Death Among Rubies (2 page)

“Very good, my lady—and good evening to you, my lord.” Mallow curtsied and slipped out. Maybe it was his imagination, but Charles could swear there was a spring in her step and that she was holding her chin up—just the way Franny did when she had done something to make herself proud.

Anyway, as the door closed, Mary started to laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

“You! I just watched one of highest ranking diplomats in England stymied by his sister’s maid. You attempted to pump her about Franny’s romantic life, political activities, and police involvement and got precisely nowhere.”

“God knows what my sister is up to,” he muttered. “All I know is that she’s a most talented little liar and has taught all her skills to that maid of hers. When Franny still lived at home and our mother was alive, Mallow helped Franny sneak around
a dozen rules. Mother knew but couldn’t prove anything against either of them.”

“I know—the most delightful mistress-and-maid pair in London. Stop fretting. Franny has always been able to take care of herself, and Mallow is always by her side. But never mind Franny, who I’m sure is fine. Have you had word from Kestrel’s Eyrie?”

At that, he brightened. “Yes. Sir Calleford sent a coded cable to my office this morning and a confidential clerk dropped it off earlier. Everything has been going smoothly.”

Mary arched one of her elegant eyebrows. She was a political wife and knew what was happening, what was at stake. Mary was also aware that there were things her husband couldn’t tell her, though he could give her hints.

“Calleford said everyone is being very cooperative. It bodes well for future plans.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” She glanced at the clock. “We should go down. The Kaiser’s ambassador is due soon. You know Germans are never late.” And arm-in-arm they headed downstairs.

Gwendolyn Kestrel loved Evensong, and her great friend Thomasina “Tommie” Calvin was pleased enough to go with her to St. Paul’s Cathedral. Gwen came particularly for the music and participated fully, while Tommie’s enjoyment came from contemplating the cathedral’s visual beauty. She also liked seeing how happy Gwen was. It took very little to make Gwen happy: Evensong, an occasional evening of theater, spending time with the dogs and horses at her father’s estate.

After service, they planned as usual for dinner at a quiet café nearby. Those were the times Tommie most cherished. There were so few places, so few situations, where she didn’t feel judged: wearing the wrong clothes, saying the wrong thing, enduring comments about when she’d get married. If only the whole of London could be like their suffragist meetings—probably the only group where Tommie felt comfortable.

“That was so lovely,” said Gwen. “The choir was in particularly good form. Can we stop for a few moments and tell the rector how much we liked it?”

Tommie smiled indulgently. “Of course. How about this—you tell him how much you enjoyed the music, then I’ll meet you out front. I’m going to go into the chapel and light a candle for my father.” It was one of Tommie’s last remnants of any religious observance.

She had the chapel to herself, but as she was finishing, she heard footsteps and turned around to see who it was. The light was dim, but she could see he was dressed like a gentleman. A man of middle years. Rather serious looking, clean-shaven with a roman nose and a high-domed head. She stepped away from the candles to give him room, but he turned to her.

“Miss Calvin? Miss Thomasina Calvin?”

She blinked. This man didn’t look at all familiar.

“Yes . . .” she said hesitatingly.

“I find it rather odd to see you and Miss Kestrel attending a sacred service in one of the greatest cathedrals in England. Your relationship is an affront to all decent Christian behavior.”

The words flowed out of him without any menace, as casually as if they were discussing the weather. She tried to speak, but nothing came out.

“You may not care. But Miss Kestrel’s father, Sir Calleford, is a wealthy and powerful man. I suggest you cease your corruption of Miss Kestrel while there is still time to save her. And if you cannot curb your base lusts, at least turn your attentions to a less well-connected young woman and don’t plan any visits to Kestrel’s Eyrie. Good day, Miss Calvin.”

He turned and disappeared as quickly as he came.

For a few moments, Tommie felt as if she couldn’t breathe—the horrible, disgusting accusations degrading her feelings for the person she loved best in all the world. Her legs started trembling, and feeling sick, she sat on the cold stone floor. Air finally came in great gulps. How could he—how could anyone . . .

She might’ve stayed like that for an hour or more, but the thought of Gwen made her pull herself together. If Gwen found her like this, there would be no explaining what happened or what the man had said. Gwen was incapable of understanding the baser emotions.

She took a deep breath and made a halfhearted attempt at straightening her clothes.
Stop wallowing and think
, she told herself.
Who was that man?
He definitely wasn’t familiar. So perhaps he was an agent sent by someone to frighten and intimidate her. How could someone hate her and Gwen so much? True, they were in the suffragist group, which had its vocal detractors to be sure, but even so, that wouldn’t explain that particular accusation. And men usually harangued them when they were speaking in the park, not by cornering them in churches.

Feeling a little steadier, she made her way back to the entrance, where Gwen was waiting for her.

“I’m so glad I stopped to talk to the rector. He seemed very pleased with my compliments. But Tommie—are you unwell?” It was one of the things Tommie loved best about Gwen: no one was more sensitive to the pain in those she loved—and she did love Tommie.

“I was a little overcome for a moment, thinking about my father. But I’m all right now, really. I think I’d just like some strong tea with sugar with our dinner.”

