Death Among Rubies (19 page)

“You aren’t going to investigate further?” asked Frances. She suspected no one would seriously consider the woman was poisoned, as she was so old.

“Why should I? This was not a murder, and I don’t want you to start anything by saying otherwise.”

“You don’t think this is too much of a coincidence?”

“The only coincidence I see is your ability to keep finding dead bodies.”

“Two of which were people I was about to speak with.”

“From what I hear, you’re speaking with everyone. A coincidence is all it is, Lady Frances, and I’ll thank you not to interfere further. An old lady has died. That’s it. Now I think you ladies should head back to the manor house.”

“People will be coming. And we’re going to greet them, at least until other relations arrive.”

He looked as if he might argue the point, but finally said, “As you wish.”

By that point, the many relations of Betsy Tanner began arriving. Mallow turned over Dolly to one her aunts, then joined Miss Hardiman and Lady Frances in serving, until various granddaughters and grandnieces could take over. They eventually left the makeshift wake quietly, and the chauffeur drove them home.

F
rances was pleased the next morning that they were all going to the Blake estate, a thirty-minute drive in the Rolls-Royce. Gwen had, predictably, cried when hearing about the death of Betsy Tanner, but Tommie had soothed her: the woman was extremely old and no doubt in pain from crippling arthritis. “It was her time,” said Tommie, but she looked at Frances.

Blake Court was built of mellow local stone, nicely proportioned and substantial, although of a much more manageable size than the Eyrie. Mr. Blake had returned the previous day, and was on hand to greet them with his housekeeper, Mrs. Pear, who greeted them warmly.

“I scolded young Master Blake for not bringing you over earlier. Poor girl, stuck in that huge drafty place.” She gave Gwen a hug, while Christopher Blake just grinned. It was clear this housekeeper had known Mr. Blake—and Gwen—since they were children.

There was a full breakfast laid out in the dining room, which was more cheerful than formal—the furniture was good but scuffed in places, Frances noted, as if generations of careless, happy children had run through it.

“Mrs. Pear, I brought my maid, Mallow. We’ve descended on you with quite a few people, and she can help out, if you need.”

“That’s very thoughtful, my lady, but we can manage—although I daresay your Mallow will be a welcome face below stairs. Not many new faces around here nowadays.”

Gwen seemed very happy, and Frances hadn’t seen her eat so much since they had left London, although the food was better at the Eyrie.

“Now ladies, I thought I’d take you on a tour of my grounds and then we’d have lunch. I have to meet with a farm manager after lunch, but will see you at dinner.”

“There will be no walk around the estate without a chaperone,” said Mrs. Pear, and Mr. Blake laughed.

“Dear lady, it’s 1907, and we’re a group.”

“None of your lip, young man,” said Mrs. Pear, and Mr. Blake laughed again.

They fell into three couples. Mr. Blake led the way, in close conversation with Miss Hardiman. Arm in arm, Tommie and Gwen followed, as Gwen pointed out places she played as a child when she came on visits.

Frances hung back with Mrs. Pear, congratulating herself on her good fortune. Here was another servant who knew something of the family and seemed inclined to talk. In fact, Frances didn’t even have to prompt her.

“If I may say so, my lady, I’m very glad to see Miss Gwen with good friends like you and Miss Calvin. Mr. Christopher has mentioned she has friends in London, and I’m glad of it. She had a rather lonely childhood. Mr. Christopher was her only real friend.”

“It was a pity she lost her mother so young,” said Frances.

“Oh yes, my lady. She so loved her little girl. Lady Kestrel’s death was very sad.”

“I never met her, of course. What was she like?”

“Bless you, my lady; Miss Gwen is just like her, sweet and gentle.”

Frances then led the conversation to Lady Kestrel’s younger years, when she and her friend Phoebe had made a foursome
with Sir Calleford and his cousin, Captain Jim. It was much the same story as Betsy Tanner had told. But Mrs. Pear had some further insights: they were all friends, it was true, but it was clear to Mrs. Pear that the young Calleford had worshipped young Miss Bronwen, and she was delighted with his attentions, while Miss Phoebe was destined for Captain Jim.

“I’ve heard some family tales that the four of them were so close that although marriages were expected, no one was sure who would marry who.”

“It was a long time ago, my lady. I’m sure I couldn’t say.” The housekeeper had said enough, but Frances suspected Mrs. Pear knew a lot more and decided to push. She was clearly a born gossip.

