by R. J. Koreto
Eastley shrugged. “I bluffed to get Watkins out of here, my lady, so the local men can’t twist his story. You were waiting for something like this, weren’t you? But there’s really nothing more I can do until we have more evidence. If he can arrest Miss Calvin, even on flimsy evidence, it’s a local matter.”
“I can’t sit back and just watch. It’ll destroy both of them.”
“I sympathize. Give me a week or two, and we’ll figure out how to get Scotland Yard up here.”
“But I can’t wait weeks. You heard him. Very well—I’ll have to make my own plans.”
“Lady Frances—oh never mind. You won’t listen to me anyway.”
“Oh, but I will, if you tell me what I need to know. Before we were interrupted, you were telling me about Mr. Mehmet. Tell me more. Tell me the whole story.”
Eastley sighed. “God help us if what I told you gets out. I’m only telling you because you’re going to do what you’re going to do and this will make it a little easier.”
Frances pulled out a handkerchief and mopped her damp brow. She leaned back and prepared to listen.
CHAPTER 24
“There is a high-ranking Turkish diplomat in London,” said the inspector. “His name in his language is difficult to pronounce, so we normally just referred to him by his title—the pasha. He is wealthy and well-connected, which is how he came to his post, but he is arrogant and stupid. One of the pasha’s jobs is keeping track of Turkish nationals in London. With your knowledge of politics and history, you probably know what is going on in Istanbul right now, Lady Frances.”
“I know the sultan is deeply unpopular,” she said. “There are rumors that some young army officers and others may even be plotting against him.”
“Yes. And Mr. Mehmet is one of them. Under the cover of working for the British interests of his family’s business, Mr. Mehmet was in reality working to get important but unofficial support from His Majesty’s government—from elements within the Foreign Office who would very much like to see the unstable sultan removed. But it had to be quiet—the government could not be seen as openly supporting rebels in these difficult times. It could precipitate a diplomatic crisis, even lead to war. So Mr. Mehmet worked very secretly, with no other partner but his cousin, Kerem, an officer in the Turkish army temporarily working out of the embassy in London. He often ran messages between London and Mr. Mehmet when Mehmet was visiting Sir Calleford, who also unofficially helped Mr. Mehmet with his many contacts. It was convenient for Sir Calleford to arrange meetings with Mr. Mehmet in the privacy of the country—and Mehmet was supposedly just enjoying the hospitality of one of the great English houses. He was out of sight of prying eyes in London, and it worked well as long as Mehmet didn’t stay here too long.”
Frances smiled to herself. This confirmed that there was another Turk near the Eyrie working with Mr. Mehmet. He had been speaking to him that night she was kidnapped. “It was impossible to hide his work with the Foreign Office, but it was disguised as simple trade discussions, innocuous meetings about tedious shipping lane regulations. The pasha didn’t like it, anyway, and we knew he likely considered forcing Mehmet back to Istanbul—or even having him killed—but for now accepted things as they were to avoid a possible scandal. If the pasha knew just what Mehmet was telling his secret contact at the Foreign Office, there is no doubt he’d have had Mehmet killed, never mind the repercussions. But Mr. Mehmet was careful. He had just one contact at the Foreign Office, a man only known as the ‘friend in London.’ This contact passed on information he wanted looked up or confirmed, and Mehmet and Kerem would send back intelligence they knew or had gathered from sources at their disposal.”
“I see,” said Frances. It was beginning to make sense. And no surprise Inspector Eastley knew so much—Special Branch kept many secrets. “Mr. Mehmet was risking a great deal, defying his government and working with this secret Englishman in the Foreign Office who was supporting him—the ‘friend in London,’ as you say.”
She paused, then her eyes lit up. “Sir Calleford, being an unofficial diplomat, had secretly recruited Mr. Mehmet. He was quietly bringing in the French too, seeing if they wanted to be involved. And the ‘friend in London’ provided—I don’t know—money, munitions, other supplies.” It suddenly clicked. “That’s why my brother came to the Eyrie after Sir Calleford died. It wasn’t just to deliver the eulogy—that was just his ‘cover’ so he could talk openly with Mr. Mehmet. I have that term right, don’t I—his ‘cover?’ My brother is the ‘friend in London,’ isn’t he?” The inspector toyed with his pen for a few moments before answering. Then he fixed Frances with a look, and gave her a half smile.
