by R. J. Koreto
Mallow was a practiced hand at unpacking, and soon had Frances’s clothes put away and her ladyship refreshed.
“Mallow. I had a talk with Miss Calvin on the train. It seems that someone has been threatening her and Miss Kestrel, although Miss Calvin is the only one who knows.”
“I am upset to hear that, my lady,” she said, her voice thick with indignation. “If I may say, there are no nicer ladies in London.”
“I agree. I am going to try to find out who, and why. Miss Calvin was told not to come here this week, so it may be someone in the house. So just keep your ears open—if anything odd is happening here, or there is any gossip, let me know.”
“Of course, my lady. And may I say I hope the local vicar is an effective preacher, so whoever did this will see the error of their ways this Sunday, and repent.”
“I hope so too,” said Frances, although she had far less faith in religious conversion than her maid.
Mallow had just finished unpacking when there was a knock on the door.
“I am Jenkins, my lady, Mrs. Blake’s maid. I will show your maid to her room.” She cast an eye on Mallow, who stood straight and met her look right back. Jenkins was about the same age as her mistress and as tall—and not just tall. She was a large woman, built more like a cook than a maid, thought Frances.
“This is my maid, Mallow.”
Mallow tried to look serious, even haughty. Mallow was young for a lady’s maid, promoted when Frances went out on her own. She was sensitive about being taken seriously by older, more experienced maids.
“Of course, you will be known as ‘Miss Ffolkes’ in the servants’ hall. We follow traditional ways here, and visiting servants are known by the names of their mistresses and masters, for simplicity.”
“We follow the same customs in Seaforth Manor, country seat of the Marquess of Seaforth,” said Mallow with such clarity that Frances suspected she had rehearsed it. The meaning was clear: Jenkins may be lady’s maid to the mistress of Kestrel’s Eyrie, but Mallow was lady’s maid in a noble household.
Jenkins’s mouth gave a twitch, which Frances suspected was as close as she came to a smile. “Then there will be no confusion. We dine each evening promptly at eight o’ clock.” Mallow told her mistress she’d be back later to help her get ready for bed, then followed Jenkins. When they were gone, Frances grinned and shook her head. Her mother always said that even the greatest duchess in the land was not as snobbish as a superior servant.
Frances wasn’t tired, so she started making some notes for some suffrage speeches, but it wasn’t long before there was a knock on the door.
“Come in!”
It was a housemaid.
“I beg your pardon, my lady. I just wanted to make sure all your luggage arrived.”
“Yes, thank you. But since you’re here . . .” She looked at the little table in the room. “I have some work to do and this table is very small. Is there an estate office or somewhere where I could spread out?”
The maid expertly hid any surprise that a lady would have “work” to do requiring office space.
“There is an estate office, my lady. Gentlemen from the accounting firm are reviewing the books there this evening, but there is plenty of room. I can take you there, if you like.”
Frances gathered up her papers and followed the maid to a spare and practical room in a far corner of the mansion. She knew from her own family’s experience that late-night work was common for accountants going over quarterly accounts. The two accountants, clearly the senior partner and a junior, greeted her briefly as the maid refilled the tea pot.
Frances set herself up on a broad table and happily got to work.
“Oh, and please tell my maid Mallow where I am, in case she comes looking for me,” she said.
“Very good, my lady,” said the maid. The room lapsed into silence as the two accountants and the lady scribbled away with their pens.
Meanwhile Mallow was acquainting herself with the house. She had been to great houses before, but never one this large. Miss Jenkins had told her that visiting servants could join the house staff in the servants’ hall. Cook had laid out some evening snacks, as the staff would be up late due to the party.
“Thank you, Miss Jenkins,” said Mallow, putting just a little hauteur in her voice. “I will join the staff as soon as I have unpacked my own case.”
