Death Among Rubies

by R. J. Koreto

  For the first time, Hal’s face fell. “I see your point, Miss Kestrel, but by law, only you or I, as your solicitor, can view the documents.”

  “But that’s not entirely true, is it?” said Frances. “In London, you have your clerks reviewing documents.”

  Hal felt a mix of admiration and annoyance at that. “True, Frances, but you’re not a clerk at my firm.”

  “But she could be, Mr. Wheaton. Franny is so smart and has been to university. Everyone admires her in our suffrage group and she knows all about money—” Tommie laid a gentle, restraining hand on Gwen, but Frances beamed at the compliments.

  “You could make me a clerk, couldn’t you, Mr. Wheaton? And I could help you?” She smiled sweetly.

  “Your logic is irrefutable,” said Hal, giving in with good grace. He pulled Gwen’s shilling out of his pocket and handed it to Frances. “Congratulations. Welcome to the firm.”

  Frances was thrilled. First she was engaged as a consulting translator for the Metropolitan Police Service, and now as clerk to one of the most distinguished firms in London.

  Hal sighed, taking another sandwich, and Gwen smiled. “If you’d like, Mr. Wheaton, I can have a maid show you to where you can refresh yourself before you call on Mr. Small.”

  “Thank you. I will do that and then, Franny, you and I will go.” Gwen rang for a maid, and a few moments later, the three women were left alone to finish the tea.

  “He is very, very nice, your Mr. Wheaton,” said Gwen.

  “Yes, he is,” said Tommie. Frances looked up. There was something in her friend’s tone, and those gentle eyes of Tommie’s looked amused. “He is . . . a friend of yours? He called you ‘Frances,’ not ‘Lady Frances,’ and once he even called you ‘Franny.’ But I’m sorry—I’m prying.”

  But Frances had to smile. “Well, yes, he is more than a solicitor. He is a friend . . . and I suppose by way of being a suitor.” She blushed.

  “Well, he is very handsome,” said Gwen. “I don’t blame you.”

  “Neither do I,” said Tommie. “Even briefly, it was clear that he’s a man of intelligence and sensitivity and kindness. But I daresay there are those in your family who had hoped that as the daughter of a marquess you’d make an aristocratic match.”

  “By this point, much of my family would be so grateful that there’s a man left in London whom I haven’t offended or scandalized, they’d forgive him for—horrors!—being of the middle class.”

  And they all laughed.

  After Hal returned, the chauffeur drove them to the office of Neville Small, Esq. His suite was handsome in an old-fashioned way, much like Hal’s office in London, with lots of dark leather, wood, and well-shined brass. What was it about solicitors that made them feel that they were stuck in the 1860s? wondered Frances.

  Hal handed the secretary his card. “I’m a solicitor down from London, recently engaged to represent Miss Gwendolyn Kestrel, and wish to speak with Mr. Small. As you can see from these papers, she has signed over full power of attorney to me.” And a few minutes later they were ushered into the inner office, where a very surprised Neville Small greeted them. Surprise for Henry Wheaton, that is, and irritation for Frances.

  “Since I have long represented the Kestrel family and am sole trustee of the estate, I cannot think why she thought she needed additional representation.”

  “Lady Frances suggested that I review the estate papers on Miss Kestrel’s behalf.” Hal smiled, but Mr. Small looked daggers at Frances. He shuffled his papers, checked the power of attorney letter, then cleared his throat.

  “Very well, Mr. Wheaton. I will show you to an office and have my clerk give you the general accounts. Will that be satisfactory?”

  “Perfectly,” said Hal.

  “And you, Lady Frances? There’s a pleasant tea shop in town for you to wait for Mr. Wheaton to complete his examination.”

  Hal cut in before she could reply. “Lady Frances will be staying with me. She is employed by my firm as a confidential clerk.” He smiled blandly as the color drained from Mr. Small’s face. Was this a joke? Were they trying to make a fool of him? He cleared his throat again.

  “I understand that the most prestigious firms in London can boast of their many aristocratic clients. But your firm must be the most distinguished of all to actually employ members of the nobility. My secretary will see you properly set up.”