“Yes, Lady Frances. He’s your brother. After the murder, he had to take me into his confidence. That’s what Special Branch does, help clean up messes like that.”
“I would’ve thought that my brother would find me as trustworthy as you,” said Frances, feeling red spots grow on her cheeks.
“It’s not a matter of trust. It’s a matter of priority. The Foreign Office is your brother’s only responsibility. He didn’t tell you because finding Sir Calleford’s killer was not a Foreign Office priority. A deep investigation could’ve made things very sticky at Whitehall. We all hoped the local force would turn up someone, but if Sir Calleford went unavenged, that was a price your brother was willing to pay for the greater good—for not revealing Mr. Mehmet as a spy, which might’ve happened if Scotland Yard detectives questioned him. He knew Mr. Mehmet didn’t kill Sir Calleford—he had no motive. So it must’ve been someone else. Your brother trusts you. But he knew your goals were different from his. He wanted to protect the Foreign Office. You wanted to solve a murder and protect your friends.”
“But you trust me,” she countered.
“Because I want to see someone punished for that murder. That is my priority, Lady Frances. And much as I hated to admit it, I know you are the only one in a position to understand that. I am trusting you to use this information to get Mr. Mehmet to help you—nothing else. And I am trusting you to get justice without wrecking the arrangement your brother, Mr. Mehmet, and Sir Calleford set up.”
Frances pondered that. “So, you trust me because you have to. And my brother doesn’t trust me because he doesn’t have to.”
Eastley chuckled. “You want to involve yourself in men’s affairs? Be my guest. But this is how men behave.”
“Something else women can change when we get the vote,” said Frances.
“Beyond my responsibility,” said the inspector.
“I shouldn’t harangue you. No, I am very grateful, inspector, and I will keep your secrets and not abuse your trust.”
“Best of luck,” he said.
She stood, and with her hand on the doorknob, she turned back to the inspector. “One more question. Is Mr. Mehmet married?”
The inspector laughed. “Don’t tell me you’ve formed an attachment to him. Dear God, your brother would be appalled. In fact, I know he is unmarried.”
“I asked because I wanted to make the acquaintance of his wife, if he had been married. As you said, inspector, women are also capable of analysis and reasoning.” Ha, she thought. I know something you don’t. Quite a man of secrets, this Mr. Mehmet. “Now tell me to be very careful.”
“I might as well tell you just to stay home,” he said. “But there have been vicious threats and murders here, my lady.”
“And I’ve parried every attack,” she said. Frances stood. “Thank you again. You’ll be wanting to take your prisoner to London. Have a good trip.” And without waiting for further reply, she headed out of the room. The chauffeur was waiting by the Rolls-Royce. Frances had plenty of things to think about. And plenty of things to do.
Frances didn’t see Mrs. Blake when she entered the Eyrie. Pennington said that Mrs. Blake was in her bedroom, and that Miss Kestrel and her friends were most likely in the solar.
Frances headed straight to the solar, where the ladies had returned to res
ume their knitting under Mallow’s supervision. They instantly jumped all over her with questions.
“The man was arrested and will be questioned by the police—Scotland Yard police, in London. But that’s not really important right now. All is going to be well, and I have some ideas. Now, Effie, where is your father?”
“Oh, somewhere talking about hunting again with Mr. Mehmet. Dad made another fuss about our leaving when he heard about that man who attacked you, but I told him to calm down; the police were taking care of it.”
“Mr. Mehmet was apparently out walking this morning,” said Tommie. “He seemed upset when he heard, and stopped by to make sure all of us were unharmed. He also asked if we knew whether more police would be coming.”
“I see. Gwen, has your Aunt Phoebe been in to see you here since I left?”
