aristocrats hated the smell of food cooking almost as much as the look of a bare working hand, Ned could only laugh and be at least temporarily glad that he was neither aristocrat nor servant.
In fact, Ned was something in between, for although his father was descended from the Irish aristocracy, the connection couldn’t be claimed. Ned had discovered that his father-his real name was Thomas Chapman, not Thomas Lawrence-was not married to his mother, Sarah Junner, whom he had met when she became a servant in the Chapman household. For Sarah’s sake, Thomas had abandoned his wife and four young daughters in Ireland, removing himself, his mistress, and their sons to Wales, then to France, and finally to Oxford. There, Thomas and Sarah took the surname Lawrence and held themselves out as man and wife, concealing the illegitimacy of their five sons. Ned might be privately comforted by his aristocratic ancestry, but his birth disbarred him from assuming his rightful place as a gentleman. It was an uneasy knowledge that this current bit of work brought to the forefront of his mind.
Alfred had duty in the main hallway upstairs, where he would stay at his station until time to begin his locking-up rounds at midnight. He paused beside Ned in the hallway and bent close to his ear to say, with a passionate urgency, “Remember, lad, I’m hoping for some news of Kitty.”
This remark took Ned aback briefly, until he remembered that he had told Alfred he would be meeting Bulls- eye that night-a suggestion that had been scotched by Lord Sheridan. He would have to come up with some story or another to satisfy Alfred. But short of a plan for the theft or word from the absent Kitty, he didn’t know what that would be.
The other servants went off to their beds as soon as their evening work was done, but Ned was rather at loose ends. He could not go to bed in the room he shared with Alfred, since the footman thought he was meeting Bulls-eye in Woodstock; if Alfred should stop by his room and find Ned there, the truth would come to light. For the same reason, Ned did not dare to stay in the servants’ hall, where coals still burned in the fireplace, or anywhere else Alfred might conceivably appear. On another night, he would have gone outdoors for a walk, but thunder was growling and lightning flashing, and a storm had been in progress for some time.
So Ned took himself off to the lamp-and-candle room, where the brass candlesticks were cleaned, the lamp chimneys polished, and all the lighting supplies and spare lamps stored. He shut and locked the door, lit several candles for good light, took a small book out of his jacket pocket, and sat on the floor with his back to the wall to finish reading Mr. Kipling’s Captains Courageous, which he had brought with him from home.
Engrossed, he finished the book in an hour. He stood up and stretched, feeling restlessly that perhaps he was being a bit too cautious. After all, Alfred was on duty in the great hall upstairs, and it wasn’t very likely that he would appear downstairs, was it? He could put the time to better use by exploring the labyrinth of hallways and corridors below-stairs. A real spy, he reminded himself, would undoubtedly use the opportunity to look around, reconnoiter, get the lay of the land. Anyway, he was hungry. And if memory served him correctly, he had seen one of the kitchen maids put a loaf of bread and some cheese into the corner cupboard.
So he took one of the candles and set off cautiously along the deserted back passage, making his way gingerly through the shadows cast by the flickering candle, feeling more and more like a spy. In the cavernous kitchen, the fire in the great iron range was banked for the night and the pans and dishes laid out in readiness for cooking breakfast. It took only a moment to ascertain that, indeed, the loaf and cheese were still in the corner cupboard and to cut off a sizable hunk of each, which he stowed in his jacket pocket.
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
