by R. J. Koreto
The only word for this was bizarre. That Bramwell was so convinced she had it and that she would be receptive to a bribe was beyond all reasoning. When she refused the offered envelope, he grabbed her wrist with one hand and thrust the envelope into her hand with another.
“How dare you?” she said. Frances pulled away. This stupid man was not a genuine threat, but his insults were not to be borne.
“You suffragists want to be treated like men. This, Lady Frances, is how unreasonable men are treated. Now take the damn money. It’s all you’ll get.”
“Tell your coachman to stop. I’m getting out.” She started to open the door, but Bramwell reached across her and shut it again.
“Don’t be a fool. Know when to stop. Now for the last time . . .”
On a warm Sunday afternoon at Vassar, one of Frances’s lady friends had proposed a small picnic in a remote part of campus. Just her, Frances, her young man, who had traveled from New York City, and a friend of his. It started well, but the men had brought a flask, which Frances found somewhat objectionable, and then the “gentlemen” started getting amorous with the ladies, which Frances found very objectionable, and finally she had cooled the man’s ardor with a sharp smack across the cheek.
It also cooled Mr. Bramwell.
“Now tell your coachman to stop and let me out. Or by God, I will make you sorry you ever met me.”
“I’m already sorry,” he snapped, rubbing his cheek. But he didn’t have to give any orders because the coachman brought the carriage to such a sharp halt, they were both almost thrown out of their seats. The horses reared and whinnied in protest.
“What the devil—”
“I am very sorry, sir,” called down the coachman, “but a hansom pulled out in front suddenly. He must be mad to drive like that.”
Curious, Frances leaned out of the window and into the drizzly weather. The coach had stopped on a quiet corner, and the hansom was blocking the intersection. Its door opened and a figure got out. Frances couldn’t make out the features at all; the street was poorly lit and the man was wearing a wide-brimmed hat. He walked purposefully toward the carriage.
“See here—” cried the coachman, but before anything could happen, the man yanked open the door on Bramwell’s side. Frances could see now—the man wore a wool scarf that left only his eyes visible. A highwayman, thought Frances, the romanticized robbers that used to inhabit the countryside. But they had been stamped out more than a century ago—was this some sort of joke? It was true that cutthroats roamed dangerous neighborhoods, but such criminals did not wander on respectable quiet streets, and the criminal classes did not travel by hansom cab.
Bramwell had gone pale. He tried to talk, but nothing came out. The stranger grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and pulled him out of the coach. Frances heard his body hit the pavement with a thump. She and the assailant then met each other’s eyes for one moment. Neither spoke, but then Frances remembered that two men had been shot over the Colcombe manuscript. She opened the door on her side and jumped out. She heard the coachman yell something, but she just ran, and in a moment was lost in a dark street in the London rain.
Frances didn’t even look where she was going, running past dark buildings and trying to stay away from streetlights. This was even worse than the mews, because all the nearby windows were closed tight against the weather; no one would hear her scream. And now there was more than just a vague fear of some stranger following her—a large, violent man had actually attacked the coach she was in. The search for the manuscript had become desperate. She thought she could hear the large man’s heavy footfall and expected his huge hand to land on her shoulder.
Her breathing came so ragged that her throat hurt, and then she tripped and fell, scraping her hands. Righting herself, she turned to see what had caused her fall—it was a short, stout piece of lumber, probably left by a workman. Frances grabbed it and stood up, staring into the night. She would go down fighting.
But nothing. No one was following her; no one was on the street. Frances looked around. With relief, she recognized a storefront and knew where she was—not so very far from home. The coachman had been driving around local streets. A brisk fifteen-minute walk and she was at the door of Miss Plimsoll’s.
Mallow was horrified at Frances’s condition, and Frances smiled ruefully.
“My lady, what happened? Are you hurt?”
“I am unhurt, just some minors scrapes, but it has not been the best of evenings. Put on a kettle and get me into something dry.”
