Death Among Rubies (9 page)

“Saffo.”
A close approximation for “Sappho.” Oh my.

“Sappho was a Greek poetess who lived a long time ago. From what little we know about her, she lived a very . . . unconventional life.” That was one way to put it.

“Oh. Like you, my lady,” said Mallow.

“Not exactly. You see, Sappho didn’t like the company of men. She had . . .” Frances struggled to find the words to explain it to Mallow. The poor girl would be shocked. “She had romantic feelings for other women, rather than men.”

“I see, my lady.” She cast a critical eye on Frances’s evening dress, to make sure it was smooth. Mallow was reacting coolly to the whole thing, and Frances realized she had misjudged her maid. There was no telling what Mallow had seen growing up in one of London’s poorest neighborhoods. Behavior was much the same everywhere, Frances had observed, but some things were easier to hide in the large houses of the rich than in tightly packed tenements.

“So I’m afraid that visiting gentleman was suggesting Miss Kestrel was like Sappho,” concluded Frances.

“If I may say, it’s very wicked, my lady.”

Frances turned. “What is wicked, Mallow? The behavior or the telling of tales?”

“Oh, my lady, the telling of tales! What people do is none of my concern. Now if you could hand me one more hairpin, my lady, we’ll be all ready.”

Frances smiled at her remarkable maid. “Thank you. Again, you did very well today.”

And Mallow flushed with pride, while Frances reflected:
So at least one other person wondered about Gwen. Who was spreading these tales?

“So, do you like being in a great house in the country, with a big servants’ hall?” asked Frances. “Should I marry a great lord and settle in a grand estate like this?”

“It’s a very nice house, I’m sure, my lady, but since you ask, I think I would miss London.”

“You would miss the cinema, certainly,” teased Frances. “I don’t think the little village here shows moving pictures yet.”

Mallow’s eyes lit up. “Oh, my lady, I would miss them. Miss Hopp sounded so disappointed she lived in a town with no moving pictures yet. I went with Mabel last week, and the stories, and what they can put on the screen—you can’t imagine, my lady. The music hall stage is wonderful too, my lady, but the moving pictures are something special.” She lost herself for a moment. “It’s a very grand house, my lady, but I would miss city life.”

“I would too, Mallow.”

F
rances allowed herself plenty of time to walk from her bedroom to the dining room for the first formal meal since Sir Calleford’s death. She was early, but found a man was already waiting in the hallway outside, studying some miniature oil paintings. As she got closer, the man heard her and looked up. Frances judged him to be in his thirties, and he was handsome in an exotic way. His clothes were English, but somehow seemed incongruous with his looks.

He bowed.

“A pleasure to meet you,” he said, in lightly accented English. “Do I have the honor of meeting Lady Frances Ffolkes? My name is Mr. Mehmet.”

“You’re correct. I heard there was a representative from the sultan. That must be you?”

“I am from Istanbul, but have been residing in London,” he said, not quite answering her question.

“And how did you know who I was?”

“It could be because I heard you had arrived, and I know the other guests. But in fact, you look very much like your brother. I compliment you on having such a distinguished relation. His work has brought honor to your king and your house.”

“Thank you for your kind words. I take it then that you have had meetings with my brother in his role as a Foreign Office undersecretary?”

“I have many interests, and move in diplomatic and business circles, so I number many prominent Englishmen, like your brother, among my acquaintances,” he said. That wasn’t odd. Anyone important in the diplomatic community in London would’ve met Charles at one point. “Indeed, although I rent a house in London, I am fortunate enough to have friends with country houses like this. May I take it you are here as a friend to Miss Kestrel, to support her in this difficult time?”

“Yes, two of us, Miss Thomasina Calvin and I, came down here with her for a visit, but will be staying indefinitely.” She paused. “I know Miss Kestrel finds it upsetting to see so many police officers around, a reminder of how her father died. They seem very busy investigating the death, but so far have not made any arrests. As you have been here some days, perhaps you were able to assist the police in their investigations? Have you seen or heard anything that throws suspicions on anyone here?”

