by R. J. Koreto
Confident she knew where he was going, she followed at a distance. She knew he wouldn’t expect her to follow him anyway. Her heart beat faster and she forgot how cold it was. She’d catch him out now—there were no innocent explanations for this.
And suddenly he stopped, and she saw him with someone else, the shadowy figure of a man. Frances heard murmurings in a foreign tongue, probably Turkish. She heard the word “Kerem” more than once. They exchanged something, but she couldn’t see what, then there was more talking in Turkish. She clearly made out one English phrase: “our friend in London.” The second man disappeared into the darkness. Mehmet continued on his way.
They were almost there. There was a welcoming glint in the window of Mrs. Bellinger’s cottage and she saw more light as the door opened. So she was expecting him, even eager for him. Frances increased her pace—she’d catch them now, right on the threshold. What was going on here? Was the financially desperate Mrs. Bellinger working with Mr. Mehmet as a spy?
And then she felt an arm going around her and she was lifted from the ground. She started to scream, but a cloth was stuffed into her mouth. A man held her tightly and tucked her under his arm, immobilizing her hands. Craning her neck, she saw they were heading toward the still open door. They stepped inside, and she heard the door close.
CHAPTER 17
Once inside, she was put on her feet, and she instantly pulled the cloth, a cheap handkerchief, out of her mouth. The man who had grabbed her was dressed as a manservant, but did not appear English—no doubt Mr. Mehmet’s valet.
Without thinking, she smoothed her dress, then took stock of her captors: Mrs. Bellinger was giving her a look of pure hatred and Frances glared right back. Mr. Mehmet had the faintest look of amusement.
“Since it was obvious I was coming here anyway, it was unnecessary to have your . . . minion assault me like that.”
Mr. Mehmet gave an ironic bow. “My apologies. It was feared you might stop and turn back to the house, and report what you saw. And Adem, while a fine servant, perhaps overreacted. Although I asked him to watch you, I didn’t want him to kidnap you. Again, I am sorry.” Mr. Mehmet said a few words in Turkish; Adem responded briefly and disappeared into the kitchen.
Frances watched a look pass between Mrs. Bellinger and Mr. Mehmet. She still didn’t know his full story, but she knew what was happening here. Certain kinds of looks were only passed between certain kinds of people. The opened door, welcoming, made it all clear. And Mr. Mehmet’s daytime visit—discreet, but still in the open. Frances guessed no spies would meet by day like that.
“I think we’ve had enough of her prying,” said Mrs. Bellinger in that icy tone of hers. “Let’s just dump her somewhere and be done with it.”
Frances knew it was anger talking—anger and fear. Mrs. Bellinger just wanted to get a rise out of Frances, but she refused to give her the satisfaction of a response. She only spoke to Mr. Mehmet. “Tell me, did you know she was that bloodthirsty when you first fell in love with her?”
Frances delighted in the absolute astonishment on his face. And then he took a step forward and grabbed her hard on the shoulders. “Who told you? Tell me how you knew that?” he yelled.
She slapped away his hands. “Stop manhandling me. Once was enough. And there’s no need to yell. It was the way you two looked at each other, the easy way you visited. And you were seen at the Eyrie lands in a romantic moonlight walk.” That last was a bit of a guess, but Mme. Aubert had seen them and Frances felt it was a reasonable conclusion.
“Let’s lock her in the root cellar until we decide what to do,” said Mrs. Bellinger, still hoping for a reaction. Now, Frances heard even more fear behind the anger.
“Oh, do stop being so dramatic,” said Frances. “I have no interest in any affair you two are having.”
“We are not having an affair, Lady Frances,” said Mr. Mehmet. “She is not my . . . lover. Mrs. Bellinger is my wife.”
That did surprise Frances. She wouldn’t have guessed their relationship was that close.
“Well then,” she finally said. “I have no interest in your marital status. I’m here because of my friend. Now can we sit down? If you haven’t forgotten everything you knew about hospitality, you will offer me a seat and a glass of that sherry I see on the side table.”