“No. Right after you left, she told me she was going to her room and not to expect her for lunch. She said the man was just a tramp—and everything would be all right.” Gwen looked confused and a little frightened. “I know I’m still in mourning, but can’t we go back to London? I don’t like it here. I don’t like it here at all.” She looked like she was going to cry.
Tommie put an arm around Gwen. “Soon—I promise.” And she looked up to Frances for confirmation.
“Yes, Gwen. I have a few things to do, but I think we can go back to London soon. Now finish your knitting and I’ll see you all at lunch. It’s been a busy morning, and I’m going to lie down for a bit. Mallow, see the ladies to lunch. You and I will talk later.”
“Very good, my lady.”
Frances headed up to her room, but she had no intention of lying down. She had some plans to make, and pen in hand, started making notes. It was too bad that she didn’t get a chance to speak with Constable Dill before Inspector Bedlow dragged him away. She had wanted to make plans for them to communicate. Frances was now sure the Eyrie was locked tight. But she’d find a way to work around that.
She knew she had little time; they would indeed come to arrest Tommie. Bedlow had told her as much, and she remembered what Hal had told her—someone had to be arrested. At this point, Mrs. Blake may have thought she’d won, but she’d be vigilant—she was no more asleep in her room than Frances was. She’d be able to see a lot from her room, and what she couldn’t see her maid would uncover for her. Mrs. Blake’s nerves may be close to the breaking point, but Frances had no illusions about her ability to watch over what happened at the Eyrie.
Pleased with her plans, Frances looked at the time. Lunch was soon—and she’d be ready.
The meal was certainly tense after the morning’s events, and Mrs. Blake was conspicuous by her absence. Pennington said the same as Gwen had earlier—Mrs. Blake was feeling “tired,” and would be having lunch in her room. Gwen sat uncomfortably at the head of the table, looking as self-conscious as she felt, while Tommie kept giving her supportive looks.
Mr. Mehmet was quiet and seemed almost nervous. The conversational ball was carried largely by the Hardimans, who discussed the gardens and grounds again and Mr. Hardiman’s recent shooting at the neighboring estate. However, he occasionally glared at his willful daughter—and she glared right back.
“I trust your aunt will recover shortly,” said Mr. Hardiman to Gwen.
“I am sure the strain of running such a large household, especially in the wake of recent events, has proved too much for even as competent a lady as Mrs. Blake,” said Mr. Mehmet. “Doubtless she’ll be fine after a well-deserved rest.”
“Thank you both,” said Gwen quietly, her mind clearly elsewhere. She glanced at Tommie, then Frances, as if looking for rescue.
As soon as lunch ended, Frances took charge. “Gwen, why don’t you read quietly in the solar for a while? I need to have a few words with Tommie. Perhaps Effie will keep you company. Mr. Hardiman—” she gave him a smile. “I have some advice to ask from you. I am sure a man of your wide experience will be able to help me. I will meet you in the morning room in thirty minutes?”
“Any way I can help, Lady Frances,” he said with a bow. As always, no man could resist an appeal to his wisdom and intelligence, Frances knew. “I also have some things to discuss with you.” He gave another look at Effie, who was already departing with Gwen to the solar, and took his leave.
“Tommie, there is something I need you to do. Get everyone out of the Eyrie tonight before dinner. You, Gwen, Effie, Effie’s maid Hopp, and Mr. Hardiman. It’s time Gwen realized she is mistress of this house—and it’s time the servants realized it too. She will ring for the chauffer and tell him to have the car ready. And she will give some instructions to Pennington—I’ve written them down.” She handed the paper to Tommie, who looked them over and raised an eyebrow. “Have Gwen tell them not to discuss these events with Mrs. Blake—she’s tired and overwhelmed. If you’re with Gwen, I daresay she can get through this.”
“If you say so . . . but where are we going?”
“To Blake Court for the night. Mallow will help you pack. But she is staying here with me. Christopher will be somewhat stunned at your arrival, but I’m sure he and Mrs. Pear will be up to it.”
“I’m sure. But you didn’t mention Mr. Mehmet.”
“He also is staying here with me.”
“I’ll do exactly as you say,” said Tommie. She hugged her friend and whispered in her ear. “God go with you.”