She told her story while Mallow fussed over her, getting her undressed and tending to her minor wounds. Thoughts chased themselves around her mind. Who could’ve attacked them? The Heathcote set or someone whose life could be ruined by what was in the manuscript?
It took her a while to get over the terror of being attacked and think about what was actually the most unusual aspect of the evening: Bramwell’s absolute conviction that she had the manuscript. He was too stupid to have worked out any conclusion himself. Someone whispered the idea in his ear. Was it whoever told Lord Gareth and the Heathcotes? Someone was trying to put the focus on her—and away from himself.
Was Bramwell the real object of the attack—was she just someone who got in the way? And what happened to Mr. Bramwell after she fled? Well, there was no helping that now. She’d find out in the morning. And, she thought with a little satisfaction, she didn’t much care what happened to him.
“Shall I go downstairs and call the police, my lady?” asked Mallow.
“We probably should—but no,” said Frances. “I’m not badly hurt . . . and frankly, I think we need to be a little more circumspect about whom we trust. Someone knows too much about what’s happening to me, and if we call the police, there will be an official report, which will be shared all over the Home Office—I want to keep a lower profile. And besides that, can you imagine what my brother would say?”
“He would be extremely displeased, my lady.”
Despite the warmth of the evening, Mallow got her into a flannel gown and robe and served her a cup of strong tea with sugar. She undid Frances’s hair and began brushing it out. Frances would rather have just left it like that for now, but there was no point in complaining. It had to be done now or it would be even worse in the morning.
“I’m sorry you had such a horrifying evening, my lady.”
“Thank you, Mallow. It wasn’t that awful, really. It was like getting stuck in a play. A poorly written play.” She turned to her maid. “We’re going to write the next act ourselves.”
CHAPTER 13
The next morning, after a good breakfast, the next steps seemed clearer to Frances. She decided another visit to Scotland Yard was in order. It was time to get away from drawing room fencing for now—it all remained a muddle. It was like in school: when one paper wasn’t going well, she’d start on another. A break gave fresh perspective, and there were other avenues to explore in the meanwhile.
“Mallow, I have various calls to make this morning, including Scotland Yard.” She watched the expression on Mallow’s face. “I’ll be seeing Inspector Eastley again—it was his constable who brought me out the other night. He lacks good manners, but he’s treated me with respect, and I’m inclined to trust him.”
“Very good, my lady,” she said, indicating it was not “very good” at all. Yes, Lady Frances was unusual, but these continual visits with the police were a bit much. “I do hope they make some progress in finding out who killed poor Mr. Barnstable. He was a good man, my lady.”
“Yes, he was, Mallow. And I am confident his killer will be punished.”
“I am pleased to hear that, my lady. And may I ask if you have any evening plans? I will help choose and prepare an appropriate dress and jewelry.”
Perhaps dinner with Mr. Wheaton again? Or had she made up with Lord Gareth? He had very much upset Lady Frances, so Mallow would be keeping a sharp eye on him.
“Thank you, Mallow. My evening plans are
uncertain at this time. But I expect to be back for lunch, and we can discuss evening dress then.”
“Very good, my lady.”
Outside, she quickly found a hansom.
“Scotland Yard,” she said.
“Beg pardon, miss?”
She sighed. Maybe someday a woman wouldn’t startle a driver by requesting transportation to Metropolitan Police Headquarters.
Meanwhile, she saw newspaper boys crying the latest headlines: nothing about a member of Parliament being attacked in the street last night. So Bramwell had not reported it. No doubt the circumstances would prove embarrassing: too many things to explain. But why had he been attacked? Someone hadn’t wanted him to talk about the Colcombe manuscript. But Frances herself had not been attacked—not now, not in the mews. Was she just lucky? Or was it by design?
There was the usual fuss at the front desk at Scotland Yard. They assumed that as a lady, Frances only wanted to report a crime, probably something very minor, that should be handled by a local station. But Frances was firm.
