by R. J. Koreto
“I can guess why you’re calling. We heard early this morning, but no details. How are you Franny?”
“I’m well. It was Mallow who found the body and I was next on the scene.”
“The two people most likely to keep a cool head over a killing.”
“Thank you, kind sir. But it’s already more of a mare’s nest than you can imagine . . .” She quickly summarized what she knew of the murder—and the threat to Tommie. When she was done, Hal wasted no time or energy on being appalled.
“If you’re looking for agreement from a legal expert that this is no coincidence, you have it. These are connected—as I’m sure you’ve already concluded.”
It was reassuring to have Hal agree with her on that. “Finding the connection is going to be hard. It’s not obvious.”
“But I have faith in you, my love. Meanwhile, a piece of advice on how these things play out. There is going to have to be an arrest. It is impossible, inconceivable, that a man of such importance and wealth is murdered and someone doesn’t hang for it. And perhaps, whoever did this is aware of that. And someone—not the right one, but the most obvious—will be made to pay. Think on that.”
“Indeed . . .” His advice sent her mind going in several different directions. But no. She had to be organized and logical. “You are a wise man, Mr. Wheaton. You really do earn your exorbitant fees.” He laughed.
“You know, Franny, if you need my help, one call and I’ll be on the next train to Morchester.”
“And what if I don’t need your help . . . just want you to come anyway?” Her tone was half teasing, half serious.
“Again, the next train.”
“I do love you,” she said.
“I love you too,” said Hal. And they rang off.
CHAPTER 4
Franny gave herself a few moments to replay the conversation before rousing herself. Having done what she could, she looked in on Gwen, who was napping again, and Tommie, who was watching over her. She went back to her room to make some notes and then read her book for a bit. It was about a family called Forsyte, written by John Galsworthy, an incisive look into personal relationships and class issues. It made her think of Hal . . .
She read for about half an hour—but the murder kept inserting itself into her mind. A Turkish blade . . . a Turkish diplomat. Was this a message? But why threaten Tommie? Frances paced in her room. There was no helping it. She had to find Mrs. Blake, the mysterious mistress of Kestrel’s Eyrie.
Normally, in a situation like this, the lady of the house would be found in her own rooms, but if Mrs. Blake was running the household, she could be anywhere. Frances thought the butler’s pantry would be a good place to start—the de facto staff headquarters. But she didn’t have to go so far. She found Mrs. Blake in the hallway, just staring at the door of Sir Calleford’s study, the scene of the murder. She turned at the sound of Frances’s footsteps, and Frances got a good look at her for the first time, as she had seen her only briefly the night before. She was a handsome woman, who when young had certainly been beautiful. But the strain revealed itself around her eyes.
“Lady Frances. People have told me that their first visit to the Eyrie is something they remember for the rest of their lives. I am so sorry yours has been marred by tragedy.”
It was a strange speech, but Mrs. Blake was in a strange position. She was the mistress of the house, but not the widow. The wife of a cousin—technically speaking, she didn’t even need to wear mourning.
“I hope Gwen is bearing up? Her late mother was my greatest friend, and she wasn’t very strong—emotionally or physically. I know Gwen takes after her.”
“She had a good night, and Tommie is looking after her.”
“How fortunate for her to have such good friends. I’ve instructed the servants to get her anything she wants, and that applies to you and Miss Calvin as well. The formal meals will resume at dinner tomorrow. Now, as you can imagine, I have a great many details to see to. If you’ll excuse me . . .”
“Actually, Mrs. Blake, I was hoping to have a few moments of your time.”
Mrs. Blake raised an eyebrow, and Frances wondered if she’d refuse her outright or fob her off on the butler.
“I see. Come with me then.” And she led Frances to what apparently was a morning room. In most houses, such a room was used as an informal gathering place, but here it looked like an office and retreat for Mrs. Blake. Frances guessed she used it for intimate conversations, and indeed, she closed the door when they entered. They made themselves comfortable.