  “Excellent. And one more thing—I assume Miss Kestrel has a will, and it was deposited with you? I’d like to see that as well.”

  With little further ado, they were set up with pens, paper, and ledgers in what appeared to be an unused storeroom. The rickety table and chairs showed that this was not a room clients ever used.

  “Let’s look at the will first.” Hal opened it up and began reading it. “These country lawyers may be old-fashioned but they’re thorough. This will was drawn up as soon as Miss Kestrel came of age—not strictly necessary, of course, but very prudent. Of course, she was probably just living off an allowance from her father, but tell me, Franny, what do ladies from wealthy families have to call their own?”

  “I’m not only clerk, but expert witness? Very jolly, Hal. We all have a little put by. An elderly cousin who knew you as a little girl leaves you a bit in his will. A favorite aunt sends you something on Christmas, and your godfather remembers you on your birthday. And don’t forget—Gwen’s mother was dead. That means it’s likely all her jewelry came to Gwen, and with a rich man like Sir Calleford, that could be a very nice collection indeed.”

  “Shrewdly reasoned, my lady. Now this will is interesting. Our Mr. Small was careful. Everything is spelled out. Also, Miss Kestrel may have more of a backbone than we gave her credit for. Did you know anything about her will?”

  “No, I just assumed that Mr. Small pushed some papers in front of her and told her to sign, and that Gwen didn’t care or even remember.”

  “Come look at this, then.” He passed the will to Frances, and she read it herself. Gwen had left one hundred pounds to the suffrage group and one hundred pounds to the soup kitchen where Franny volunteered and served as treasurer. All her jewelry was left to Tommie.

  “I can’t see our Mr. Small being thrilled with that,” said Franny. “But Gwen must’ve insisted. I am surprised—and pleased.”

  “Yes. And note how it’s worded. Those few pounds and her jewelry were probably all she owned when the will was drawn up. A lesser lawyer might’ve just done something like, ‘all my property to Thomasina Calvin, except for these small sums to charity.’ After all, it was very little. But Mr. Small had her specify it. Now look at that last line.” Frances read it: all other property to Mr. Christopher Blake.

  It was clear now. Without that line, a simple “all my property” might’ve made Tommie, with Sir Calleford’s death, next in line to inherit the Eyrie. “All my property” meant nothing a few days ago—now it meant a vast fortune.

  “So even then, when Sir Calleford was in good health, Mr. Small wanted to make it clear that even if he suddenly died, there was no chance the estate would accidentally end up outside the family,” said Frances.

  “Exactly. Christopher Blake was always to be next in line if Gwen had no husband or children. The eventuality was always taken care of. And I imagine that was common knowledge.”

  They thought about that in silence, then Hal folded the will and put it back in the envelope. “I’m just a simple solicitor,” he said. “You’ll want to consider those implications.”

  “You’re not simple, and you know the implications as well as I do,” she said. “I will talk to Gwen about that later.”

  “Very well, Lady Frances,” said Hal heartily. “But now comes the boring part. You want to be a legal clerk; you are going to work like one.”

  “I am sure you will find me a most satisfactory employee,” she said, and indeed he did. Frances had learned well from her work as a treasurer for her charitable group. Hal told her it would take a team of solicitors and chartered acco
untants weeks to check every detail of such a large estate, but meanwhile he told her how to look for a sign of something suspicious.

  They worked in quiet, poring over the ledgers. Mr. Small unbent enough to send his secretary in with tea and biscuits.

  “I think I’ve found something,” said Frances eventually. “There’s a spike here in the cost of cottage maintenance. See here, this entry for Lavender Cottage. I was there actually.” She explained about the widows cottages and having tea with Mrs. Sweet, the current occupant.

  “The thing is, that cottage looked to be in good condition with no recent work. And yet, this sum of money is almost large enough to build a new cottage, and it’s just a few weeks ago.”

  “Good catch, Frances! I was beginning to despair—our Mr. Small may be pompous but his ledgers have been predictable and ordinary, until now. If you’re looking for a reason for Mr. Small to be reticent, this might be it.”