Mr. Mehmet smiled again. “You are direct and curious, also like your brother. Do you have an official position with the police?”

“You’re teasing me, Mr. Mehmet. The authorities haven’t seen fit yet to employ female officers in London any more than they do in Istanbul. I act on behalf of my friend, Miss Kestrel. Given that this was a political meeting and that Sir Calleford had a long Foreign Office career, I was wondering if you thought the killing was politically motivated.”

“A political meeting? You were misinformed. It was merely a meeting of friends, old and new. The discussion did center on foreign affairs—that is Sir Calleford’s great interest. But he does not have an official position in the Foreign Office, I understand.”

“Really?” said Frances. “That is interesting. Because I was thinking that a murder with a dagger—he was killed with a dagger, if you hadn’t heard—is a very personal sort of murder.”

That seemed to get Mr. Mehmet’s attention. The slightly amused look on his face disappeared. “I had not heard. But yes, it does sound like a personal murder.”

“And you may be interested to know the murder weapon was Turkish.”

“Not the ruby dagger? Sir Calleford showed it to me. He was very proud of it. Aside from his tragic death, the crime is compounded by the . . . desecration of a work of art. I suppose because of Sir Calleford’s importance, and the dramatic manner of the murder, even more English police from London headquarters will swarm all over the house.”

He now looked positively gloomy. Frances decided to push further. “I imagine you’re right. And it’s not a very, how should I say, English method of murder. I was told that the dagger once belonged to a noble Turkish family. Yours, by any chance, Mr. Mehmet?”

Mr. Mehmet just stared for a moment—then laughed. “No, my lady. Not at all. You overreached, but that was an excellent theory. You have far more imagination than the local inspector, Mr. Bedlow, who questioned me earlier today. He seems convinced it’s an outside gang—kept asking if I had seen any strangers. I wouldn’t have thought a band of violent robbers would operate in such a peaceful county, but I can’t imagine any other solution. I have confidence the police will discover them soon enough. But others are coming—perhaps we should change the subject.”

Joining them were a handsome young man dressed in a fashionable suit, a large older man in clothes that didn’t fit perfectly, and a tall young woman whose dress, Frances quickly noticed, was the wrong cut for her figure and wrong color for her complexion.

The gentlemen bowed and the woman looked at her with a mix of curiosity and welcome.

“You must be Lady Frances,” said the young man. “I am sorry we haven’t met earlier today, but with the tragedy . . . I’m Christopher Blake, Miss Kestrel’s cousin, and Mrs. Blake’s son. May I present some guests—Mr. Ezra Hardiman, and Miss Effie Hardiman, his daughter, from America. This is Lady Frances
Ffolkes, a close friend of my cousin Gwen. And I see, Lady Frances, you have already met Mr. Mehmet, a guest from London.”

Mr. Hardiman gave her a strong welcome, with a formal speech. “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Frances, although I wish it were in better circumstances. Normally, we would leave to give the family some privacy, but your police have asked the guests to stay while they make their investigations.”

Frances said that was perfectly understandable.

Miss Hardiman reminded Frances of some of the American girls she had known in college: robust and healthy-looking, with a friendly voice just a little bit too loud.

“A pleasure, Lady Frances. I understand you come from London? Father and I were staying in Claridge’s. London quite took my breath away. But oh, I do apologize, Mr. Blake; no offense was intended to this house. I have never seen anything like this—words fail me. Nothing like this near Buffalo.”

“Buffalo?” asked Lady Frances. “I was educated in New York, but never managed to make it to Buffalo.”

“Really? May I ask where?” asked Mr. Hardiman.

“Vassar College, a school for women, in Poughkeepsie.”

“I’ve heard of it. And it’s a fine town, Poughkeepsie, right on the Hudson. Important for river shipping and rail. I hope you get a chance to see Buffalo someday, Lady Frances. We’d be happy to play host—we live just outside it. A wonderful city, isn’t it, Effie?”