“It was my maid, of course, who found Sir Calleford dead. I couldn’t help but wonder if the dagger had any significance. I’m not an expert in weapons or antiques, but even I could see what an exquisite piece of workmanship it was.”
“What an extraordinary question. If you didn’t come from such a distinguished family, I’d suspect you of gross curiosity.” A thin smile. A challenging smile.
“Not at all. But my people have always been involved in the foreign affairs. I know the weapon was Turkish. And you have a Turkish guest.”
“I see,” she said. Frances suspected she could read Mrs. Blake’s mind: What can you do about these modern London girls? “You couldn’t help but notice that Sir Calleford collected bladed weapons. I don’t know why; he never discussed his reasons. But he enjoyed talking about the collection itself. That piece—the ruby dagger, he called it—was his particular prize. He picked it up some years ago on a trip to Istanbul. According to the story, two centuries ago the three rubies were a gift to a powerful Turkish family from a royal emissary in Burma, where you’ll find the finest of these gemstones. The Turkish nobleman had them set in the hilt of a dagger, made to his specifications.”
“I imagine it was cursed?” asked Frances. “One hears that all great jewels come with a curse.”
Mrs. Blake smiled briefly. “You’ve read Wilkie Collins’s celebrated mystery novel, The Moonstone, I see. Yes, the dagger comes with quite a backstory. The original nobleman who owned it died without sons. A son-in-law and a nephew fought over it, and the nephew actually stabbed the son-in-law to death with it. The daughter eventually gave it to her son, who in an absent moment cut himself with it and died of blood poisoning. The cousin who then took possession enjoyed keeping it on his person, and was attacked by a pair of thieves. He successfully defended himself but died of his wounds days later. Meanwhile, the family had done something to offend the sultan and went into decline. Suspecting it was worth a great deal, the last owner quietly put it on the market through discreet agents for dealers, who have lists of serious collectors, and Sir Calleford bought it.”
Mrs. Blake shrugged. “Who knows if all that is true? All I know for sure is that he spent a small fortune for it. I can’t imagine it has anything to do with our Turkish guest, Mr. Mehmet. He is—was—a recent acquaintance of Sir Calleford’s, but I know little about him. But let me ask you a question, Lady Frances. As you said, that rather remarkable maid found Sir Calleford. Why did she go directly to you?”
Now Frances raised an eyebrow. “Mallow is remarkable, but I didn’t know you realized that.”
“It’s obvious. Only a remarkable maid would’ve kept such a cool head. Most would’ve fainted or started screaming. And my guess is that she’s barely twenty, awfully young to be a lady’s maid, especially to a titled lady. Even more remarkable. And yet, as calm as she was, she fetched her mistress, and not me as lady of the house.”
Frances shrugged. “Not knowing you, she probably felt I was in a better position to give her immediate instructions.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” said Mrs. Blake, but her tone said she didn’t believe that for a minute.
“I understand you were in the middle of a dinner party. Why was Sir Calleford in his study?”
“More research for the Foreign Office?” She smiled again, but Frances didn’t respond. “Oh, very well. Dinner was over, and the gentlemen had rejoined the ladies. We were talking in knots, and Sir
Calleford said something about a passage he had come across in Gibbon. He kept Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire in his study. We kept talking among ourselves in the drawing room. People wandered outside for a bit of fresh air; it was cool, but not unpleasantly cold if you had a wrap or jacket. When he didn’t come back, I sent a footman to find him—and that’s when your maid stepped in.”
For a few moments, the mask of the grand lady of Kestrel’s Eyrie fell away, and Frances saw deep sadness. She had been married to Sir Calleford’s cousin; she had no doubt known the master of the Eyrie for many years.
“I’m wondering if you could now answer me some questions. I said I was glad you and Miss Calvin came, but I am still trying to figure out how our Gwen ended up in a women’s suffrage group. I wouldn’t have thought it of her. Understand I am not criticizing, but I was surprised.”
It was only fair. She had satisfied Frances’ curiosity, and expected the favor returned.
