by R. J. Koreto
A house of that size should’ve housed servants in their own section, but because much of the house was closed up, Mrs. Scotley placed both Frances and Mallow next to each other. “This was Miss Audendale’s nursery when she was a girl, and the nanny was next door. I trust this will do, my lady?”
“Very nice, Mrs. Scotley. Mallow and I will change from our trip, and then I’ll go over your accounts later today—which I’m sure are excellent. Also, if you give me the key to the general’s suite, I’ll go through his papers later.”
“Very good, my lady.”
“I understand that the general kindly included the staff in his will. Did the solicitors explain the terms clearly?”
“The master was very generous, my lady. He left me a nice sum, and the young man from the solicitor’s office explained it clearly. I will be staying on for the next few weeks, then will move in with a married niece and her husband and their children. We will expand the house, of course.”
A pleasant arrangement all around, thought Frances. “Thank you for your assistance, Mrs. Scotley. We’ll talk again later, no doubt.”
“Very good, my lady,” she said. She handed Frances the key to the general’s suite and departed.
“She’s a closed one,” said Frances. “Again, Mallow, keep your ears open during dinner in the servants’ hall. And see if you can pick up any gossip from Gladys. I imagine she’d like to talk. I’m hoping to find out something about Major Colcombe’s manuscript. But don’t say anything about it to anyone.”
“Very good, my lady,” she said.
Mallow left to join the other servants, and Frances made her way to the general’s suite. It was much as she had seen it last time. The plaid blanket was thrown over the good chair, and a clean cup and saucer waited on the side table, as if the general had just stepped outside for some fresh air and a cigar. The local solicitor and doctor must’ve bundled everyone out quickly. Frances wandered through the sitting room to the bedroom. Except for a couple of prints of military scenes, the room was almost bare—this was little more than a chamber for sleeping. A double silver frame on the night table held the only personal items: photographs of two women, no doubt his wife and daughter.
It was in the closet off the bedroom that Frances came across what she was hoping to find but not daring to expect: an accumulation of papers testifying to decades as a military commander. Hal had told her she would find financial papers, but this was more than she had dared hope: not only a treasure trove, but a well-organized treasure trove. General Audendale, like most career officers, had been orderly and tidy and had stacked his closet shelves with dispatch boxes, clearly labeled by year.
Frances had the fanciful notion that the general had kept his papers neat not just as a matter of habit but because he knew—he even hoped—someone would dip into them after he was gone.
At least she could be certain that the boxes contained military-related papers: the most recent box was labeled with the final year of the Boer War, the general’s last command. He had collected nothing afterward.
This was going to be interesting. Frances had another flashback to college, poring over books, looking for the few nuggets of gold she could add to a paper or incorporate into a presentation. She carried the dispatch box and diaries into the sitting room and placed them on the table among the knickknacks. Looking around vainly for a cloth, she ended up using her handkerchief as a duster; Mallow would have something to say about that later.
Inside the box, she found a miscellaneous collection. Some were just forms dealing with the purchase of supplies. Hadn’t Napoleon said an army moves on its stomach? She saw references to ammunition and rifles. Neither her tutors nor Vassar had thought military matters necessary for a young woman’s education, but she had picked up bits and pieces from her brother and father.
The box held various notes on battle plans that meant little to her along with rosters of men. And then a photograph. At first she thought it was a picture of the Boers, not that she had ever met any of these rough-living farmer-soldiers, but she had heard enough about them. The men in this portrait wore scruffy jackets and pants that could barely be called a uniform and slouched wide-brimmed hats that didn’t come from any official quartermaster’s storehouse. All of them badly needed a shave.
The men had clearly posed for the photograph, but casually: rifles were balanced lazily over knees or draped over shoulders. But there was one man who seemed somehow familiar . . .
My God. It was Danny Colcombe. These weren’t Boers; they were the men of the Empire Light Horse. After she got over her shock, Frances grinned. No British soldier ever looked like that. She was so used to well-tailored officers in red coats. And Danny—he had always been such a dandy.
Beneath the photo was a letter from Davis Bramwell, member of Parliament, who had practically attacked her in his carriage. It was dated two months before the Sapphire River debacle.
Dear General,
Not being a military man, I seem to be unable to appreciate a soldier’s humor. I asked for a photograph of men under your command in order to share it with my constituents via the illustrated press and give heart to civilians that our brave boys were carrying the standards of the home country to other lands. That British soldiers dress like that is appalling. That they posed for a portrait in such disarray is inexcusable. That you thought it appropriate to send this to me is disgraceful. If it isn’t too much trouble, please send me a photograph of properly dressed and groomed soldiers in full dress on parade ground.
Emissaries from my office are on their way with new orders for a new deployment of troops under your command.
Yours,
So General Audendale had a lively sense of humor. It no doubt greatly amused Danny to have his men sit for a portrait looking like a band of brigands, and it would be just like him to send a print to his commanding officer. But she wouldn’t have expected Audendale to send it to a member of Parliament. Good for him.