“Yes, Father,” she said, but with very little enthusiasm.

Pennington stepped out of the dining room to ring the gong, as was typically done in large houses to summon everyone to dinner. Even as he did so, the rest of the party arrived: Mrs. Blake, Gwen, and Tommie. They all had been dressed and groomed nicely for dinner, and Frances was pleased to see Gwen looked rested and composed.

“Good evening, Mother. I’ve made introductions,” said Christopher.

“Very good,” she said with a wan smile. “Shall we go in?”

Dinner was quiet. No one felt they could really talk about Sir Calleford, given the tragic way he died. Mrs. Blake mentioned the work on the gardens, and that led to a brief discussion of flowers. Frances let her eyes dart around the room. Effie Hardiman seemed eager to discuss the gardens, and commented extensively on the house and grounds. Mr. Hardiman said little, but seemed to enjoy his food. Gwen also joined the discussion of gardens, but Tommie was quiet. Mr. Mehmet spoke little but watched carefully.

Christopher supported his mother in her conversational gambits, and was also solicitous of his cousin Gwen, reminding her it was a good idea to eat, and noting no one would think less of her if she wanted to retire early.

Frances studied him.
Here was a man not made for mourning
, thought Frances.
He was made for laughing, not because he was disrespectful, but because it was his nature to be cheerful
, Frances concluded. Indeed, he was very handsome, and he couldn’t help the charm coming through, even now. Frances saw it. Miss Hardiman had many questions about the house and grounds, and Christopher responded pleasantly to all of them.

The dinner broke up early, as expected. Mrs. Blake led Gwen away for a few moments of conversation, probably about the funeral plans.

“How is she faring?” Frances asked Tommie.

“Surprisingly well. I don’t know if it has fully hit her yet. Our bedrooms are next to each other, so I’m near her if she needs company in the night.”

Frances said goodnight to everyone, and was about to head to bed herself, when she felt a hand on her arm.

It was Mr. Mehmet.

“I do not wish to be offensive,” he said, “but I have heard that in London society you are now referred to as ‘Mad Lady Frances.’”

“Your information is correct,” said Frances. She kept her tone even. “I earned it by being unconventional.”

“Does that mean you don’t believe everything you hear?” he asked.

“Absolutely, Mr. Mehmet. And I ask many, many questions before I decide what I believe.”

“Many questions?”

“How else will I find out who killed Sir Calleford?”
And
, she thought,
who is threatening Tommie
.

“Would you mind some advice, Lady Frances?”

“I hope I’m not closed-minded.”

“Think of your own life. Which I’m sure is blameless.” Frances laughed. “But aren’t there . . . aspects of your life you would rather not be widely known? People may resent your questions, not because they are guilty of a crime, but because . . .” and he just waved his hand.

“Very good advice, Mr. Mehmet. There is much talk of the wisdom of the East, and I see it is well deserved.”

Now Mr. Mehmet laughed.

“Nevertheless, sir, I may have questions for you in the future. Good night, Mr. Mehmet.” And she headed up to her room, happy that she had had the last word.

F
rances didn’t expect to accomplish much the next day. Life would be held in suspension until after the funeral. But she could still observe and give instructions to Mallow. The police would be speaking to everyone, no doubt—even those who had arrived after the murder, and Frances would see that she and her maid were prepared.

Almost everyone made it down for breakfast, and Mrs. Blake was presiding over the table. “Miss Calvin said Gwen hardly slept—I think the horror of it all finally reached her. Miss Calvin was up with her much of the night, I found out, when I called on Gwen this morning. I ordered Gwen a tray in her room and I offered Miss Calvin a tray as well, but she firmly declined.” Of course. Tommie wouldn’t give in to that kind of coddling just because she hadn’t slept. “And Mr. Mehmet rose early and took an early walk, as is his custom.”