“I am here to see Inspector Benjamin Eastley with Special Branch. I have information for him and him alone.” Her high-class accent and expensive clothes cleared the way, and she was provided an escort to the inspector’s office. It proved to be a cramped room, not nearly as large as Maples’s office and not as well appointed. Inspector Eastley was sitting behind a battered desk with a wry smile. Frances raised an eyebrow at him.
“Excuse my manners,” he said, standing slowly. With an exaggerated flourish, he invited Frances to sit. “That will be all, Constable. Please close the door behind you and see we aren’t disturbed.”
Frances made herself as comfortable as possible in the hard, wooden chair. It really was too bad—none of Eastley’s clothes were in proper condition. There was a light stain on his shirt, and his collar was crooked. His mustache could use a trim. She would love to turn him over to Charles’s valet.
“So, my lady, you have some information of use to us?”
“Very much so, Inspector. I have had some thought-provoking discussions recently that may be of interest to you.”
“About the death of Private Alfred Barnstable?” he asked.
“And the death of Major Daniel Colcombe,” she responded. “Along with the theft of his manuscript.”
Eastley leaned back in his chair. “You mention multiple cases,” he said.
“I mention one. And if you’re going to be silly about this, I’m going to the commissioner. He’ll listen.”
“Will he now?” asked Eastley.
“He went to school with my cousin Michael, who’s now rector of St. Jerome’s. He will see me.”
Eastley looked amused. “I do believe he would. Very well. We do officially consider those various . . . incidents related. So yes, I am interested in what you have to say.”
“I knew you would be.” She took a breath. This was the hard part. “But this is something of a trade. I want to know what progress you’ve made.”
“And why do you want to know that?” asked Eastley.
“Because Danny Colcombe was a great friend of my family’s. And Private Barnstable—he was of great help to me.” Eastley didn’t respond. “I can always go to the commissioner,” she reminded him. And now he laughed outright.
“I take your point, Lady Frances. Very well. Perhaps an exchange of ideas, a limited exchange of ideas. Now please, as a lady, you may go first.”
Unlike with Bramwell, this time Frances paused before talking. She had to trust someone at this point if she wanted to get anywhere, and she wouldn’t get anything from Eastley without giving something. And she was inclined to feel differently about him. Perhaps because he was a workingman and had no obvious connections to the men in Society she had spoken to.
Frances took a deep breath and launched into a summary of her meetings with Lord Crossley and Mr. Bramwell, individuals who she knew would never be forthcoming with Scotland Yard.
Inspector Eastley listened carefully and patiently as before, occasionally writing something down in a cheap notebook.
“I am sure all this has been rather prosaic, Inspector. But last evening, things came to a rather startling conclusion.” She described what happened in the coach—the attack on Bramwell and her quick retreat.
“You have no idea who it was? The attacker said nothing? Very odd, indeed.”
“Apparently, Mr. Bramwell never reported the incident.”
“Apparently not. Believe me, Lady Frances, I’d have heard.” He didn’t seem surprised, however. Had he heard of it unofficially? “I am glad you weren’t hurt. I compliment your succinct summary, my lady. Can you answer a question for me: are you really sure that no one to your knowledge has actually read this manuscript?”
“I don’t believe Danny—Major Colcombe—showed it to anyone.”
“And yet everyone seems to think it has something terrible in it for them. What terrible things did these people do to merit such concern?”
“I couldn’t say, Inspector. It may sound silly, but I see a lot of theater. I think I can tell when someone is acting. Someone is pulling the strings of a puppet show.”
She expected the inspector to laugh at her, but he just shook his head. “That wasn’t silly. You used your experience to draw a conclusion.”
“Well, then, thank you. And that’s all, Inspector. Perhaps you can now share with me what you know.”
“Ah yes, we have a deal. Very well. I can tell some things I know. But I can’t tell you why or how.”