“You don’t think Gwen would have the convictions?” asked Frances.
Mrs. Blake smiled coolly. “Frankly, no. That is not the type of thing I ever thought Gwen would be interested in. I admit I don’t know her very well; she has spent most of her adult years in London, so I rarely see her. But I should say that even though you and I just met, your name is not unknown to me, Lady Frances. You are a true believer. I imagine Miss Calvin is as well. But I wonder if Gwen is even clear on what Parliament does.”
“Different types of women join us for different reasons. But our founder and president, Mrs. Elkhorn, believes that every woman has something to contribute. Every woman is accepted and valued and every woman in our group is treated with kindness and respect. For someone like Gwen, who felt deeply uncomfortable with the arch and artificial conversations of a debutante ball, a group like ours has been a little oasis for her. She has found a place in life.”
Frances knew as she finished that she had spoken too fully and too sharply. It was one of her sins; once she got on her hobby horse she rode it till the end.
But Mrs. Blake didn’t seem affronted, merely amused. “How interesting. Then I am very glad for the League for Women’s Political Equality and its ability to provide a life for my niece.”
Frances decided to press the point. “I’m pleased you agree. I know Gwen was worried that her father would object to her activities with the group.”
Mrs. Blake echoed what Frances already knew: “Sir Calleford was a busy man with many intellectual pursuits. Men like that often take little interest in their daughters. As long as she was reasonably discreet and didn’t embarrass the family publicly, he was happy to leave her to her own devices. As the daughter of the Marquess of Seaforth, a minister of the crown, I’m sure you have personal experience with that.”
Mrs. Blake was absolutely right. Her father had not been unkind, but he had many interests and responsibilities, including seeing that his son would be prepared to take over the family someday. Frances was merely supposed to marry well.
Of course, reflected Frances, she had not been reasonably discreet and had indeed embarrassed the family. Her father had had to pay a lot more attention to his daughter than he had anticipated. He only agreed to send her to college in America because her mother had pointed out that if Frances was to misbehave, better in America where no one knew them than in London in front of all their friends and relatives.
Mrs. Blake brought Frances back to the present. “I know you are Gwen’s friend but Tommie—they seem to have a particularly close friendship. I haven’t met her before, but Sir Calleford told me Tommie is mentioned frequently in her letters. And yet I know nothing about her. Can you tell me how Gwen and Tommie met?” asked Mrs. Blake.
“They took their first Season together,” said Frances. “But I’m sorry to say that both for your niece and for Tommie, the Season was a disaster. Gwen is sweet, as you know, but not especially quick, and she had been unable to keep up with the other debutantes, with their flirting and inside jokes. And Tommie had just plain felt left out, with her introverted personality and intellectual interests. In a London town house, they found each other in the library. They happily spoke to each other about their interests, and a friendship was born.”
“Gwen never told me that,” said Mrs. Blake. She gave a wry smile. “But I have heard tales of your debut—the following year. Their Season may have been disappointing. Yours was notorious.”
Frances didn’t blush. It was true her behavior had been over the top and she didn’t apologize for it. Instead of limiting her conversation to society fashions, Frances had insisted on discussing politics and avant-garde literature. Finally, completely bored at one party her mother had insisted she attend, she convinced a few other debutantes to follow her on an adventure. She bribed a coachman to take them on what turned out to be a high-speed champagne-fueled race through the park that only ended when a constable pulled them over for disturbing the king’s peace. Frances’s father had threatened to send her to a Spanish convent school after that episode.
“I have no regrets,” said Frances.
“No, I don’t suppose you would,” said Mrs. Blake, more in admiration than censure. “The Seaforths are well-known, and even up here we’ve heard that in some circles you’re referred to as Mad Lady Frances.”
“I expect to have that name on my tombstone someday,” said Frances. She was rather proud of the moniker.
“I really must go now, but make yourself free of the house. If you want, have a look at our gardens, which we’re expanding and renovating. Perhaps Gwen can give you a tour, if she’s up to it. It might do her good to have something to occupy her. I know it does for me. Meanwhile, I also have let everyone know that the police have requested that our overnight guests remain for the time being.” She made a face. “Won’t it be fun passing that news on?”