Tommie was at one end of the table talking to Miss Hardiman, while at the other end, Mr. Blake and Mr. Hardiman were in deep conversation. Mr. Blake had apparently stayed the night, perhaps to help his mother and cousin, even though his own house wasn’t far away. After greeting Frances, Mrs. Blake rejoined her son and Mr. Hardiman.

Frances helped herself to breakfast from the platters on the sideboard and then sat with Effie Hardiman and Tommie.

“Franny,” Tommie began, “Miss Hardiman was anxious that she and her father not be seen in a poor light having to continue to accept hospitality here because of the police request. They’d be willing to relocate to a hotel in Morchester.”

“Not at all,” said Frances. “Nothing in Morchester will be very comfortable—there will be nothing like Claridge’s here. I am sure Mrs. Blake is not at all put out having you continue to stay here.”

“I am very glad to hear you say this, Lady Frances.” Miss Hardiman placed a hand on Frances’s arm. Americans touched a lot. “I hear you come from a very important noble family, and your brother is a marquess, which is very high up, they say, so this means a lot to me.”

Frances couldn’t help but smile.

“I am glad I could reassure you. But do tell me, Miss Hardiman, what brings you to England?”

“It was Dad’s idea. Why? I don’t know. Maybe he was restless. My brothers do most of the business work now. I didn’t question it. I was just glad to get out of Buffalo.”

“Did he say anything about meetings here? People he wanted to see? My brother and I know a lot of people, and we can help.”

“Well that is very kind of you. I’ll let Dad know. But so far, he’s just taking it as it comes, no real plans.”

“But how did he know Sir Calleford?”

“I’m afraid I don’t really know, although I’m glad to see this house. It’s unbelievable. I don’t think even the White House in Washington matches it. He just told me he knew someone who knew someone, and we’d be checking out of Claridge’s to visit the country for a bit.”

So someone wanted Mr. Hardiman here. Was Sir Calleford acting indirectly? At any rate, these were people to cultivate, if she wanted to find out more about what was happening at the Eyrie.

“When we all go back to London, Miss Hardiman, I will call on you at your hotel. We will take tea with my sister-in-law, the Marchioness of Seaforth, and other ladies. Also, if you would
like, I will introduce you to the dressmaker who serves both me and the marchioness. You might like some English dresses, while you’re here.”

Frances thought Miss Hardiman would hug her with delight. “This is the nicest thing that has happened to me that I can remember. Thank you very much.”
Tea with noblewomen! And wait until the girls back home saw dresses made by the seamstress to a marchioness!

“Oh, and one more thing . . .” Miss Hardiman was all ears now. “Miss Calvin, Miss Kestrel, and I belong to a club.” She glanced at Tommie and saw her raise an eyebrow. “The goal of the club is to gain the vote for women in England. I understand there are similar groups in the United States. If you’d like to stop by, we welcome visitors.”

Miss Hardiman slammed her hand on the table, drawing attention to herself. She realized it and lowered her voice. “That beats everything. Dad would have ten kinds of fits if I did that, wants me to be a good girl, meet the right sorts. But . . . well anyway, I’d be happy to come, and I can keep a secret. Now if you’ll just excuse me for one minute, I’m going to get more of these fishes. What are they called again?”

“Kippers,” said Frances. “You can’t have breakfast in England without them.”

“Kippers. Right. Thank you!” And she was up.

“My goodness,” said Frances, when Miss Hardiman had gotten up. It was not often that someone left Frances feeling overwhelmed.

“Yes, ‘my goodness’ says it all,” said Tommie. “It never would’ve occurred to me to invite her to a suffragist meeting, but that’s a marvelous idea. Mrs. Elkhorn will be tickled. Let’s keep her around. With a voice like that, she’ll become our principal speaker.” They stifled their laughter. “But I don’t doubt she has a good heart.”

And that was Tommie, always looking for—and finding—the good in everyone.

“But tell me, how is Gwen?”

“Tossing and turning all night. It’s everything, really. The murder of her father, and it’s beginning to hit her that this place is now hers. At least—she said her father told her it would be hers, but he no doubt assumed she’d be married by that time.” Tommie shook her head, then leaned in close. “And I can’t help thinking about the horrible man and his disgusting threats.”