Farther down in the box she found more invoices, requisitions for everything from marmalade to bayonets to bandages. And then another letter from Bramwell, dated some weeks after the battle of Sapphire River:
Dear General Audendale,
We are in receipt of your letter of last month recommending the Victoria Cross for Major Daniel Colcombe, commander of a unit of His Majesty’s forces known as the Empire Light Horse. I regret to inform you that it has been decided not to grant any decorations for that particular engagement. The memorialization of that battle is not in the best interests of the War Office or the general public. The nontraditional nature of the Empire Light Horse would best remain a secret. I remind you again of your orders not to discuss its engagements.
Yours,
Frances was furious. Danny deserved the Victoria Cross, the nation’s highest military honor, given for gallantry above and beyond the call of duty. She remembered what Private Barnstable had said: the Empire Light horsemen were forced into a traditional engagement. From Bramwell’s letter about parade-ground soldiers, it was clearly to satisfy the War Office’s desire for an image of a line of soldiers in red coats, not a band of rough-living horsemen fighting a new kind of war they couldn’t understand in London.
It was monstrous. Mr. Bramwell and men like him needed to sell the war to the public as empire building. Well-dressed soldiers in the now-obsolete “British square” formation were what people expected, not unshaven soldiers dressed like bushrangers. How could you promote a war when the British looked no better than the men they were fighting? Bramwell didn’t care about those who fought and died, even when they were successful. He cared about how they looked.
Was Danny to be forgotten because of the stupidity of men in Whitehall, who even now weren’t brave enough to admit their mistakes?
It was obvious from the letters that Bramwell bore heavy responsibility for both the planning and the concealment. He had been careful; there’s wasn’t enough information in the letters to make his role completely clear. But Danny
knew. And if the English public found out about the lies and concealments, careers would be destroyed and reputations left in tatters.
It was the emissaries from Bramwell and his cronies that Private Barnstable heard in the tent. Poor Audendale had said that he was looking forward to Danny’s book, even though it would’ve tarnished his reputation, too. Was he not the commanding officer, even if Bramwell was the true cause of the defeat? A lifetime of obeying orders had prevented the general from revealing the depth of the scandal, but he would rejoice if Danny had done so.
Honor again, thought Frances. Audendale following orders to the end, if reluctantly.
She emptied the box, but there was nothing else of interest. Frances had seen enough, though.
Mrs. Scotley broke into her thoughts by knocking and entering. “I have brought the cash boxes and my account books. The general also entrusted me with certain banking transactions in Blackburn, the nearest large town, and I brought those records as well.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Scotley. I will look them over presently.” She was still almost dizzy from the revelations among the general’s military papers that Bramwell was so directly involved in the mistake and concealment. For now, the relatively simple task of reviewing the financials would be welcome . . . unless there were more surprises there. Frances watched Mrs. Scotley glance over the general’s private dispatch boxes. Her look said, If her ladyship wants to amuse herself with the late master’s papers, that’s her affair.
“Tell me, has Mallow been making herself useful?”
“Very much so, my lady. If I may be so bold, it’s a pleasure to see a young woman properly trained for service nowadays.”
“Thank you. I’ll review the accounts now and see you this evening.”
After the earlier revelations, the finances were rather ordinary. The general had substantial means but very few expenses: wages for the small staff and their board and upkeep of the house. The only large expenditures were regular payments to his daughter—no reason to wait until his death to make her life more comfortable. Frances saw no large, unexplained expenses or income. The bills from the local wine and spirits merchant were a bit more substantial than she would’ve thought, and again she had visions of Audendale and Tredwell spending evenings by the fire downing glasses.
As she mused over the revelations, Mallow showed up with fortifying tea and biscuits.
“Thank you. Most welcome. I understand you’re making yourself very useful.”
“Thank you, my lady.” She sighed. “Things are not up to our standards here, I’m afraid. They may have been once, but not now.”
Frances nodded. “I agree, Mallow. But I have found some very useful items among the general’s papers. Tell me, is Tredwell nearby?”
“He doesn’t seem to have anything to do, my lady. He’s been pacing outside these rooms like a cat.” Mallow sounded very disapproving.
“It must gall him to have a stranger, even the sister of his master’s fellow officer, going through his master’s effects—maybe he thought they’d just be boxed up and put into storage. Very well, we will give him something to do. I haven’t heard any suitable explanation for the general’s death, other than he was old. I want to talk to the doctor. Find the pacing Mr. Tredwell and see if he can bring the doctor back. And ask Mrs. Scotley to have some sandwiches waiting for him.”
“Very good, my lady.”
Mallow left and found Tredwell moodily polishing some swords hanging on the hallway walls, souvenirs of some old campaign.
“Mr. Tredwell, it is her ladyship’s wish that you go into the village at once and see if you can fetch the doctor, the one who treated your late master.”
He just stared at Mallow. “Why does she want to see him? Is it about the general?” he finally said.
“It’s not your place to question her ladyship’s orders. She runs this household for now.” Tredwell winced at that. “It is just for you to obey.”
“I served the general for half a century. I think if there are queries about him, I have a right to know.”
