by R. J. Koreto
“How clever,” said Dolly.
“Mrs. Sweet? We’re very sorry to disturb you, but—oh!” Mrs. Sweet was slumped in her chair with her jaw and eyes open and a box of candy on her lap. Mallow could see a hole in the bodice of her dress, and what appeared to be dried blood surrounding it.
Mallow steeled herself, walked up to her, and gently placed her fingers on Mrs. Sweet’s hand. It was cold. It was the second dead body Mallow had seen in a few days, but Mallow had become used to it. She had seen dead people before; that wasn’t something that could be hidden in the crowded tenements where she had grown up. And this woman was certainly dead—and had been for some hours, at least. Mallow had never seen a gunshot wound up close, but she guessed that’s what she was looking at.
Dolly started to whimper.
“Stop that,” said Mallow sharply. “We have things to do. I will get my mistress. You will stay here.”
“I can’t stay in this house,” wailed Dolly. It was an old cottage, reasoned Mallow. Dozens of people had probably died here over the years. But that wasn’t going to reassure the girl.
“Fine. Stay outside. If anyone comes by, say that Mrs. Sweet is unwell, she’s not receiving, and the doctor has been called.” The girl sniffled and nodded.
Mallow saw a key on the night table. So someone had an extra copy. And took it with them, apparently. She locked the bedroom door on their way out and pocketed the key. She set up Dolly outside. Then started walking briskly back to the house.
Finding Lady Frances at work with her friends, she simply said that Mrs. Sweet was not feeling entirely well and would like it if her ladyship could stop by.
Frances excused herself from her friends, who sent their good wishes, and walked out with Mallow.
“She’s not sick, is she?” asked Frances when they were alone.
“No, my lady. She’s definitely dead.” She explained how she came to uncover the body, and how she found the key even though the door had obviously been locked by a second key. Frances listened as she usually did, focusing carefully and not interrupting.
“Very good, Mallow. Nicely handled—again. You weren’t upset by the body?”
“No, my lady.”
“You didn’t call the police, did you?”
“Certainly not, my lady. It’s not my place.”
“Very good, Mallow.”
The miserable-looking Dolly was still sitting outside and jumped up when Lady Frances arrived.
“Oh, my lady. Shall I go for the police, now that you’re here?”
“In a moment, Dolly. I just want to see for myself.”
“But, my lady—”
Frances turned. “Now, Dolly. If Mrs. Sweet really is dead, a few minutes won’t make any difference.”
Once they were upstairs, Mallow gave Frances the key and they walked in. Frances also felt the body’s temperature, then she turned her attention to the spilled box of chocolates. Mrs. Sweet had been eating them when she died.
“She clearly was shot, Mallow. And I guess by someone she knew. She was happily eating chocolates when she was killed.”
“That is evil, my lady.”
“Yes, it is, Mallow.”
“What could she have done to anyone that they’d want to kill her?”
“Sometimes, people are not killed for what they’ve done. They’re killed for what they’ve seen.” She thought of Sir Calleford and Mrs. Sweet walking in the night. Was that the reason—they had seen something?
Mrs. Sweet had indulged her passion for candy in the privacy of her bedroom. A visitor came and shot her. Then the murderer had locked the door from the outside and walked away with the key, to ensure it would be a while before someone found the body.
Nothing more to learn here. Closing the bedroom door behind them, they went into the sitting room. Frances didn’t find anything out of place. The room was neat and tidy, with just a few ladies magazines and a couple of popular novels. Then they walked into the little kitchen. Nothing out of order here either. It was simply set up. Perhaps Dolly, or some other local girl, prepared her dinner. The only things that caught Frances’s eye were three small canisters of dried herbs: ginger, red raspberry, chamomile. “Come, Mallow. I think we’ve seen whatever there is to see.”
Dolly was anxiously waiting outside.
“Dolly, just one more thing. Did you cook for Mrs. Sweet?”