Mr. Mehmet had regained his self-control. “I think you are correct, Lady Frances. Although considering your behavior, you are perhaps not in the best position to lecture us on hospitality. Please, take a seat. And you, too . . . my wife.” He poured three glasses of sherry, and a few moments later they were all in a somewhat mellower mood.
“You say you are here for your friend, Lady Frances?” asked Mr. Mehmet. “That would be Miss Kestrel? You are trying to find her father’s murderer?”
“Yes, but that is not my main reason. Miss Kestrel was the subject of vicious rumors—and she doesn’t even know about it. I came to find out who started it, and why. Sir Calleford’s murder is probably related. And now your neighbor, Mrs. Sweet. I assume you told your wife about that. And your behavior, Mr. Mehmet, has been suspicious.”
“Of course. But now you see. I visited Sir Calleford a number of times on business in past months. On my first visit, I met Mrs. Bellinger over dinner. And recently she gave me the great honor of becoming my wife, quietly in a registry office where no one knows us.” He smiled at her, and she smiled back. Years fell away from her, and for a few moments she looked like a beautiful bride. “But we must be secret because of my work and the need to avoid gossip—a Muslim Turk marrying a Christian Englishwoman. It could provoke extreme reactions from my associates and family. And I wanted to protect my wife from any embarrassments regarding her family or social circle.”
“And what is your work, Mr. Mehmet?”
He shook his head. “That too is secret. But please know I had no hand in Sir Calleford’s death. Why would I do that? I don’t want any attention called to myself, at least not until sometime in the near future when my wife and I can leave.”
Mrs. Bellinger finished her sherry and stood. “This is difficult for me. I am going to my bedroom. I imagine you will talk a little while. Good night, Mehmet. Good night, Lady Frances.”
Mehmet stood too and kissed his wife. “We won’t be long, and I’ll look in on you before I go.” As she turned to head up the stairs, Frances spoke.
“You may not believe me, but I wish you the greatest happiness in your marriage,” she said.
Mrs. Bellinger just looked at her. “Thank you. But you don’t understand, do you? You can’t imagine a well-born Englishwoman marrying a Turk. But then, you can’t possibly imagine what my first marriage was like—the emotional and physical pain I endured. I don’t like you, Lady Frances, but I don’t wish you the marriage I had.”
“You’re right about that. I can’t understand. But my greatest wish, all my work, is to make sure no woman has to endure what you had to.”
Mrs. Bellinger smiled coolly. “You have a reputation for giving pretty speeches. I see it was well-deserved. Do you know what you do not understand? The importance of kindness from a man. For all our differences, Mr. Mehmet is a kind man. So much kinder than the so-called Christians who turned their backs on me after the humiliation I suffered at my first husband’s hand. Someday, when you are older, you will realize what I mean about the importance of kindness. For now, I appreciate your wishes for my recent marriage and bid you good night.” She headed upstairs. Frances glanced now at her host, whose wet eyes were following his wife up the stairs. She felt a pang in her heart and felt momentarily like an intruder.
Mr. Mehmet quickly wiped his eyes and finished his sherry.
“Lady Frances, if there were anything I could tell you about Sir Calleford’s death, or if there were any rumors about his daughter, I would tell you. I don’t see how I can help you further—except with this: In my faith, hospitality is sacred and inviolable. It is no doubt clear to both of us that it was a guest who murdered Sir Calleford,
a man to whom he offered hospitality, a sin that defies description. Such a murderer must have a black heart.”
Frances nodded. She was not of his faith, but his words made sense to her.
“When Adem carried you in here, I saw anger in your eyes, but not fear. You are fearless, Lady Frances, and intelligent. I think you will find what you seek. In a strange way neither of us can understand, you will be Allah’s instrument in uncovering a murderer.”
“I find it odd that your God would pick a woman—a Christian woman—for his plans.”
He smiled. “You mock me, but it is not for us to question his ways. As a woman, you cannot begin to plumb the depths, but it is true. You will be Allah’s sword in this. He will use you to uncover this great sin. I am convinced.”
Frances thought that one over. What could she say? At some level this was a compliment, but “thank you” didn’t seem right, somehow.