“I understand procedures, Inspector. And I also understand that what you tell me is in confidence. I am my father’s daughter; I can keep a secret.”
Eastley nodded. “Thank you.”
This was going rather well, Frances thought. The inspector was being both helpful and polite, and she thought maybe she had misjudged him.
“I will tell you what I know and what I have concluded. That manuscript has resonated throughout much of London Society. For a work no one has seemingly read, everyone seems to believe it has something horrible in it about them. The Boer War wasn’t that long ago, and it seems many people have something to hide. The two people you told me about were not new to us—but what was interesting was that they clearly don’t have the manuscript. We thought someone in government had it—and that would lead us to the murderer. But thanks to your account, that doesn’t seem to be the case.”
“I am glad I could help. Now let me tell you my conclusion and see if you agree—I am wondering if we’re looking for two people. Or even two groups. A murderer and a thief.”
“Is that because you can imagine someone high in government stealing a politically sensitive manuscript—but not committing murders?”
Frances frowned.
“You seem doubtful, Lady Frances. You cannot imagine someone wealthy and influential would have reason to commit murder? Don’t you think that’s rather narrow-minded of you, to think only poor people kill each other?”
He was taunting her, but she refused to get angry. At least not openly. “Your conclusion is wrong, Inspector. Desperate people kill. Well-fed people with warm clothes who live in comfortable houses with plenty of coal are rarely desperate.” She thought of the people who came to the soup kitchen. Everyone there was desperate.
“And now you’re being naïve. Ask your brother, who occupies the great halls of power, how many times he has seen men desperate for power.”
“My brother is a good man, and he knows many other good men.” There was as much virtue in the mansions of Belgravia as in the tenements of Rotherhithe. She thought of what Colonel Mountjoy had said about men like Eastley, where they had come from. If there was any prejudice here, it was on his side. But he had a point. “Very well. Men in power kill. But shooting an obscure Australian soldier? Whom did he threaten? And the killing of Major Colcombe, while more understandable, was risky and poorly planned. It was just luck someone got away with that. It’s all so . . . sloppy. And I grew up among men
of power. They can be selfish and greedy and even vicious. But this lacks their hallmark.”
She looked closely at Eastley to see his reaction, but he was unreadable.
“I have more to share with you,” he said after a few moments of silence. “With all these happenings, we took a fresh look at the original death. Major Colcombe was not killed with his gun.”
“How can you be sure?” she asked. She prepared to listen carefully, making sure the inspector wasn’t pulling some kind of trick.
“You may not know this, but different kinds of guns use different kinds of bullets.”
“I know a little bit about firearms, and that much is clear,” she said.
“Good. This is what we think happened. Someone shot Major Colcombe. Then he took the major’s gun, moved a heavy brass decorative urn, fired it into the floor, and covered it by moving the urn back. He assumed no one would look. The police would conclude Major Colcombe committed suicide.” But the inspector and his men looked. They found the bullet in the floor and the bullet that killed Danny. The one in the floor was from Danny’s revolver, which he kept in his desk drawer. The bullet that killed him was a different kind—it wasn’t from his revolver and no other ammunition was found in the office. But it was the same kind that killed Private Barnstable—a somewhat older but still useful type of bullet. “Possibly a coincidence, Lady Frances. But I don’t think so. I think someone is killing people connected with the manuscript. Someone was a little more careful than you may have thought. They were hoping there would be a verdict of accidental death. Or suicide. Did one person do that? To me, this looks like a conspiracy.”
“I will accept your conclusions on the firearms. Your technical staff is no doubt highly competent. But you’re guilty of extrapolation far beyond the facts.” She paused. “You may be interested to know that Colonel Mountjoy, your colleague from the other evening, thinks that if there’s any conspiracy, it’s at your end.”
Frances hoped to shake up the inspector a little, and she succeeded. He didn’t say anything for a few moments, just studied her, and she almost felt like an animal in a zoo.