Frances nodded. She understood Tommie’s feelings. “I understand. The odd thing is that there has been no hint of Sir Calleford’s thoughts—if he had some particular thoughts about Gwen that were hidden from us, and from her. Perhaps when the solicitors talk to Gwen about the will—if he added something about Gwen having to move home to inherit, something like that.”

Tommie’s eyes grew wide, and she asked if Frances really thought that was likely. Her voice trembled a little.

“No, I don’t. It sounds awful, but I don’t think Sir Calleford cared enough for his daughter to disown her just for her affiliations. It’s someone else who hates her. That’s as far as I’ve gotten. But don’t worry.”

Miss Hardiman made her way back with plenty of kippers, and with Mrs. Blake.

“Lady Frances, I’ve just found out we will be playing host to another member of your family. Your brother Charles has just sent a telegram that he’ll be coming. The Foreign Office had said a trusted clerk would come to take possession of some important papers belonging to Sir Calleford, but it seems Lord Seaforth will be coming personally.”

Frances was briefly rendered speechless. It was because of her—she knew it. Mrs. Blake seemed somewhat amused at hosting two members of the Ffolkes family. Tommie raised an eyebrow again. And Miss Hardiman could barely contain her excitement at meeting a real, live marquess.

After breakfast, Frances found Mallow in her room organizing her clothes. She told her that his lordship would be joining them.

“The late Sir Calleford was involved in diplomacy, Mallow, as is Lord Seaforth. However, I’m afraid he’s really coming because of me. You know how upset he was the last time I became involved in things he didn’t feel were proper.”

“Yes, my lady.” That wouldn’t be something Mallow would forget anytime soon.

“It’s a big house, with extensive grounds. I could hide. But that would be cowardly, and ultimately futile.” She sighed. “You know, this wouldn’t be happening if I didn’t have to sneak around. If I were a minister in the Foreign Office myself, I could make legitimate inquiries.”

“I think you would be an excellent minister in the Foreign Office, my lady,” said Mallow loyally, despite having only a vague notion of what the Foreign Office did.

“Thank you, Mallow.”

“And perhaps his lordship won’t be quite as angry as you fear, my lady. You’ve only come here to support your friend.”

“But will his lordship believe that?”

“Probably not, my lady,” said Mallow, shaking her head. “But you’ve always talked him around.”

“Dear Mallow, your faith in me is always a tonic.” And thus emboldened, she left to see how Gwen was doing. But then she glanced out the window, and saw the Rolls-Royce pull up with Charles and his valet.

Very well. She’d face up to him. In the hallway, she stopped a footman to tell him that if Lord Seaforth, who just arrived, asked for her, she would be in the solar. When she arrived there, she found Gwen and Tommie, along with Miss Hardiman.

“Oh, Lady Frances, do join us,” called out Miss Hardiman. “We are trying to assure Miss Kestrel that she has our full support in these difficult times.” Tommie and Gwen both looked a little alarmed by the American.

Frances sat down with them. Gwen was looking wan, but Tommie seemed in control. She flashed a quick, wry smile at Frances.

“It’s the two things,” said Gwen. “I barely seemed to be able to take in that my father had died, when it became clear that I was mistress of the Eyrie. I never thought, you see . . .” She looked confused, as much as anything.

“I am sure the solicitors will take care of the details. And your Aunt Phoebe will stay on as long as you need her.”
That was something to think about—would Mrs. Blake want to return to live with her bachelor son on their estate?

“I—I don’t think I could ever manage this place,” said Gwen. “It sounds silly. I never really thought of this as a home. It was more like living in a sort of museum than in a proper home.”

And that was probably the most insightful thing Frances had ever heard Gwen say. She was mulling it over when Miss Hardiman jumped in.

“I think being mistress of this house would be the greatest thing in the world,” she said.