It took a couple of false turns, but she eventually found her way down to the ground floor and headed toward the servants’ hall entrance. There was indeed a nice spread laid out, and Mallow was introduced to a few of the other servants, one of whom told her, with some surprise and curiosity, that Lady Frances was working in the estate office. She clearly hoped Mallow would enlighten her as to why a titled lady needed access to an office.
“Her ladyship runs several important charitable groups and must work at all hours to meet her responsibilities,” said Mallow grandly. She stayed for a while, then decided to head back to her room until Lady Frances was ready for bed. Along her way, she passed a footman knocking on a door and frowning.
“Excuse me,” said Mallow. “But one doesn’t knock on doors, except for bedroom doors.”
“Oh, ah . . .” He seemed at a loss.
“I’m lady’s maid to Lady Frances Ffolkes, who is a guest here. And you’re not supposed to knock on the doors of living areas.”
“Oh, yes. Quite. But you see, the master, that is, Sir Calleford, is quite particular. This is his special study, and Mrs. Blake asked me to get him . . .” His voice trailed off. He was clearly unable to decide how to handle this. “Perhaps I should get the butler, Mr. Pennington?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Mallow. “Do you want to show your butler you can’t handle a simple task like this? Do you want to be a footman for the rest of your life?” She stepped up to the door and rapped sharply. “Sir Calleford? The mistress would like to speak with you.” Mallow put her ear to the door, but heard nothing. So she tried the doorknob and pushed open the door.
“Oh dear God,” she said. The footman, right behind her, gasped and started to say something, but couldn’t speak. Mallow ventured a few steps into the room, but it was clear nothing could be done. She turned, half dragged the footman with her, and closed the door behind him.
“You stay here. Allow no one in and say nothing. Is that clear?” With the house full of guests, there was no reason for the butler or any other servant to be in that corner of the house in the next few minutes. It would only take a few moments to get her ladyship. She would know what to do.
“Where is the estate office?”
The footman stammered directions, and Mallow took off to find her ladyship with two men working with ledgers. Frances looked up in surprise at Mallow’s concerned face. The maid leaned down to whisper.
“My lady, there is something you should see, right now.”
Not wanting to attract attention in case they were seen, they walked as fast as they could without breaking into a run.
The footman was still guarding the door, and brought himself up straight when the two women approached.
“My lady, I don’t know if you—”
“Just keep standing there,” said Frances. She opened the door and entered, followed by Mallow, who closed the door behind them.
Sir Calleford was slumped in his chair. Sticking out of his chest was an elegant, curved dagger, and blood had flowed over three large rubies set in the handle as if to join the jewels in continuous red.
There was no point in checking, Frances realized. The man was dead. She looked at the wound and then glanced around the room. It was clear where the dagger had come from. The wall opposite the desk was decorated with swords and daggers of all kinds. She saw a huge Scottish claymore, a navy cutlass, an Italian dueling sword, an American Bowie knife, and an exotic-looking weapon with a wavy blade. The dagger’s scabbard was still on the wall. The artistry was Turkish, Frances concluded.
What an odd collection, she thought, especiall
y for a diplomat. But gentlemen often liked to collect things. De gustibus non est disputandum; there was no accounting for taste.
The rest of the room was masculine, as these offices were. Lots of polished wood, brass, and leather.
“There is nothing else for us to see here, Mallow. Let’s go.” Outside, the footman was sweating out of fear.
“Go get Mrs. Blake. Tell her that her presence is requested,” Frances told the footman, and he left with great relief.
“I hope Mrs. Blake can summon the vicar tonight,” said Mallow. Frances smiled briefly. It was so like Mallow to worry about someone’s soul. But Frances was saving her concern for the living. Gwen was her father’s only child, and most likely had just become the mistress of the Eyrie—and one of the wealthiest women in England.
CHAPTER 3
Everyone stumbled through the evening. Dr. Olcutt, who was there socially, formally pronounced Sir Calleford dead. Then came the chief constable of the county, along with a local inspector named Bedlow, several other constables, and the vicar.
Gwen couldn’t seem to take it in, crying until she was sick as Tommie soothed her and fed her tea with honey.