  He tucked the ledger under his arm, and he and Frances asked the secretary to see them back into Mr. Small’s office.

  “I trust that you found everything in order, Mr. Wheaton?”

  “Very clean books, Mr. Small. I congratulate you.”

  Mr. Small looked pleased with himself. “We may not have your London polish, but we do our best,” he said.

  “Just one question,” Hal said, and showed Mr. Small the entry for Lavender Cottage. “I don’t think that’s for repairs. It’s too large, and major capital repairs should have been listed separately.”

  Frances watched him closely. He was thinking what it could be. No—he knew. He was thinking of an explanation. A lie.

  “If you’ll wait one minute, I can find the related disbursement slip.” He left the office, and returned a few moments later with the counterfoil of a check. “It was paid directly to the tenant, Mrs. Genevieve Sweet.”

  “That’s very unusual, isn’t it? A personal payment hidden in a business account?”

  “It’s perfectly legal and regular, if unusual. Perhaps it was for household repairs.”

  “That much? You could almost build a new cottage for that fee.”

  Mr. Small shrugged. “I just followed Sir Calleford’s orders. I have no idea what the money was for.”

  Now that’s definitely a lie, thought Frances. Solicitors like this knew where every single penny went.

  “Ah, well. I’m sure we can follow up with Mrs. Sweet herself.”

  “That’s your right, of course,” said Mr. Small. “It may seem to be large for cottage repair, but considering the size of the estate, this amount wouldn’t seem worth your time.”

  Hal smiled. “You may be right. Thank you for your help. Until we meet again, then.” Mr. Small looked unhappy about a future meeting, but politely said they could sit in the reception area until their motorcar returned. However, they said they’d rather wait outside, as it was a pleasant day.

  “You’ll have lunch at the Eyrie, before you go back to London,” said Frances as they strolled along High Street.

  “That will work nicely,” said Hal. He looked at her. “You know something, don’t you? About that payment?”

  “I do, I’m sure I do.” It made sense now, with the overheard conversation between Mrs. Sweet and Sir Calleford the day before he was murdered. She would face Mrs. Sweet with that soon. Why had Sir Calleford given so much money to a tenant?

  “Dare I ask?” said Hal.

  “Let’s just say I doubt it was malfeasance on Mr. Small’s part. It was . . . something else. And if you don’t know, you won’t have to lie to your client.”

  Hal laughed. “Very well. I’m just glad I could help.” He gave her a sly look. “Speaking of which, it didn’t go against your principles to have to bring a man in to assist you in whatever it is you’re up to here?”

  “You’re teasing me, but no. I make use of whatever resources are available. If there had been a female solicitor, I would’ve hired her.”

  Hal gave her look of mock horror. “Are you telling me, dearest Franny, that you’ll abandon a business relationship that has endured since your father’s day as soon as a woman becomes available?”

  She smiled sweetly. “Of course not. Because you’ll be hiring the women solicitors in your firm—even making them junior partners.”

  Hal laughed again, and Frances joined him, as the Rolls-Royce pulled up.

  CHAPTER 14

  For the first time since Sir Calleford’s death, a meal at the Eyrie approached something like normality, and the guest was probably the reason why. Hal was very much at ease in groups and fitted in nicely. He discussed art exhibits with Miss Hardiman, dogs with Gwen, and horses with Mr. Hardiman and Mr. Blake. Both Tommie and Mr. Mehmet asked several questions about the English legal system, and Mr. Mehmet’s eyes landed briefly on Frances with what she thought was some amusement. And Mrs. Blake seemed pleased with the way the conversation went.

  Frances saw him back to the car.

  “Be careful,” he whispered.

  “I always am,” she said. And Hal rolled his eyes as the car pulled off.

  Back inside, Mrs. Blake was giving a few instructions to Pennington, but turned when Frances reentered the house.

  “Lady Frances, if it’s convenient, could I have a word with you?” The words sounded serious, but Mrs. Blake was smiling gently.

  “Of course.”

  Mrs. Blake led Frances to her morning room, where she clearly felt most comfortable.