Mallow glared right back. “Maybe out here it is the fashion to question your betters. But in London, when we are given an order, we say, ‘Yes, my lady,’ and do it. I suggest you head downstairs right now, get into your pony cart, and set about bringing the doctor back here.” Mallow turned quickly and headed back to linen closet where she was sorting out sheets. Tredwell said nothing else, but she had the satisfaction of hearing his boots on the stairs behind her.
CHAPTER 16
The old morning room, where visitors would’ve been received when the house was fully occupied, was not usable. Sheets covered all the furniture, and heavy curtains, which had been collecting dust for years, closed off the windows, so Frances said she’d see the doctor in the general’s suite.
When Mrs. Scotley brought him into the room and made introductions, Frances upbraided herself for having assumed the local medico would be as old as the general, someone who had been in the village forever, with a spinster sister who kept house for him.
But Dr. Mallory was only in his thirties. He wore fashionable clothes and had a quick step, although it was clear he was tired. In a rural district, he may have spent his day traveling widely to patients who couldn’t make it to his surgery.
However, his eyes lit up when Gladys appeared with a plate of beef and cheese sandwiches. And instead of tea, she had provided a glass of beer. The cook knew her customers.
“Dr. Mallory, thank you so much for coming. Please sit down and help yourself. I don’t know what you heard, but I’m a family friend of General Audendale, helping close up the house.”
“Anything to help, Lady Frances. I moved here two years ago, after my predecessor retired, and I spent a lot of time with the general. A fine man, and I was deeply sorry at his passing.”
“I’m sure you were,” said Frances. “But were you surprised?” She looked at him closely, and he looked right back at her. And then chuckled.
“I saw the look on your face. You thought I’d be older. And forgive me, I thought you’d be older, too. When I was told I had been summoned by Lady Frances Ffolkes, I was thinking I’d be meeting with someone like Lady Catherine de Bourgh from Pride and Prejudice, who would upbraid me for not giving the general some useless patent medicine she was devoted to.”
Now it was Frances’s turn to laugh. “But you came anyway. You’re brave.”
He shook his head. “No, actually, I’m a coward. A young doctor like me can’t afford to offend the nobility.” Frances nodded. She knew well that aristocratic families held sway throughout England, but in rural districts, deference to the old families was practically feudal. “But you clearly aren’t here to talk to me about patent medicines.”
“No, I’m not. And don’t worry,” she said with a smile. “I’m not easily offended. In fact, the franker you can be, the better. Believe me, I am in no way criticizing your medical skills. But the general’s death came at an interesting time. There are . . . investigations into certain occurrences in his past, having to do with some old associates of his. His death was fortuitous for some. I know I’m sounding very melodramatic, but I want to know if his death was unexpected. I will be discreet, on my word of honor.”
Dr. Mallory nodded. He was looking better, fortified by the sandwiches and beer. “Mrs. Mallory enjoys the Society pages in the papers and knew your name. She wondered if you were related to Charles Ffolkes, the Marquess of Seaforth, a government minister.”
“My older brother.”
“Then keeping secrets runs in your family.” He paused for a moment to think, and then Frances saw he had reached a decision. “Yes, Lady Frances, I was surprised. He was old and had various ailments, but nothing immediately life threatening. And he was cheerful and feisty. I’d tell him to ease up on the port, and he’d pour me a glass, tell me to mind my own damn business—pardon my language—and say he’d live long enough to attend my funeral. But then, some weeks before he died, he suddenly seeme
d to just give up. He didn’t want to live anymore.”
“Were there any changes before he died?”
“Nothing I could tell. He had gone up to London some time ago for a funeral of an officer who served under him and was sad when he came back but bounced back. However, I saw him frequently. There were a number of conditions I had to monitor. He started to brood. And then—all of a sudden, Tredwell, his manservant, called me late one night. And that was the beginning of the end. The man was a wreck, not even aware, hallucinating.”
Frances tried to control herself. The pieces were falling into place. “About what?”
“You are frightening me, Lady Frances. What is this about?” He gave her a wry look. “Or shouldn’t I ask?” He pulled a leather-bound notebook from his coat pocket and thumbed through it until he found the right page.
He handed it to Frances, who read it out loud. “‘The patient was fevered and didn’t seem to recognize me or his familiar servants. He spoke incoherently, and the names he mentioned sounded like towns in South Africa. He mentioned sapphires repeatedly.’” Frances looked at the date in the doctor’s medical diary: two days after the murder of Private Barnstable. Just enough time for the news to make its way to the general. She handed back the book, trying to keep her hand from shaking.
“Did you ask anyone about the sapphires?”
“Is this a case of jewel theft, my lady? I asked Mrs. Scotley, thinking if I could give him the sapphires he wanted, he’d calm down. But she said any jewelry belonging to the late Mrs. Audendale had long been sent to their daughter. And she remembered no sapphires in particular. Tredwell knew nothing either.”
“Really?” said Frances.
“He’s an odd one, isn’t he?” said Mallory. “Don’t laugh, but he almost behaved more like a wife than a servant, so protective he was. Ah well, they’d been together most of their adult lives. Is there anything else? I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help—Lady Frances, are you quite all right?”
