Sheridan.” He added, in a rather more apologetic tone. “Afraid all this sleuthing isn’t exactly up my line. Now, if a gun were called for, I’d be glad to oblige. I’ve my Mauser, you know. Take it with me on general principles, though there’s not much call for it in civilized society.”
A gun! Ned thought, with a surge of barely repressed excitement. Would it come to that? Oh, topping, simply topping!
“I doubt that your Mauser will be needed,” Lord Sheridan said matter-of-factly, and Ned felt disappointed. “However,” he went on, “the evidence seems to suggest that this is all part of a larger plot. If that’s so, it must involve substantial planning at various levels. We can quash a robbery here at Blenheim, but if we allow those who conceived the plan to get away, the same business will simply be repeated elsewhere.” He paused, and added gravely. “As well-organized as this group seems to be, the chances are that it is engaged in other kinds of criminal activities as well. We need to get our hands on the ringleader.”
“You must be looking for a man like Moriarty, sir,” Ned said, now feeling thoroughly stirred up. Moriarty was the arch-villain who once went up against Sherlock Holmes. He grinned and recited, from memory and with dramatic emphasis: “‘A man with a criminal strain, increased and rendered infinitely more dangerous by his extraordinary powers.’”
“Ah, that man!” Churchill replied with an answering grin. He raised an eyebrow and declaimed theatrically, “‘Fenced round with safeguards so cunningly devised that it seemed impossible to get evidence which would convict in a court of law.’”
“Oh, yes, sir!” Ned exclaimed. “The very one, sir! ‘The greatest schemer of all time, the organizer of every deviltry, the controlling brain of the underworld-’”
“‘A brain which might have made or marred the destiny of nations-that’s the man,’” Lord Sheridan concluded with a crooked smile. “The Napoleon of crime. A lot of pumped-up nonsense, of course, but somewhat apt to our case.”
“Apt, indeed.” Churchill clapped Ned on the back. “My word, young man, you do know your Doyle.”
“Thank you, sir,” Ned said, liking Mr. Churchill rather better now.
“However,” Churchill went on in a cautionary tone, “I don’t believe that we should overstate the case. I sincerely doubt that we are dealing with a villain as black as Moriarty.”
“Perhaps not,” Lord Sheridan agreed, “but the scope of the villainy is yet to be seen. For now, our immediate task is to discover whether other members of the theft ring are at work here at Blenheim, unbeknownst to Alfred. For that, we will rely on your investigation of the wage book and character references. And I think I shall have a look in the missing housemaid’s trunk. It’s still in her room, I’ve been told.”
“And what about me?” Ned asked hopefully. “P’rhaps you’d like me to go to The Prince in Woodstock and see what I can find out about Bulls-eye.” After all, he had told Alfred he’d be talking to Bulls-eye that night. He had been so easily successful in worming significant information out of Alfred that he was sure he could find out just as much, and perhaps even more, from Bulls-eye. A fellow could get to like this spying game.
But Lord Sheridan did not fall in with his suggestion. “You are not going to Woodstock, Ned,” he said firmly. “It’s far too dangerous. You are to go back downstairs to your work, and keep a close eye on Alfred. If anyone from the outside attempts to contact him, I want to know about it immediately.”
“Yes, sir,” Ned said glumly, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice. He should like it if they could run into a little danger, and if Mr. Churchill had his gun, they would be all right. He hesitated, thinking of something else. “Sir? What about Alfred? He seems like a decent chap. Will he… well, will he get into trouble about this? All he wants to do, you know, is take Kitty and go off to Brighton.”
“Brighton?” Churchill asked.
Ned nodded. “His brother wants him to buy into a pub there.”
“A pub, eh?” Lord Sheridan shook his head ruefully. “I’m sorry, Ned, but it’s too early to say what’s going to happen to Alfred. We don’t know how deeply involved he is. And until we learn the identity of the other person, if there is another person, that is, Alfred remains our only contact with the thieves.” He frowned. “But this business about the missing housemaid concerns me. I wonder-”
From the floor above, Ned heard a loud, hollow gong. It sent a shudder down his spine. How could people abide being ordered about by a gong? If they were as powerful as they wanted everyone to believe, why didn’t they just shut the damned thing up and do whatever they liked, when they liked?
“Time for dinner,” Churchill said in a resigned voice, straightening his cuffs. “Gad, Sheridan, I’m not looking forward to it. Marlborough is nearly off his head about Gladys.”
Lord Sheridan sighed. “Nor I.” He put his hand on Ned’s shoulder. “But you’ve done a fine job, Ned. I didn’t imagine that you would make contact with our target and dig out this information quite so fast.” A smile glinted in his brown eyes. “British Intelligence could make good use of a man like you.”
“Intelligence?” Ned felt quite complimented. But of course, there were other things he wanted to do first. “I’m planning to become an archaeologist, you know. I want to do digs in Egypt and the Sudan, as you did. And on Crete, too,” he added, thinking of the shipments being unpacked at the Ashmolean.
“Ah, yes,” his lordship murmured. “Well, perhaps there’s not much difference between digging artifacts out of the ground and digging information out of people who don’t want you to have it. But we can talk about that later. Off with you, now, Ned. And keep close to Alfred, do you hear? That’s your first order of duty.”
“Oh, yes, m’lord,” Ned promised earnestly. “I’ll keep close to him. You can count on that.”
At the time, he meant it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Every man and woman in the kingdom, no matter how low-born, can, by self-discipline, hard work, and self- help, achieve wealth, prosperity, and social position. Remember, Heaven helps those who help themselves.
Dinner had indeed been a wretched affair, Charles thought. The food had been cold, the Duke and Duchess had had nothing to say to each other or to anyone else, and even Kate’s gaiety, usually so spontaneous, had seemed forced. Marlborough cut short the usual after-dinner port and cigars and retired, leaving Winston free to go off to confer with Stevens over the wage book, and Charles to go in search of the housekeeper.
Mrs. Raleigh did not know in which room of Housemaids’ Heights Kitty had slept-did not know, it appeared, much at all about the housemaids’ habits. She had seemed at a loss when Charles said he wanted to have a look in Kitty’s trunk, and had rung the bell for Ruth, who had been Kitty’s roommate. It was Ruth who, carrying a candle, showed him with alacrity up the steep stairs to the dark, chilly room in which she now slept alone, at the very top of the tower.
Ruth, a plain-faced young girl with thick brown hair, lit a second candle from the first and pointed to a trunk in the corner. “It’s the blue wool I’d like, sir,” she said eagerly. “The one with the blue and black braid. It’s for my sister, y’see. She’s gettin’ married, sir, and she’ll be ever so glad to have it.”
Somewhat mystified, Charles said, “A dress, is it? You’ll have to speak to Mrs. Raleigh about that, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, sir,” Ruth said, quite clearly disappointed. “I thought you was going to give me-”
“No,” Charles said firmly, “Whatever it is, it’s not mine to give. Thank you, Ruth. You can go back to your work now.”
With a resigned curtsey, Ruth departed, taking one of the candles to light her way down the stairs. In the flickering light of the remaining candle, Charles surveyed the small, bare room, which was scarcely larger than a cubicle. It contained little furniture, only a broken chair, a small chest of drawers on which sat a badly chipped china pitcher and basin, and an iron cot covered with a thin straw mattress scarcely wide enough for one, let alone two. An uncurtained casement window was set into the stone outer wall, overlooking a landscape palely illuminated by a quarter moon. Streaks of occasional lightning split the night sky, and thunder rumbled not far away.
Charles placed the candle on the floor beside the cheap cardboard trunk, knelt down, and raised the lid. The