“Not the dinners, my lady. Usually one of my older cousins, Katie or Sophie, did that. But I made her sandwiches sometimes for her lunch.”
“There are herbs in the kitchen. Do you know if they were used for cooking?”
“Oh no, my lady. Mrs. Sweet liked her gardening, and said she made teas and things with those and we weren’t to use them.”
“I see. And one more question—did you help Mrs. Sweet with her clothes at all? Mending or anything like that?”
“Yes, my lady. Small things, torn hems and darning. But for the big things she had me bring her dresses to the village seamstress, Mrs. Copley.”
“Really? Was that frequent?”
“Only of late, my lady. Mrs. Sweet laughed and said she ate too much chocolate and needed her dresses let out. Mrs. Copley is a very clever seamstress, I told her, and good at things like that.”
At that, Frances sent a very relieved Dolly to fetch the village constable, while she and Mallow made themselves comfortable in the sitting room.
“I did not know her well,” said Frances, “but I think I learned one thing about her. She was Sir Calleford’s mistress.”
Mallow’s eyes got wide. She had seen a bit of life since going into service, but sexual immorality still shocked her.
“Really, my lady, a great man like Sir Calleford? And Mrs. Sweet seemed so pleasant. I saw her at the funeral lunch.” But it was clear. The large sum of money Sir Calleford had given her and their conversation in the nighttime garden. That was the best explanation. The gentle, good-natured Mrs. Sweet must have reminded Sir Calleford of his late wife.
“She was pleasant, Mallow. I doubt if she was a simple prostitute. I can see how they truly enjoyed each other’s company.”
Mallow gave a little “hmph,” the closest she came to a complete disagreement with her ladyship.
“You don’t believe in romance?” teased Frances.
“Oh no, my lady. I like romance. The moving pictures with romance are the best. But one thing can lead to another, my lady; I’ve seen it too often. The man has his bit of fun, and he doesn’t believe in romance anymore. He’s gone, and as likely as not, the girl is in a family way and no respectable man will marry her, and no respectable place will hire her. What then, my lady?”
And Frances had to agree that Mallow made an excellent point.
Constable Dill, the one who had questioned Mallow earlier, came briskly up the path with Dolly—and Inspector Bedlow.
“Oh, Lady Frances, we meet again.” Bedlow gave a thin smile. “Now, I hear there’s a dead body?” Mallow produced the key, and the two officers went upstairs after telling the three women to wait in the sitting room. They both came down a few moments later, the inspector looking grim.
“Now, Dolly here was a little unclear when she came by the station. Can you two tell me the full story?”
Mallow explained her part, then Frances took over the story, both of them watching the inspector get more and more annoyed, as Constable Dill took notes.
“Miss Mallow, why didn’t you come to get the police straightaway?”
“I wasn’t sure it was a police matter yet, inspector. It was for her ladyship to decide that.”
The inspector looked dubious and thought a moment. Then he told Dolly she could go home, and she practically raced out of the house. “Dill, stand guard outside. And Miss Mallow, I’d like a private word with your mistress—you can wait outside too, with the constable.”
When they were alone, he said, “This is the second time you and your maid have found a body. That’s quite a coincidence, my lady, don’t you think
?”
Frances ignored his tone. “I think that’s very significant. Don’t you? Mallow has wisely intervened where lesser servants were afraid. That tells me the killer deliberately created situations where bodies would go undiscovered for a while. This is someone who knows how servants behave. It was the murderer’s bad luck Mallow and I were here.”
Bedlow just glared at her for a while. “The killer’s bad luck? And mine too, it seems. I would’ve thought that you, Lady Frances, would know enough to get the police directly if your maid reports a body that at least appears dead. Your maid may have been worried Mrs. Sweet was ill. But why did you enter the room?”
“I didn’t want to be accused of wasting valuable police time and thought it best to check first myself. Anyway, I think it’s obvious that this was a case of murder, inspector,” said Frances. “Killed by someone she knew.”
“This is very odd, Lady Frances. On one hand you didn’t know enough to contact the police, and on the other you were able to deduce so much about the murderer.”
