by R. J. Koreto
“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. B
lake 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.”
“Thank you, that means a lot to me,” she said softly. And then she decided it was time to get back to the subject at hand. “You see I can keep a secret. What is going on here?”
Charles sighed. “Oh, very well. I can give you the outline. There’s a bit of a mess brewing on the Continent—France, Germany, Russia, the Ottoman Empire, everyone jockeying for position. Sir Calleford was as shrewd a diplomat as we have. M. Aubert was the best France has as well. They were genuine friends, and this week were expected to talk and reach some important conclusions. Mr. Mehmet, who is staying here, represents certain Ottoman interests.”
“‘Certain interests.’ That doesn’t mean the sultan, then?”
“A shrewd observation and conclusion, Franny.”
“Thank you. But why weren’t you there yourself—but I know. This was quiet and unofficial. That’s why a senior government official like you couldn’t come.”
“Very good, Franny. What a shame you’re not in the Foreign Office yourself.”
Frances wanted to start again with her usual line about admitting women to the ranks of government, but now was not the time to get sidetracked.
“Sir Calleford never sought out an official position in government, never stood for parliament. He was an intellectual with many interests, and it suited him, and us, for him to be a sort of unofficial diplomat. And a very good one.”
“I see, thank you. But what about—”
“That’s all, Franny,” he said.
But she wasn’t put off. “But back to Mr. Mehmet. Whose interests does he represent?”
“He’s a man with connections to various businesses and to the sultan’s government. As well as his own interests. Stay away from him.”
“But—”
“Franny. He is a dangerous man. Stay away from him.” He looked hard—and then once again broke into his charming smile. “This isn’t about your being a woman. It’s about some very secret and delicate negotiations.”
“Can I conclude then that Mr. Mehmet is not an official representative of the Ottoman Empire? Or does he combine work with the sultan with other interests, as you say?”
“Come, Franny. You know that the Ottoman Empire is very shaky. Let us say Mr. Mehmet is an unofficial representative, just as Sir Calleford was for Britain and M. Aubert was for France.”
“So that means—”
He cut her off. “You already know much more than you should. Help your friend through the funeral tomorrow, then come home with me.”
“Thank you. But Miss Kestrel still requires my support. I will be staying on a while longer.”
Charles knew there was no point in arguing with her, but as they headed back to the house, he said anyway, “Do as you please. Right now, I have to meet with Inspector Eastley—and no you can’t sit in. It’s government business.”
“Oh, very well. But can you tell me about another guest? Who is Ezra Hardiman? He and his daughter are visiting from America.
What is he—a senator? An ambassador?”
“Hardiman? Never heard of him.”
“You must’ve. I know he’s wealthy and I assumed he was also invited here as a representative of the American government.”
“Franny, I may decline to tell you something, but I won’t lie to you. I have no idea who Ezra Hardiman is. It’s very possible that he speaks officially, or even unofficially, for Washington. I keep up with Europe, but America is not my department. Sir Calleford may have found it useful to have American insights at this time. As I said, Sir Calleford was unofficial. He worked his own way and had his own contacts.”
“So, could I call the Americas desk at the Foreign Office?”
“Yes, you could. And they would tell you precisely nothing.” Frances looked exasperated, and Charles continued. “But we’ve strayed from the subject—which is your interference with the police investigation of a murder.”
“That’s not why I’m here—” she said primly.
“Franny, I just told you I’m busy and I don’t have time for all this.”
“You sound just like our father. But never mind; you trusted me, and I will trust you. Tommie Calvin came to me—before Sir Calleford died. She was threatened with ugly accusations—something that could destroy her reputation, hers and Gwen’s both—although Gwen knows nothing about it, and can never know. I’m not going to see my friends’ lives destroyed.”
“Oh, very well. It sounds like a crank, but if anyone can help, you can. And I’m not being patronizing about that—I mean it. But promise me you’ll stay away from the police. Give me that much.”
“I will. If I can.”
“What do you mean, ‘if you can’? Of course you can. Franny, this isn’t London—”
As they exited the gardens, Frances saw they weren’t alone. Tommie had joined them; she had clearly been running from the house.
“Oh! I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was interrupting. I’ll just . . .”
“You’re not interrupting. My brother has very important work and was leaving anyway.”
Charles sighed. “Miss Calvin, good day. Franny, I’m staying for the funeral tomorrow. We’ll talk more.” And he left.
