-rubbing kit and planned to spend the day making rubbings from some brasses he had noticed in the church when he’d gone scouting there some weeks before.
Ned’s passion for antiquarianism had become an obsession, all but taking over his life. He worked at the museum during the summers and on Saturdays throughout the school year. As he prowled through the city, he loved to stop at new building sites and search for medieval artifacts: coins and tiles and bits of pottery and metal. He would often trade his pocket money to the laborers for things they’d found, and some of them had learned to save promising items for him. He kept everything on the shelves in the room he shared with his older brother-there were five boys in the Lawrence family-and his growing collection fueled his enthusiasm for the Middle Ages.
Imagining himself already an archaeologist and adventurer, Ned dreamed of traveling through Egypt and Africa, crossing perilous wildernesses, fighting savage tribesmen, and giving his life in the defense of a doomed city, as General Gordon had done. He devoured the action-filled adventure stories of G. A. Henty, whose fictional boy heroes met real men-Robert the Bruce, Sir Francis Drake, the Duke of Marlborough, Napoleon-in a variety of historical situations. He dreamed of performing great deeds in the company of someone like Charles Sheridan, who had distinguished himself as a military officer in the Sudan, very nearly getting himself killed in a brave attempt to rescue General Gordon and free Khartoum from the awful onslaught of the Mahdi’s Dervishes.
Yes, Sheridan would be a perfect companion, although Ned knew that he had a great deal of work to do before he was ready. He was planning to read Modern History when he got to Oxford, so he’d understand the