Frances eventually sent Mallow to find some sweet sherry, which she pressed on Gwen.
“I don’t drink,” whimpered Gwen.
“Now is a good time to start,” said Frances, and practically poured it down the girl’s throat. Eventually, Dr. Olcutt gave her a mild sedative and she slept.
“I’ll sit by her in case she wakes,” said Tommie, pulling up a chair.
“She should be out for a while,” said the doctor.
“I don’t mind,” said Tommie. “When she does wake, I’ll be here.”
Frances insisted on spelling her through the night, but Gwen slept continuously, if restlessly. In the morning, maids came with breakfast trays for the three women. Frances noticed they wore black armbands—someone was very quick and efficient. Was it Mrs. Blake, or someone else, who had such presence of mind as to make sure the undertakers provided them for the whole staff within hours after the master’s death?
Gwen woke up, still a little dazed, but over her hysterics.
“You won’t leave, will you?” she said, hugging Tommie.
“Of course not. Not me, not Franny. We’re here for you.”
Mallow then showed up and helped the ladies dress, then constables came to take preliminary statements from everyone. But as the women arrived late, the questions were brief. Frances longed to ask the constables what they had discovered so far—even to speak with the inspector—but she knew they wouldn’t say anything to her. There would be time for that later.
While Tommie tried to coax Gwen into eating, Frances pulled Mallow aside.
“How are the servants taking this?” she asked.
“Very upset, of course, my lady, but . . .” Frances waited while Mallow found the words. “But most of them didn’t really know him, did they?”
Frances nodded. A wealthy and important master like Sir Calleford probably only spoke to his valet and butler. He would be a remote figure to most of the staff. The footmen who served him his dinner would know how he liked his meat and whether he took an extra helping of peas, but not much else.
“I see the household seems to be running well this morning. The butler must be very good, and judging from the organization of the maids this morning, so must the housekeeper.”
“But that’s a strange thing, my lady. There is no housekeeper. Mrs. Blake takes on the responsibility herself. Very odd, if I may say, my lady.”
Odd? It was unheard of. Houses half the size of the Eyrie had a housekeeper. And seeing how well-appointed the house was, it clearly wasn’t penny-pinching on Sir Calleford’s part.
“Did anyone offer an opinion as to why there is no housekeeper?”
“No, my lady. I only know that there hasn’t been one since Mrs. Blake came here after Sir Calleford’s wife passed on. She’s taken on the housekeeper’s job herself and runs the house with Mr. Pennington, the butler. She addressed the staff this morning, my lady, right after breakfast. Told everyone that the house was to run as normal. Meals in guests’ rooms through lunch tomorrow, but then there would be dinner as usual. She was rather . . . fierce about it, my lady.”
“Fierce?”
Mallow frowned. She clearly didn’t like criticizing the lady of a great house, where she was a servant and her mistress was a guest. “She said that she expected every servant to carry on as usual, my lady. And she said that any servant who couldn’t . . . well, was welcome to give notice and depart.”
“That does sound a little cold, Mallow. But let us make allowances for the strain of the master’s death. And not just death, but murder.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Tommie was getting Gwen to take a little beef broth, which pleased both of them, but Frances was chafing at the inactivity.
“Gwen, where is your telephone kept? I think I should let Mrs. Elkhorn know about the tragedy.” Winifred Elkhorn was president and founder of the League for Women’s Political Equality—their suffrage club.
“Oh, yes . . .” she said, vaguely. “There’s a closet next to Father’s study . . .”
“You just rest, my dear,” said Frances, and headed out. Maids and footmen were about their tasks in the household, with only the armbands as a reminder anything unusual had happened. She found the telephone closet and got the exchange to connect her with Mrs. Elkhorn in London. She hoped her friend and mentor was in.
“Frances? Good hearing from you. I trust you, Gwen, and Tommie are working well in the Eyrie?”
“Actually, Mrs. Elkhorn, no . . .” And she proceeded to summarize Sir Calleford’s murder.