  “As if running a household after a death, after a murder, isn’t bad enough, I have to cope with the constabulary wandering around and that inspector asking questions and making reports.”

  “Do they appear to be close to finding the culprit?”

  Mrs. Blake shrugged. “Inspector Bedlow, the local man, seems to think it’s an outside gang of robbers, and perhaps a servant was bribed, although I find that hard to believe. Who knows? Meanwhile, they’ve asked for everyone to stay, except for the French guests, who were vouched for by the French embassy and allowed to leave. But to the matter at hand.” She waved away the topic and then smiled. “I understand you have arranged for Gwen to engage her own personal solicitor.”

  “She’s a woman of wealth and property. And I felt she could use someone for whom her well-being was his sole concern. Mr. Wheaton is one of the most distinguished solicitors in London.” She studied Mrs. Blake closely for reaction. She gave away little, but again, Frances saw strain in her face.

  “I’m sure. But Lady Frances, there is so much more than financial and legal issues. Mr. Wheaton can’t help Gwen serve as chatelaine.”

  It was an old-fashioned word for the lady of a great castle, from the days when the Eyrie was new. Frances knew what Mrs. Blake meant: A lady hired and managed servants, both indoors and out. She made sure her house was the social center of the county and set standards for behavior and entertainment. Frances thought of the aristocratic Marchands, Gwen’s ancestors. Frances couldn’t think of anyone less suited to be lady of the castle than Gwen. But Mrs. Blake reveled in it.

  “With her money, Gwen could hire the finest housekeeper in England.”

  “And you no doubt wonder why we don’t have one? Because I couldn’t find anyone who could do what I could. Even if Gwen hired one, there is so much more to be done than a housekeeper can do. This household is the envy of England. Sir Calleford was one of the finest diplomats in Britain, and he made history here. And I gave him a household worthy of his tasks.”

  So it was about purpose. The Eyrie was Mrs. Blake’s reason for living. Frances couldn’t blame her for that. So was this about fear that Gwen would send her back home to the small house she shared with her son? No doubt Christopher would marry someday, and Mrs. Blake would be sent off to a dower house, alone and forgotten.

  “I’m sure Gwen won’t send you away.”

  “Of course she won’t,” said Mrs. Blake with a touch of annoyance. “She needs me, and even Gwen has the wit to see that. I have to think about the years ahead. This house has be
en handed down to blood relations for more than three centuries, and I mean to see that that continues. Gwen will stay here. I will stay with her. She will marry and have sons or daughters who will themselves marry and have children, those who can run this when I’m gone.”

  “And if Gwen doesn’t wish to marry?” asked Frances. She said it softly, and watched Mrs. Blake carefully. Red spots appeared on the older woman’s cheeks—she was angry, but she kept herself under control.

  “What she wishes? We can’t all be like you, Lady Frances, with the money, intelligence, and wit to flout all convention. Gwen has no skills for that. Will you and Miss Calvin guide her for the rest of her life? I have a plan for her. I would’ve thought you realized it. She will marry Christopher. She has always had affection for him, and he has always been kind to her. I will stay on to manage things, and Gwen will be perfectly satisfied with that.”

  Gwen wouldn’t mind her Aunt Phoebe looking over her shoulder, thought Frances. But if the Eyrie somehow ended up in someone else’s hands, Mrs. Blake would lose her place.

  “And Christopher wants to marry her?” asked Frances.

  “Lady Frances, I wouldn’t have thought that you of all people would need things spelled out. Christopher will have an obliging wife, mastery of the house he’s always loved, and his mother to run the household.”

  Frances thought over her next sentence carefully. “Mrs. Blake, I don’t think a married life with Christopher—with anyone—is something Gwen desires.”

  Mrs. Blake rolled her eyes. “I appreciate your delicacy, but I’m not a fool. You are not married, so maybe I have to explain to you that in a marriage, not everyone gets all they need from a spouse. Christopher will no doubt make only minimal demands on her. Please tell me I don’t have to explain further.”

  No she didn’t. The couple would do what was necessary to get an heir, and Christopher would take a mistress. Many marriages in society worked that way, and the couples were content, even happy.