No one had time to respond to that, because of the arrival of a well-dressed man with a masculine version of Frances’s features that gave him a boyish look.

“Charles, do come in. We heard you were arriving. Miss Kestrel, Miss Calvin, Miss Hardiman—my brother Charles, Marquess of Seaforth. Charles—my old friends Gwendolyn Kestrel and Thomasina Calvin, and my new friend, Effie Hardiman, from America.”

Charles gave Frances a brief, hard look, but nothing would stop him from being polite. “Miss Calvin, Miss Hardiman, a great pleasure to meet you.” Tommie greeted Charles with a brief smile, and Miss Hardiman almost swooned. “Lord Seaforth, your sister has told us all about you,” she said.

“Only good things, I hope, Miss Hardiman,” he responded, and she found that very amusing. He turned to Gwen. “Miss Kestrel, my deepest sympathies on your loss. He was a fine man. I speak for His Majesty’s government when I say your father’s death was a loss for all of England.”

“Thank you for your kind words,” said Gwen. “Your sister has been a great support.”

“Indeed,” he said. “I am so glad to hear it.” Was there sarcasm there, or was it Frances’s imagination? “Franny, would it be possible to pull you away from your friends for just a few minutes for a brief discussion? The weather is warm for this time of year, and we could walk through the gardens.”

Oh, I’m in for it
, thought Frances.
Very well.
She girded herself for battle, and said goodbye to her friends.

Charles didn’t seem inclined to talk as they walked down the stairs.

“Mary is well?” asked Frances.

“She was fine when I left her earlier today. But this is an official visit, not a social one, which is why she didn’t come.” He had that strict, slightly pompous look he had inherited from their father.

The workmen were busy at one end of the garden, but even half of it provided enough room to walk and talk. When they were alone, he began.

“I was going to send my chief clerk to take care of Sir Calleford’s papers, but after Mary told me you were here, I thought I’d come myself and then serve as the Foreign Office’s official representative at the funeral. You told Mary that you were staying here to support Miss Kestrel.”

“Miss Kestrel, and our mutual friend Miss Calvin, are all members of the League for Women’s Political Equality,” she responded, putting as much superiority into her tone as possible. “We support each other in times of crisis.”

That made Charles stop. “You’re telling me that Gwen Kestrel is a suffragist? I don’t believe it. I’ve known Calleford for years—he never said anything to me. I can’t believe he’d tolerate it, and from what little I know of his daughter, she doesn’t strike me as someone who’d defy him.”

“Well, she is. Call Mrs. Elkhorn if you don’t believe me. It’s no secret. And frankly, I don’t think Sir Calleford cared one way
or another about what Gwen was up to. Typical attitude about girls. If she had been a son—” She was on a roll but Charles was quick.

“Franny, I don’t have time for this. Very well, so a suffrage movement coincided with a murder. It figures.”

That was what Inspector Eastley had said. “Someday you will explain how crime and the suffrage movement are related.”

Charles chuckled, and they resumed walking. “And of course,” she said airily, “I, like you, have my official duties here.”

“Official? What government department has secured your services?”

“The Home Office. I am an official translator for the Metropolitan Police Service.”

“You’re what?” He seemed genuinely astounded.

“Inspector Eastley of Special Branch had some French nationals to interview and I volunteered my services as a French translator.”

“For whom?” he asked, uncharacteristically sharply. He was often frustrated with Frances, but rarely snapped at her like this.

“Oh! Mme. Aubert, her maid, and her husband’s valet. M. Aubert’s English is excellent, I was told, and so he didn’t need a translator.”

“And what did they tell you?” he asked. He looked positively stormy, but Frances just glared right back.

“The inspector swore me to secrecy. He answers to the Home Office. You work in the Foreign Office. You haven’t been cleared.” Neither said anything for a moment—and then Charles burst out laughing.

“Franny, you are completely in the right and I am absolutely in the wrong.” He bent down and kissed her on the cheek. “I so wish Father was alive to see you like this. He’d be proud of you.”