Frances sighed. “You’re missing the point. There were no disturbances in the room. Surely she admitted someone and sat down for a cozy chat in her bedroom. And then her guest shot her and came with her own key to lock up afterward.”
“I think this may be part of the same gang that killed Sir Calleford,” he said, more to himself than to Frances.
“I doubt that. There’s virtually nothing in these cottages to steal. And an outsider would be afraid a gunshot would attract attention. But a local would know there was only Mrs. Bellinger’s cottage within hearing.”
“So you’re saying Mrs. Bellinger shot her?”
“I have no reason to think that. But anyone here knows Mrs. Bellinger keeps to herself. She probably wouldn’t even notice a gunshot. She’d assume it was a gamekeeper shooting vermin, or a poacher.”
Inspector Bedlow fixed her with a sharp look. “So, Lady Frances, murder is something you have wide experience with?”
“As a matter of fact it is,” she said. “From time to time I have been of assistance to the police in London.”
“Then you’re welcome to go home and help the police in London. We don’t need help from amateurs in this county.”
Frances struggled to keep her temper. “Inspector Bedlow, Mrs. Sweet was not murdered by a robber. And if you don’t accept that, I can assure you there will be more murders.”
CHAPTER 16
Outside, it was getting a little cool, and Mallow’s cloak was thin.
“If you’re getting a chill, Miss Mallow, I’ll lend you my jacket until your lady comes back.”
“Thank you. But I will be fine for now.” They heard the voices getting louder inside. “I think my lady is getting angry at your inspector.”
“And I’m sure he’s getting angry right back at her,” said Dill, with a grin. “Just between us, the inspector is under a lot of pressure. It was hoped he would make an arrest soon, and the chief constable has been asking for progress reports. We’ve been looking into local gangs, but they all have alibis.”
Mallow nodded encouragingly.
“In one case, he thought he knew who did it, only to find the gang was under lock and key in the next county on another charge when Sir Calleford was murdered. He was very angry at that, I can tell you,” said the constable. “But he still thinks it’s a gang. Although . . .”
Mallow looked up expectantly.
“I have also heard him mutter things about your lady’s friend, Miss Thomasina Calvin—that she may have a reason to wish Sir Calleford dead. I can’t see a quiet lady like that stabbing a man like Sir Calleford. I shouldn’t really say anything, but I’ve heard your lady knows important people. She was seen talking with that important inspector from London. If she has any influence . . .” He let the thought hang.
“You don’t like Inspector Bedlow much, do you?” asked Mallow.
Constable Dill looked over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being overheard. “I don’t seem to be getting on with my career doing this,” he said. “We’re going in circles. I’m up for sergeant, like I said, and I just found out there’s a watch supervisor position open. Again, Miss Mallow, just between us, helping Inspector Bedlow chase his tail isn’t going to raise my profile with the chief constable.”
“Well I’m sure that your skills will shine through,” said Mallow emphatically, and Dill seemed surprised and pleased with his compliment.
“Thank you very much,” he said.
At that point, Frances came out of the house walking very briskly.
“Come, Mallow, there is nothing more here for us.” She had that clipped tone that signaled great irritation.
Mallow quickly fell in line next to her mistress.
“That utter fool,” said Frances. “Too stupid to see the obvious, too stubborn to call in help. I never thought I’d say this, but I wish Inspector Eastley was back here. He’s stubborn too, but at least he’s intelligent and competent.”
“Yes, my lady.” She paused. “I did hear some information, though, from Constable Dill. He’s the one who interviewed me earlier.” She told Frances what she had heard.
“Very interesting, Mallow. That goes along with what Mrs. Blake told me earlier—they hate calling in Scotland Yard. I never thought it was a gang, but this does show that someone is getting desperate, and desperate people do desperate things. We have to watch carefully because Inspector Bedlow will likely arrest someone out of his own desperation. And we must be especially careful for Miss Calvin—she could easily become a scapegoat.”