“Discretion is very important, Mrs. Pear. It’s only that Gwen hardly knew her mother, and now has lost her father, and if I had a little more knowledge of family history, I could better understand Gwen and help her through these trying times.”

“I see, my lady. But I’m not one to gossip.”

“Of course not. You wouldn’t have risen to a high position as housekeeper of such a fine place as Blake Court if you lacked discretion. It’s only old family . . . history I’m after. Not vulgar gossip about what is happening today.”

“Well, if you put it like that, my lady. More than one person was surprised at the way things fell out, I don’t mind saying. Even as young men, their way in the world was marked. Calleford Kestrel would become a great man in London, we all thought, with an important position, dinners at the palace. And Captain Jim Blake would hunt, breed his horses and dogs, do his turn as a deputy lieutenant for the county and give away the prizes at the local school. That would’ve suited Miss Bronwen just fine, and Miss Phoebe would’ve made a gracious London hostess. But that’s not the way it happened.” She sighed.

“Calleford Kestrel proposed to Miss Bronwen, not Miss Phoebe?” prompted Frances.

“It would seem so. But looking back on it, it may not be so strange. For all he was a great man, Sir Calleford could be a little . . . nervy . . . I may say. There are those who say that Miss Gwen was all her mother’s daughter, but she was her father’s, too, and Sir Calleford was not disposed for a lively London life. But if you could’ve known Miss Bronwen, my lady. The gentlest creature the good Lord ever created. Her quiet ways soothed him when he fretted. It was a great love.”

Frances asked if Miss Phoebe, who became Mrs. Blake, had as strong a romance with Captain Jim.

“Ah, my lady, now that was a little different.” She lowered her voice. “Captain Jim had to woo her rather hard, so we all thought. Oh, I think she liked him well enough, my lady, but he was a bit of a lively lad, and she wanted to make sure he’d settle down—and sure enough, he was a good master and became much admired for the way he ran the estate. It turned out to be a fair match. Captain Jim needed a strong wife.” She laughed. “Someone to tell him no, he couldn’t give his favorite dogs the run of the house, and yes, as the squire he had to do the reading Sunday morning at church, never mind he was out late on Saturday.”

Frances smiled. “There is more than one Captain Jim in my family, with the same arguments. But it sounds then like Mrs. Blake ran a strict household when she was here?”

Now Frances had pushed too far. Old memories were fair game, but Mrs. Blake was still mistress of Blake Court, and there would be no criticism there. A few set words on what a fine lady she was, and that was it.

But Mrs. Pear wanted to gingerly sound out Frances. After all, the death of Sir Calleford affected her as well.

“I didn’t want to bother the family during these trying times, my lady, but seeing as you’re such a good friend of Miss Gwen’s, I was wondering if you knew what would happen? If Mrs. Blake would come home now, and what would happen with the Eyrie?”

Frances lowered her voice as well, to a conspiratorial whisper. “I don’t believe things will change much. I think it is Mrs. Blake’s intention to stay on at the Eyrie indefinitely and help Gwen manage the estate.”

Mrs. Pear nodded. “That’s what I thought, my lady. There’s nothing for her here. Mr. Blake, as you see, runs a somewhat informal house. He’ll marry soon, I imagine, and we’ll have children running around, God-willing.” She seemed pleased at the prospect. “No real place here for Mrs. Blake then, however.”

Mrs. Bellinger. Mrs. Sweet. Mrs. Blake. No matter what their class, single women had a hard time finding a place in society
, reflected Frances—not for the first time.

Mrs. Pear broke into her thoughts. “Speaking of marriage, my lady. I know it’s not my place, but might my next mistress be an American, my lady?” It was only half a question. It probably didn’t occur to her that anyone could actually purchase the Eyrie from the Kestrel family and settle there. If Christopher Blake would marry, his wife would be mistress of Blake Court, and that’s all. Frances was also amused that Christopher might think he was keeping his romance with Effie Hardiman a secret. Servants always knew first.

“I would not be at all surprised, Mrs. Pear. But think on this. What if, as a wedding present, Mr. Hardiman bought his daughter the Eyrie, and Mr. Blake and his wife lived there?”

“Mr. Hardiman could do that, my lady? My goodness.” She thought about that, and Frances feared she might refuse to discuss it more, but she was clearly surprised. “I don’t suppose Miss Gwen wants to be a great lady. But what would she do, my lady?”

“Continue to live in London. She has many friends, Mrs. Pear. She will be well-looked-after, and I’m sure Mr. Blake would have her up to visit often.”