She was saved from trying to find an answer by a knock. It wasn’t at the front door, but rather the kitchen door. Mr. Mehmet jumped up, alarmed. No one was expected. They heard Adem open the door.
“Excuse me,” came Mallow’s strong London accent, with the superior tone she used for fellow servants. “I believe my mistress, Lady Frances Ffolkes, is here.”
Frances started to talk, but Mr. Mehmet silenced her with a glance. “Please, I don’t want anyone else to know,” he whispered. Frances could’ve told him it was a lost cause, but said nothing for the moment.
“Your lady isn’t here, please go home,” said Adem.
“I don’t believe you. She went down this path and there are no other cottages with the lights on. Now please show me to her at once.”
“All I can say is that your lady is not here. Now please go—”
“How dare you lay hands on me!” said Mallow. Frances rushed to the kitchen—if Adem had hurt Mallow . . .
Before she could make it through the door, there was a crack and Adem cried out. When Frances and Mr. Mehmet entered the kitchen, Adem was sitting down, clutching his left shin, and Mallow—looking very pleased with herself—was holding a rolling pin.
“My lady, I hope you are well. This . . . person dared to lay hands on me. It was necessary to strike him.” She was affronted that such a thing had come to pass. Frances bit her lip to stop herself from laughing at her diminutive maid laying into a manservant who probably had eight inches and one hundred pounds on her.
“Mallow, what are you doing here?”
“I was concerned, my lady, when I couldn’t find you after dinner. A maid saw you leave, and when an assistant gamekeeper said he saw a lady along the path to the cottages, I assumed it must be you.” She glanced down at the rolling pin. “I borrowed this from Cook, my lady, in case of any eventuality.” She stopped to glare at Adem, who was scowling at her. “And I brought a wrap for you, my lady, so you wouldn’t get a chill.”
Mr. Mehmet sighed, but there was a hint of a smile. “This little cottage has become too crowded, I think. All our business has been concluded, has it not, Lady Frances?” Then, with irony in his voice, he continued. “And now, with your maid here, you may go home accompanied by her and thus avoid any damage to your reputation.”
“Thank you for your kind observation,” Frances shot back. “I do agree we’re done here. Your secret will be safe with me.”
“So you trust me then?”
“I didn’t say that, Mr. Mehmet. I said I’d keep your secret. You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here—that is, what your occupation is. Acceptance is one thing. Trust is quite another.”
He laughed. “I appreciate the distinction. And now, I suggest we return.”
The path was only wide enough for two abreast, so Mr. Mehmet walked with Frances, while Adem and Mallow followed behind—the two servants eying each other with suspicion.
Even in the dark, the Eyrie was imposing, filling the sky as they approached it.
“Have you been to India, Lady Frances?”
“No, but I would very much like to someday. Have you?” She wondered where this conversation was going.
“Yes. There is a great building there, I’m sure you’ve heard of it, called the Taj Mahal. It looks like a palace, but it’s a tomb for a queen. And looking at the Eyrie, I think of that. I know it’s a home, but it feels like a tomb. I cannot imagine actually living there. I hope I make sense, Lady Frances, and that I don’t give offense?”
“Not at all, Mr. Mehmet. In fact, I agree. It’s a beautiful house to visit, but I wouldn’t want to reside there. Even less to be its mistress. Your comparison to a tomb is apt. It makes me think of the line, ‘The grave’s a fine and private place, but none, I think, do there embrace.’” Mr. Mehmet laughed.
“An amusing line. Where is it from?”
“A poem by Andrew Marvell, an English poet of the seventeenth century. It’s called ‘To His Coy Mistress.’”
“My wife has promised to recommend English writers for me. I shall ask her to add this Andrew Marvell to the list.”
Frances had a vision of the stiff Mrs. Bellinger—now Mrs. Mehmet—sitting by the fire with Mr. Mehmet, reading English poetry. You just never knew.
“One more thing, Mr. Mehmet. May I ask whom you were speaking with before your servant Adem seized me? You were speaking in Turkish, so it was clearly one of your countrymen.”
“What a curious girl you are, Lady Frances. But there was no other person. It was Adem I was speaking with, then he turned back and grabbed you. He is more comfortable conversing in Turkish.”