“Yes, my lady.” She paused. “You won’t reveal that you found this out from Constable Dill, though? I wouldn’t want to get him in trouble.”
Frances smiled. It was not like Mallow to worry about a constable. As loyal as she was, she never liked getting mixed up with the police. Had this one caught her fancy?
“I’ll treat it as confidential, of course, Mallow. We wouldn’t want to mar a promising career, would we?” She shook her head. “Poor Mrs. Sweet. ‘More sinned against than sinning.’”
“My lady?”
“A quote from Shakespeare. I only meant that whatever sins Mrs. Sweet committed, she didn’t deserve this.”
“Of course not, my lady. I will say a prayer for her in church on Sunday.”
“Even though she was with a man outside of marriage?”
“I’m sure it’s not my place to judge her for that, my lady. And if she was a sinner, all the more reason to give her our prayers.”
Back at the house, Frances broke the news quietly, saying Mrs. Sweet had been murdered, but the police had no suspects yet. The accepted explanation, for now, was the “gang” that had supposedly killed Sir Calleford.
Mrs. Blake accepted the news calmly. Gwen teared up, even though she hardly knew the woman, and quickly offered to pay for funeral expenses—although Frances knew of course that Sir Calleford’s substantial gift was sitting in the woman’s account. Tommie caught Frances’s eye—she knew there was more to this.
Christopher Blake accepted it calmly as well and said he would call the chief constable personally to see about his progress. But Frances could tell he didn’t believe the convenient fiction any more than she did.
“Mr. Blake. All of this has been so upsetting for Gwen. I know I’m being shockingly forward, but she speaks of you with such affection. Could you invite us for a day at your estate? I think Gwen would enjoy the change of scene and it would give your mother a day of quiet here.”
And most of all, it would give Frances and Mallow a chance to talk to Blake servants. They may have some insights into family workings.
“Splendid idea, Lady Frances. I’m sorry I didn’t think of it myself. I’ll make the arrangements. And there’s good shooting not far on a neighbor’s estate—that might give the gentlemen some sport while you ladies get a tour of my lands.”
“Thank you so much. And no need to tell anyone it was my idea. I wouldn’t want anyone to think I was be
ing too forward.” No need for anyone to think Lady Frances was more curious than she should be, either.
Frances caught the Hardimans and Mr. Mehmet before dinner as well. The Americans offered conventional words of sympathy. Mr. Mehmet said, “I wish you solace upon the death of your friend,” and he seemed sincere.
But since no one knew her well, her death didn’t seem to cast much of a pall over dinner. Mrs. Blake asked the Americans if they had had a good tour of the grounds, and Miss Hardiman gushed about the extent and beauty of the Eyrie estate.
“The estate was a long time in the making,” said Mrs. Blake. “It was laid out more than three hundred years ago.”
“Imagine that,” said Miss Hardiman.
Mr. Mehmet said little, but Frances was not done with him yet. He was the one with an interest in the cottage right next to Mrs. Sweet. He was also the last of the dinner guests Frances still didn’t fully understand.
After dinner, Mrs. Blake said if anyone was interested, the usual after-dinner reception would be held in the drawing room for the first time since Sir Calleford had died. “Gwen and I thought it was time,” she said, including her niece—an acknowledgment of Gwen’s role as the new mistress of Kestrel’s Eyrie.
Frances thought this would be a good chance to speak with Mr. Mehmet again, and was disappointed to see him heading away from the stairs as the rest of the party walked up to the drawing room. She quietly stepped away from the stairs and into a shadow, to see him heading out the door. Was he hoping for a breath of air? It was quite cool outside. Frances thought for a moment, then quickly followed him out.
The cold air hit her, and she wished again she was in her male walking clothes and strong boots. From the little light leaking from the windows, she saw Mr. Mehmet head along the path to the widows’ cottages. Another visit with Mrs. Bellinger? It was very late for a man to visit an unattached woman in a home without a live-in servant.
