“Do you?” Consuelo asked, arching her dark brows. “To say that, Kate, I think you must understand me better than I understand myself.”
Kate summoned some of her own hard-won wisdom. “We can’t always know who we are, especially when things are darkest.”
“Yes, I suppose so.” Consuelo looked away, out the window. “I feel I know Gladys rather better, Kate, and I have changed my mind, just in the past day or so. I thought she was only a careless, playful child. Or perhaps it was that I only wanted to think this, that I was deceiving myself so that I wouldn’t have to deal with the truth and its consequences. But now I believe-”
She stopped as if to steady herself and gather her strength, as if she had come to a crucial turning point and needed to acknowledge its importance. She turned to Kate, her large dark eyes full of pain, her lips trembling. But her voice held firm and her words were emphatic as she said: “Now, I believe that Gladys does what she does deliberately and with malice, to betray those who care for her. I don’t understand her design or her motives, but I know that it’s so. Perhaps she tells herself that she’s only pulling a prank, but much of what she does is meant to embarrass, or hurt, or even wound deeply.”
“Like that business with the gemstones?” Kate asked quietly.
“Yes, exactly.” Consuelo frowned. “But I still don’t understand her object-for taking them to the Ashmolean Museum, I mean. She knew they belonged to Marlborough, and that they were important to him. Did she actually intend to sell them? Or perhaps she meant simply to embarrass me, by pretending-or implying, at any rate-that she was my employee.”
Or, Kate thought, it was as Charles suspected: that Gladys Deacon was a member of the ring of thieves, practicing the same modus operandi that had been successful in other burglaries.
“I wish we could ask her,” Kate said aloud. “If only we could know where she is!”
Consuelo put down her teacup. Her lips had thinned and her face had grown paler, but her voice was still steady. “I’ve been giving this a great deal of thought since we talked yesterday, Kate. I think it’s entirely possible that Gladys has simply gone away-that she planned to disappear and stay away for a while.”
“But why?” Kate asked, although she thought she knew the answer. When Consuelo replied, it appeared that they had come to the same conclusion.
“To make Marlborough realize how much he cares for her.” Her tone was despondent and her mouth curved downward.
Beryl Bardwell was almost jumping up and down with excitement. Planned to disappear! she exclaimed. Of course, Kate! Remember that business about the missing trousers and jacket, and the valise Gladys took from the luggage room? Maybe she cached the clothing somewhere, at Rosamund’s Well, say, and left a trail of clues.
Kate considered. Beryl often flew off on wild tangents, but this certainly seemed plausible. Gladys’s gold evening slipper in the rowboat, the scrap of gold cloth on the bush at the Well. Clues pointing to something Something nefarious, Beryl interrupted in a conspiratorial tone. Maybe she wanted to make it appear that she had been abducted, although in that case, you’d think she would’ve sent some kind of ransom note.
“Marlborough’s heard nothing at all from her, I suppose,” Kate said. She glanced at Consuelo, trying to gauge how much she knew, or guessed.
“If he has, he hasn’t said anything to me-and I think he would, if only to let me know she hasn’t simply deserted him.” Consuelo shook her head despairingly. “I don’t love him, Kate, but I’m sorry to see him in such torment. He’s simply out of his mind with fear for her safety. I think he’d do anything, pay any amount of money, if only it would bring her back.”
Pay any amount of money? Beryl asked meaningfully. There it is, Kate! That’s the answer!
Kate frowned to herself. The answer to what? Really, sometimes Beryl took things much too far. Aloud, she said, “If Gladys went away, Consuelo, where would she go?”
Consuelo sat for a long moment, saying nothing. Then, as if she had suddenly made up her mind, she stood.
“Come, Kate,” she said. “I have an idea.”
Kate stood, too. “I’ll get my jacket and hat.” She said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
A difference of taste in jokes is a great strain on the affections.
Charles had been up and about since very early that morning. He had gone to the railway depot to send a telegram to Leander Norwood, Chief of the Burglary Division at the Yard. Then he had returned to photograph the two bodies that were now in the game larder at Blenheim and write an affidavit briefly describing the circumstances surrounding the murder of Kitty Drake and the shooting death of Bulls-eye, whose surname was still a mystery-but not quite all of the circumstances. He omitted, for instance, the business about the planned burglary during the Royal visit, feeling that it was more the concern of the Yard than that of the local constabulary. And he did not explain why Bulls-eye, Ned, and Alfred had been at Rosamund’s Well, or how it happened that he and Winston had been there, too.
Charles had just finished the affidavit when the telegram arrived from Chief Norwood, saying that he would be arriving by the afternoon train. Charles breathed a sigh of relief, glad to know that the larger investigation would be taken out of his hands.
He took his watch from his pocket and noted the time with satisfaction. The first train should have left Woodstock with the two boys aboard: Ned on the short trip back to Oxford, Alfred to a less certain future in Brighton. There had been no point in detaining Alfred, for there was no proof of his role in previous robberies, and he had earned his release by his valuable service the night before. Ned had vigorously protested his own banishment, arguing that his services might still be required, but Charles had assured him that nothing remained but some rather boring administrative details. It was his objective, of course, to keep both the young men clear of any investigation that might follow. Also, Charles could not be certain that, even at this point, the gang would abandon their plan. He blamed himself for having exposed Ned to far more danger than he had anticipated. If Marlborough could not be persuaded to cancel the house party, a small army of Pinkertons would be wanted to provide even the most minimal security.
Charles slipped the watch back into his pocket. Then, with the telegram and the affidavit, he and Winston drove the Panhard to Woodstock, to the police station, and presented themselves to Constable Grant.
The constable was a man of few words. He read Charles’s affidavit, and then read the Chief’s telegram, and then put both down on the desk in front of him. “Bodies?” he grunted.
“In the game larder, at the palace,” Charles replied.
The constable looked at Winston, who was standing uncomfortably, holding his hat in his hand. “Didn’t mean t’ kill ’im, eh?” he said, skeptical. “Fired to wound, did ye?”
Winston cleared his throat. “That’s right, Constable. But it was very dark, y’see, and he was holding a knife to the footman’s throat, and my aim was not as true as it should’ve been.” He cleared his throat again. “It seemed to us-to Lord Sheridan and myself, that is-that since these deaths occurred on the estate of the Duke of Marlborough, it would be better if the investigation were turned over to the Yard, rather than handled as a local matter. We hope you agree.”
“And wot would it earn me if I didn’t?” the constable replied darkly. “You lot at Blenheim are going t’ do wot you please, wotever I say.”
Winston reddened. “Now, Constable, that’s no way to-”
“Thank you, Constable Grant,” Charles said, taking Winston’s arm. “You can reach us at the palace if there are any other questions. I’m sure that Chief Norwood will be glad to keep you posted on the progress of the investigation.”
The constable growled something unintelligible, and they left. A few minutes later, they pulled up in front of