Frances thanked Mrs. Blake again, and decided it would be a good idea to look over the grounds. She came across the constables examining the ground-floor windows, no doubt trying to see if someone had sneaked into the house. They were taking directions from a well-fed-looking man who almost strutted as he walked. The local police inspector, Frances gathered, making sure the gentry saw how actively he was seeking out the culprit.
Frances again cast her eyes over the house as she walked around it. True, it was enormous, and an intruder would have to find just one loose window or a forgotten basement door with a broken lock. But once inside, what then? The household was crawling with servants and a stranger would instantly stand out. How would he know where to go, especially during a lively dinner party? It didn’t seem to make any sense. What were the odds they’d find someone alone in the study? Sir Calleford would have to stay perfectly still while this mythical robber pulled a dagger from the wall and went at him.
Back inside and on her way back to her room, she ran into the butler.
“I beg your pardon, my lady, but I know you are with Miss Gwendolyn’s party from London, and I was wondering how she is bearing up.”
He called her “Miss Gwendolyn.” He was clearly old enough to have been in the house since well before Gwen had been born and had known her his whole life.
“She is doing as well as can be expected and had a good night. Thank you for your concern, which I’ll convey to her. It’s of course a very difficult time for her.”
“I am sure, my lady.” He paused. “It’s a very difficult time for all of us.” Pennington probably mourned a good employer, someone he was close to. He might also be wondering what would happen to the house and staff. He looked near retirement, and likely Sir Calleford had left him a legacy, but still . . .
“I am sorry for you, too, Pennington. I imagine it was a privilege serving a great man like Sir Calleford.”
She saw surprise and then understanding in his eyes. “Yes, my lady. For forty years I’ve served here. And if I may say, he wasn’t just a great man; he was a good one. You won’t find anyone to say otherwise.”
And that, thought Frances, was a fine epitaph
.
“I am sure the police have already asked, but were there any arguments during the evening? Any unpleasantness during or after dinner?”
But the sentiment in his face disappeared immediately. “Nothing at all, my lady.”
Even though Frances was a guest and friend of Gwen’s, and a daughter of a noble family, he wasn’t going to share anything. It was one of the great strengths of a good staff—but it made any investigation very difficult. And if he wouldn’t share anything with the sister of the Marquess of Seaforth, he was even less likely to cooperate with the police.
She headed back upstairs to see how Gwen and Tommie were doing.
The next morning started with breakfast trays again, and Frances decided that Gwen, who had again slept through the night, had to get up and get going.
“Jenkins, Aunt Phoebe’s maid, said she’d help me get dressed, but she’s a little . . .”
“Yes, a little overwhelming. Mallow, could you see Miss Kestrel into her dress?” A black dress had been found for her, and Mallow did some last-minute alterations to fit her into it.
“I’d like to see your solar here,” Frances said. “Is it a pleasant room?”
“Oh yes,” said Gwen. “It’s my favorite room. Not too big, with a lovely view of the grounds.”
“Good. We’ll settle there for now, and maybe get some tea. Your father was always a busy man, Gwen, and wouldn’t want you idle. We can at least talk about some of the suffrage issues.” Frances doubted suffrage politics was what Sir Calleford had in mind, but anything to keep her mind busy.
The solar was indeed a pleasant, old-fashioned room. The furniture was good, as befitted a fine house, but less elegant than what was found elsewhere in the Eyrie. This was a room for the family, not generally for guests. And the view was indeed excellent, showing acres of lawn and farmland.
“When Christopher and I were little, we played here,” said Gwen. “He’d pretend to be a king, and this was his court. That big, old chair there was his throne. And when he wasn’t here, I’d bring my dolls here, and we’d have tea . . .” She prattled on, and Tommie seemed pleased for the change of attitude. They talked more about Gwen’s childhood while sipping tea.