“And Mrs. Blake would come back here? It’s not my place to comment, my lady, but I think she’s rather used to the Eyrie.
I mean, we still think of her as mistress of Blake Court, but I doubt if she’s spent a night here in ten years.”

“She must’ve thought that someday Gwen would marry,” said Frances, looking closely at Mrs. Pear. “And that her husband would not expect his wife’s distant aunt to be part of their household. Certainly not running it.”

The housekeeper sighed. “But if . . .” and then she stopped.

“You were about to say, ‘but if she married Christopher.’”

But Frances had gone too far. “I’m sure I couldn’t say, my lady,” said Mrs. Pear, ending the conversation.

Mallow, meanwhile, was sharing a nice cup of tea with the cook, Mrs. Bailey. Unlike the cook at the Eyrie and most cooks at great houses, Mrs. Bailey was fairly young, only in her thirties. As a bachelor in the country, perhaps Mr. Blake didn’t entertain so lavishly that he required a more senior cook.

Mrs. Bailey was pleased to have someone new to talk to, and like the servants at the Eyrie, she was entertained by Mallow’s stories of the great parties at the Seaforth house in London. Even more so, because at least at the Eyrie there had been a lot of entertaining, but not here.

“Oh, local gentry, with their unmarried daughters hoping to catch Mr. Blake’s eye—the vicar and his wife, the doctor and his wife, but that’s it. Mind you, Miss Mallow, I don’t do any of your fancy French cooking, like what you’re used to in London, but I do very nice roasts and have a good hand with game, if I say so myself.”

“I’m a London girl and prefer solid English cooking myself,” said Mallow. “Are these your scones? I haven’t had better, even when I was housemaid for the late Marchioness of Seaforth.”

Mrs. Bailey seemed tickled that a maid in a titled family liked her scones.

Lady Frances had told Mallow to find out if any of the servants knew about Mr. Blake’s courtship of Miss Hardiman. But
care was needed. Servants liked to gossip, but push too hard, especially with a senior servant like a cook, and they’d suspect something.

“Rather nice of Mr. Blake to show that American lady around the grounds. She’s stuck here in the country not knowing anyone.”

Mrs. Bailey smirked. “I could tell you, Miss Mallow, it’s more than just kindness.”

Mallow’s eyes grew wide. “Really? He’s courting an American lady? Well, I never.”

Mrs. Bailey enjoyed knowing something that would entrance this London lady’s maid, who was probably privy to scandals among the great lords and ladies in the city.

“Oh yes. The way we heard it, he was friends with her father, Mr. Hardiman, something about the American interested in horses and coming up to see the Eyrie stables. But it’s the daughter Mr. Blake’s interested in.”

“Well fancy that,” said Mallow. “So perhaps you’ll get a new mistress here? What with Mrs. Blake always up at the Eyrie, it’s been awhile since you’ve had a proper mistress here.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Mrs. Bailey. She looked a little crafty.
Oh
, thought Mallow,
she knows something and wants to tell me, but can’t decide
. Suddenly, Mrs. Bailey changed the subject.

“But tell me. Your Lady Frances must be ready to marry. She’s pretty, and being in an important titled family must have a very nice dowry. I daresay you’ll be living in a great house before too long.”

So Mrs. Bailey was going to give gossip, but she wanted some in return. Very well. Mallow would give her what she wanted—even if she had to make it up.

“There have been gentlemen callers, I can tell you. Now you must keep to yourself, Mrs. Bailey, but three times now Lady Frances has dined at the home of her brother and sister-in-law when they had Lord Lucas Brakeland, eldest son of an earl he is, and will inherit Brakeland Park. He is an equerry to the
king. That means His Majesty himself will probably come to the wedding.”

And that just amazed Mrs. Bailey. In recent years, Blake Court hadn’t seen anyone more prominent than Canon Witherspoon, from Morchester Cathedral—an occasional visitor who tended to fall asleep over dessert. The cook couldn’t top that. But she could come close.

“Well, perhaps we’ll have a wedding here too, Miss Mallow, but Mrs. Blake won’t be attending. I’ll tell you, they just had a row the likes of which you’ve never heard. I was just coming up to discuss the menu, when I heard. She came back here to have a talk with Mr. Christopher. Oh, she really lost her temper she did.”

“Mrs. Blake? She seems like such a great lady,” said a wide-eyed Mallow. Great ladies didn’t lose their temper.