“You need to get away. I’m so glad you’ll be coming with me to Kestrel’s Eyrie—you and Franny.”

Of course, their upcoming trip came rushing back to her. She had been looking forward to it—and now that man had been very specific that she shouldn’t visit the Eyrie. But she wasn’t going to let Gwen go there alone.

And Franny was coming. She was absolutely trustworthy—Tommie could tell her what had happened. Franny would know what to do; Franny was well educated and so clever.

Franny was fearless.

Cheer and laughter dominated the drawing room at Kestrel’s Eyrie. Phoebe Blake had ordered a fire, which chased the autumn chill from the large, old-fashioned room. Despite the cool weather, the guests slipped out briefly for some fresh air and a glimpse of a particularly beautiful moon.

Everyone had an after-dinner drink: brandy for the men and cordials for the women. Mrs. Blake had understood that Mr. Mehmet’s religion prohibited intoxicating beverages, but he had taken a little wine at dinner to make a toast, and now sipped some sweet sherry.

“I thank you for catering to my needs, Mrs. Blake,” he had said earlier. “But some believe that Allah permits small amount of the fermented grape. It is drunken behavior only that offends him.”

Mrs. Blake had no interest in the fine points of Islamic theology, so she just said something noncommittal and moved on. She spoke briefly to the doctor and his wife. Sir Calleford thought it was kind to invite them to these events, and they always accepted, even though they were completely overawed.

Mr. Mehmet looked around the room. Everyone seemed deeply involved in one conversation or another, so he decided it was a good time to slip out. He had already noted a side door that seemed little used at the end of a hallway lined with storage rooms, and made sure no servant saw him leave.

Mehmet walked quickly around to the side of house, where there was only a little moonlight. He peered until he saw a spark of light in a knot of trees bordering the lawn, then headed toward it.

“Kerem, you smoke too much. It’ll be the death of you,” he said in Turkish, laughing quietly.

“You want one?” He lit a fresh one and handed it to Mehmet. “And what have you for me?” asked Kerem.

Mehmet reached into his pocket for an envelope, which he handed to Kerem, who in turn handed Mehmet another envelope.

“It’s questions and information from—”

“No names, not even here,” said Mehmet, and Kerem nodded.

“From our ‘friend in London,’” he said, using English for that one phrase. “I assume this is your report, which I will give him on my return. But what do you really have for me? I’ve been standing out here for nearly an hour.”

“I can’t help it. These English parties—it’s not easy to slip away. But here—” He produced a silver flask and handed it to Kerem. “It’s brandy.” Kerem took a deep drink.

“The Prophet would not approve of drinking so much, so quickly,” said Mehmet.

“The Prophet never experienced an English autumn,” said Kerem. “I have a very practical view of religion. Just as well I became a soldier, not an imam.” They both laughed again. “But when are you coming back to London?”

“I’ll be here a while longer,” said Mehmet. “There is more work I can do, more people to meet.”

“Much longer and the pasha will start wondering. He suspects you and dislikes you anyway. Meeting Englishmen for fun or for advancing the family business is acceptable, but there will be questions if you don’t return soon.”

“If I go back to London, the pasha can find a way to kill me there.”

“If he believes that you, Sir Calleford, and our ‘friend in London’ are in league, he’ll kill you wherever you are. Come, Mehmet, I’m not just your friend—I’m your cousin. There is something else, isn’t there? If you can’t trust me, you can’t trust anyone.”

Mehmet peered at Kerem. There was concern there—what they were doing could get them killed.

“You worry too much. The pasha trips over his own two feet and the sultan is all the way in Istanbul.”

Kerem turned and spat at the mention of the sultan.

“I know,” said Mehmet. “Anyway, I’ve been gone too long. Take the brandy and I’ll keep you notified of any change of plans. Where are you staying tonight?”

“A simple inn near Morchester.” He grinned. “I told the waitress there I knew the secrets of the sultan’s harem. She was entranced. Perhaps tonight . . .”

Mehmet chuckled. “You’re incorrigible. You know nothing of the sultan’s harem.”

“And neither does the English girl. Thank you for the brandy, and be careful.” He disappeared into the dark. Mehmet finished his cigarette and headed back to the house. He quietly opened the forgotten side door again, stepped in, and bolted it behind him before heading along the hallway back to the drawing room. Mehmet didn’t expect to see any of his fellow dinner guests and was particularly surprised by whom he saw outside of Sir Calleford’s study. But on second thought, perhaps it wasn’t such a surprise. What was that useful English word? He thought there might a . . . liaison. He stepped behind some decorative Greek statuary until he was alone, then leisurely returned to the drawing room.

Back in the drawing room, an American, Mr. Hardiman, was talking with Mrs. Blake. In her elegant dress and perfectly styled hair, she was not his idea of a farm wife—at least not the farm wives from back home in western New York. But a casual query about local agriculture proved she knew a great deal about the estate’s farms. He bet she knew every dime (
no, shilling
, he reminded himself) that went in and out of the lands, and wished etiquette didn’t prevent him from asking for a full account.