“That’s impossible. If the man were Adem, he couldn’t have slipped behind me that quickly after talking to you. There was another man there, and seeing all that has happened here, and how you’re depending on me to solve this crime as ‘Allah’s agent,’ I think you should tell me.”
“Distances in the country, at night, are hard to judge. I assure you, it was just me and Adem.”
“Who is your ‘friend in London’?”
She couldn’t see his face clearly in the dark.
“I have lots of friends in London, Lady Frances.”
“You are lucky I’m not with the London police. They’d have constables checking every person in the village, every coming and going.”
“I suppose I am lucky. But I still have nothing to hide. Or, I should say, nothing more to hide.”
“Very well, don’t tell me. But I know I’m right. And I still don’t trust you.”
Back in the house, they said a quick good-night. Adem studiously ignored Mallow as he followed his master up the stairs. He still had a slight limp—Mallow must’ve hit him pretty hard.
Frances quickly stopped by Gwen’s and Tommie’s rooms to say good-night and apologize for not being able to join them earlier in the drawing room, citing “personal business.” Then she had Mallow help her undress and get ready for bed.
“I hope you don’t think I overstepped by coming to fetch you at the cottage, my lady, or by assaulting Adem.”
“Not at all, Mallow. I should’ve taken you with me in the first place.” She smiled at her maid. “You’re quite handy with that rolling pin.”
“Thank you, my lady. You should’ve known my old gran, my lady. She was a head taller than me and was famed in the neighborhood with her rolling pin. No one took advantage of her. Not twice, anyway.”
“I’m sorry we never met.” She sighed. “I had expected, even hoped, that Mr. Mehmet was involved in these murders. It seemed so . . . obvious. There is still something there, I’m sure, but this is really a family affair, I’m afraid.”
“You mean someone in the family killed Sir Calleford and Mrs. Sweet, my lady?”
“It would seem so. But why? That’s what I can’t figure out. What did they hope to gain from it?” She shook her head. “I thought it might be to gain the Eyrie, but everyone knew Gwen Kestrel would get it anyway. Mrs. Blake knew that, and so did her son.”
“Miss Hardiman seems to want to be mistress here, my lady.”
“Exactly, very good. But she can buy it, and if she marries Mr. Blake . . .” She frowned. There were too many motives. Greed. Desire for power. Love and lust. “If Gwen died, everything would go to her nearest relation, Mr. Blake.”
“Oh, my lady, do you think Miss Kestrel is in danger? Mr. Blake seems like such a good man, my lady.”
“I agree. But there is some danger to Miss Kestrel—although not for her life. Another kind of danger. More to her reputation than her life. Does that sound strange, Mallow?”
It did, but Mallow just said, “I’m sure you’ll figure it out, my lady.”
“Mr. Mehmet says I’ll figure out it. He said he’s convinced I’m the sword of Allah.”
Lady Frances had always been very patient in explaining things to Mallow, and the maid had no doubt she would explain this if asked. But sometimes—and this was one of them—it was just easier to say, “Yes, my lady. Will that be all?”
CHAPTER 18
The next morning, it was ladies only at breakfast. Mr. Mehmet was off on another walk—at least Frances knew with whom he was having breakfast. Mr. Hardiman and Mr. Blake had also risen early to go riding. Little could pull a man away from a woman he was wooing—unless he was trying to curry favor with the father, Frances observed.
Miss Hardiman seemed very eager to talk with Gwen, Tommie, and Frances. “Good morning, ladies. I assume you heard that Christopher—Mr. Blake—thought it might be a good idea for a change of scene, to spend a day at his house. We’d make a party of it, all of us going, early tomorrow before breakfast.”
“Yes, I haven’t been in years. I’m so looking forward to it,” said Gwen.
Mrs. Blake laid a hand on Gwen’s arm. “You were always happy visiting there as a girl, and a change of scene with Christopher might do you some good.”
“Are you coming, Aunt Phoebe?”
“No dear. I would prefer a quiet day here. There are some things I’d like to take care of. Old General Anstruther has invited Mr. Hardiman and Mr. Mehmet to shoot at his place.”
