But Winston was to be disappointed, for no one at the stables had a clue as to Marlborough’s whereabouts. Sunny had not taken one of the horses, and while there were any number of bicycles around the estate, Winston could not imagine his aristocratic cousin actually riding one. As to going off on foot, well, that seemed equally improbable. Unless he was hunting, the Duke did not enjoy tramping through the fields and woods.
Winston prided himself on his reputation as a man of action and a quick thinker who was never at a loss for ideas. But at this moment, Winston couldn’t think of a single thing-except to turn out all the servants and question every one of them, which of course he could not do.
It was at that moment that a new possibility suggested itself to Winston in the person of Charles Sheridan, who was walking jauntily across the stable yard, dressed in a somewhat disreputable Norfolk jacket, with a camera bag over one shoulder and a tripod over the other. He was whistling.
Winston suddenly discovered that he had been holding his breath and let it out. He strode toward Charles, speaking eagerly.
“I say, Sheridan, might we have a private word?”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It is of the highest importance in the art of detection to be able to recognize, out of a number of facts, which are incidental and which vital. Otherwise your energy and attention must be dissipated instead of being concentrated.
Charles, a photographer of some note, had spent the morning with his camera on the eastern side of the Park, where he had photographed the picturesque Swiss Cottage, a timbered house with roundel windows and a curious spired turret, set within a grove of trees that made for some rather pretty pictures.
But on the whole, the photographic expedition had been a pretext to get away from the palace and reflect upon a number of puzzling facts, some of which might be entirely unimportant, or vital to some sequence of events that he did not yet understand. While Charles pointed his camera here and there, he was reviewing what he knew about the theft of the Warrington Hoard-an inside job, so to speak, accomplished with the aid of a recently hired char woman and a certain mysterious lady who offered the stolen items for sale to Mr. Dreighson. He was also thinking of what he knew of the theft at Welbeck Abbey, where the Duchess of Portland’s famous emeralds had disappeared, along with a great deal of valuable jewelry belonging to her guests.
News of the theft had been hushed up to protect the Duchess from embarrassment, but Charles had learned of it from Leander Norwood, the chief of the Yard’s burglary division. Norwood had been called in to conduct the investigation, which had been so far fruitless. He’d told Charles that the theft looked to him to be the work of employees, even though servants did not usually steal significant and unique items of property because of the difficulty involved in selling them. The Portland emeralds, for instance, which had once belonged to Marie Antoinette, would be almost impossible to fence. It was Norwood’s opinion that the job had been managed by a ring of sophisticated thieves with connections on the Continent, where the jewels might be more easily got rid of, sold to collectors who would not question their pedigree. And that one or more servants had been involved, as well as, quite possibly, one of the female guests, who might have had access to the bedrooms. Norwood wouldn’t offer details, since the investigation was continuing, but he had also hinted that there may have been a similar theft or two in the past year, during large weekend houseparties at other country estates.
With these things in the back of his mind, Charles was thinking of what John Buttersworth had told him about the mysterious woman who had showed him the seal stones-stones that reminded Buttersworth of the Marlborough Gems. Buttersworth’s first thought seemed to be that the Duchess of Marlborough was offering them for a clandestine sale, something that was not too unusual in these days of declining personal fortunes. A great many titled ladies, duchesses among them, were forced to sell what they could to keep ahead of their dressmakers’ and jewelers’ bills-and their gambling debts. While Consuelo did not strike Charles as the kind of woman who would squander a fortune, it wasn’t entirely out of the question. Even as wealthy a lady as the Duchess of Marlborough, nee Vanderbilt, would not necessarily be immune from financial exigencies, especially a temporary one that had thrown her into a sudden panic.
Charles, however, was beginning to suspect that there might be a very different game afoot, and that the woman who appeared at Dreighson’s, offering to sell the Hoard, might also be associated with the robbery at Welbeck Abbey. And there was more. Thieves had struck at Welbeck during one of the Portlands’ houseparty weekends, when the ladies had brought their favorite jewels. Blenheim was an even more tantalizing target, and the natural time to strike was the weekend set for the visit of King Edward and Queen Alexandra, three weeks hence, Winston had told him last night. The King loved seeing gentlemen dressed in splendid uniforms and ladies wearing silk and their finest ornaments, so there would be several fortunes in jewels lying about the bedrooms, when they weren’t fastened at their owners’ throats, ears, and wrists.
And at Blenheim as at most other country houses, there would be no attention paid to security, except for the one or two special agents who were assigned to safeguard the Royal persons. Such events, with the influx of the guests’ personal servants and additional help hired from the local village, always involved a state of general household confusion and chaos, below-stairs and above. A Royal houseparty at Blenheim would be perfect pickings, to use an American phrase, for a ring of thieves.
Given these facts and speculations, Charles was becoming increasingly concerned, to the point where he was almost ready to lay his suspicions before the Duke, who would certainly not want to be disgraced by a theft at Blenheim Palace. However, where the Duke was concerned, there was one additional bit of information that troubled Charles, although he had no way of knowing whether it was incidental or vital. Buttersworth had said that the woman who showed him the gemstones had a nose like that of Sappho, a female poet of classical Greece, a description which, Charles thought, fit Miss Deacon remarkably well.
Was it possible that it had been Miss Deacon who presented the stones at the Ashmolean?
Was she somehow involved with the thieves?
A ridiculous idea, on the face of it, or so the Duke would certainly think. But the preceding year, the Times had carried the story of a certain Lady Tallarde, who had been found guilty of a similar association in France and sentenced to a lengthy prison term. And Chief Norwood had mentioned that a woman guest had fallen under suspicion at Welbeck. Charles could not discount the possibility.
But this was only speculation, and Charles had no way of determining the truth. Because of this, he felt that it would not be quite prudent to discuss the matter with the Duke, at least, not yet. He needed more inside information, and he had thought of a way to get it. But he would first have to consult with Winston. If the Duke’s cousin could be convinced that the matter was urgent, he was in a position to help implement the scheme…
These were the thoughts that were passing through Charles Sheridan’s mind as he went across the stableyard on his way back to the palace, his camera bag over one shoulder and his tripod over the other, whistling tunelessly as he walked. In fact, he was so preoccupied that he scarcely knew where he was, and didn’t hear Winston calling until he nearly bumped into him.