Frances knew the ladies would follow Tommie’s instructions. Now to make sure Mr. Hardiman did as well. She found him pacing in his room.
“I am glad to see you are doing well after the events of this morning,” he said. “I won’t subject my daughter to this any further. I don’t want to sound rude, but I’m leaving with Effie tomorrow if I have to carry her out.”
“I understand completely, Mr. Hardiman. I assure you that this house has probably seen more excitement in the past few days than in the past century. Why wait until tomorrow? I’ve made arrangements for the ladies to go to Blake Court shortly. I suggest you join them. As Blake Court is a bachelor residence, it would be appropriate for you to go along as a chaperone.”
He rubbed his chin, and cast a shrewd eye on Frances. “I didn’t go to Oxford or Cambridge, but I can tell something is up here.”
“Something is up, Mr. Hardiman. Among other things, I think Effie would like to see Christopher Blake again.”
“I’m sure she would,” he said. “But I’m not going to stay in the country if there’s going to be more violence.”
“Just until tomorrow,” said Frances, offering him a smile.
“And what happens tomorrow?”
“Ah. Tomorrow is another day, Mr. Hardiman. Have a good visit at Blake Court. And if you see Mrs. Blake in the meantime, there’s no need to mention this to her. She has enough to take care of. And I’ll be sure to tell the staff none of you will be in for dinner.”
And with that, she left before Mr. Hardiman could ask more questions.
Excellent. Everything was falling into place. She went back to her room, where Mallow was waiting for her. Her maid had the biggest role of all, and Frances closed the bedroom door firmly before speaking.
“Mallow. I have a very special task for you this evening. No one knows more than you how closely a lady works with her maid. I don’t think Mrs. Blake is any different. But tonight, I need Mrs. Blake without anyone to assist her. Not even Miss Jenkins. Especially not Miss Jenkins. Mrs. Blake wants us to think she’s unaware of what’s going on, as she’s been in her bedroom most of the day. But we need to be careful, and we need to see she really is cut off as much as possible.”
The wide-eyed Mallow just nodded. Frances produced a vial of the sleeping draft that the doctor had given Gwen right after her father’s murder. “So I need you to get rid of Jenkins.” She went into the details.
“Don’t you worry, my lady. I won’t let you down.”
“Good girl, Mallow! I knew I could depend on you.” She smiled. “It isn’t normal work for a lady’s maid, is it?”
“Well, no, my lady, but—” started Mallow, turning a little red.
Now, Frances laughed. “You were about to say that I wasn’t a normal lady.”
“Well, not in those words, my lady . . .”
“But you’re absolutely right, Mallow. Now, I must call on Mr. Mehmet, then when I get back, I’ll need you to help me into my walking clothes.” And she left before Mallow could object.
Now came the hardest conversation of all. She took a deep breath and sought out Mr. Mehmet in his room.
“Lady Frances? So glad to see you again. I hope you are well after the attack on your person this morning?”
“Quite, thank you.” He motioned for her to take a seat, and he sat opposite her.
“I suppose, with the attack on someone from such an important family, police will surely come from London? Have you already, in fact, summoned them?” He tried to sound casual about it, but Frances heard the strain in his voice.
“No, I haven’t. I can, but I have a better way of handling this. I need your help, Mr. Mehmet. I won’t mince words.”
“What do you need?” he asked a little warily.
“I need you to tell me what you know. I believe you saw something that could help me solve this murder.”
“I assure you that you are mistaken.”
“Why did you not want Scotland Yard here? Why do you want me to solve it—unofficially? You foreign affairs types put your concerns ahead of everything else. I’ve learned that much.”
Mr. Mehmet stood, and his smile was gone. “This isn’t profiting either one of us. I will be leaving soon—my wife and I. Whether or not we get official permission.”
Frances stood too. “I know what you’re doing here. There’s no point in hiding anything from me. You’re working to overthrow your sultan. From what I hear, why not? He sounds most unsatisfactory. Work with me and you’re secret is safe. But if you stubbornly refuse to talk, then you’ll force my hand.”
“Lady Frances. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