“My deepest sympathies to Gwen. It must be some sort of lunatic.”
“Yes, but there’s more. Shortly before this happened, Tommie was threatened while in London and told not to come here by a stranger—a man who said horrible and revolving things about her friendship with Gwen. I can’t find a connection, but I don’t want to believe it’s a coincidence.”
“My goodness. You have landed in it, Frances.”
“I want to see what this is all about. Gwen and Tommie may be in danger. So we may be a little late with those speeches and pamphlets.”
Mrs. Elkhorn gave a quick laugh. “Frances, you’ve never let me down. It’s more important that women are there to support each other—the pamphlets can wait. Gwen will be besieged by men: police, her fathers’ advisors, solicitors. The whole point of the League is women working together to help each other.”
“I’ll take good care of Gwen,” promised Frances.
“Let Tommie take care of Gwen,” said Mrs. Elkhorn. “She’s very nurturing to her. That is not your strong point, Frances. You have other skills.”
It was insulting. But honest and true. “Of course, Mrs. Elkhorn. ‘We each have a role to play,’” she said, quoting one of her mentor’s favorite quotes back to her.
“Very good, my dear. Keep me posted, if you can, and see you when you return. If anyone can succeed, you can.”
Frances felt flushed with pride after the call. She valued no one’s opinion more than Mrs. Elkhorn’s.
Next, she called her closest friend Mary, who was also her brother’s wife. Cumberland, the butler, answered the call.
“A pleasure to hear from you, my lady. I will connect you to Lady Seaforth, who is in the drawing room.” A moment later, Mary was on the line.
“Mary? I’m at Kestrel’s Eyrie. I came up with Gwen Kestrel and Tommie Calvin to work in quiet on some suffrage projects . . . but you must’ve already heard what happened.”
“Yes, a special messenger came from Whitehall. Charles is closeted in his study with foreign office staffers. You know of course he was a distinguished diplomat. How is Gwen faring?”
“Not well. As you know she’s a rather sensitive soul and this hit her hard. Tommie and I are doing what we can.”
“Of course.” She paused. “Ar
e you going to . . . insert yourself into this? I can’t imagine it’s anything but a lunatic who slipped into the house somehow. It’s an enormous residence, probably with half a dozen doors.”
“I have been known to help the police,” said Frances.
Mary laughed. “And they’ll be lucky to have you, even if they do resist the advice of a civilian—and a mere woman at that! But do be careful. Meanwhile, I can give you a clue. It was a secret, but now that it’s over, I’m sure Charles won’t mind. Sir Calleford was hosting a special meeting, or a series of meetings. A high-ranking French diplomat was there, and a Turkish diplomat as well. The Foreign Office has been very concerned with the instability in the Ottoman Empire, and concerned about what France would do. Oh, and more . . .” she reduced her voice to a whisper. “Charles has been receiving and sending an unusual number of special coded cables to the Eyrie, with confidential messengers arriving at all hours. Cumberland has been driven to distraction. Of course Charles can’t discuss the details, but something special, something unusual, was going on. Anyway, last night was the concluding dinner.”
“Another interesting angle,” said Frances. This clarified the purpose of the dinner, which Gwen had told her about, but also made it clear that there was something secret going on.
“Aha, you said ‘another.’ The Lady Sherlock is already on the case. Best of luck, my sweet, and make sure Mallow is by your side to guard you. But one more thing—” And even with the crackly phone connection, Frances heard a sharp change in Mary’s tone. She always backed up Frances’s suffrage work and police involvement with support and amusement, but now turned serious. “When you are settled back in London, you must come over for a long chat—lunch, or tea, just the two of us. I miss you.”
“No more than I miss you. We will get together—I promise. Give my love to Charles.”
One more call. A deferential clerk answered: “Caleb Wheaton, Solicitors.”
“Mr. Henry Wheaton, please. Lady Frances Ffolkes calling.” And a moment later Hal was on the phone.
