by R. J. Koreto
“Then I agree; this has been a waste of time for both of us,” she said. “Good day. And before you can leave England, I’ll have half a dozen of Scotland Yard’s finest grilling you about every movement you’ve made. Not Special Branch, but regular Criminal Investigation Division men. Let’s see if your Foreign Office friends can save you then.”
She turned and opened the door. She knew this would work. Frances had played enough card games to know how far you could bluff.
Mr. Mehmet reached over her shoulder and slammed the door.
“Lady Frances . . .”
She turned. “Come now, Mr. Mehmet. You trust your friend in London. You can trust your friend’s sister.”
He shook his head. “It was foolish of me to think you wouldn’t find out. If you had been alive when this house was being built, you’d have been burned as a witch.” He made that sound as if it was a prospect he relished.
“You’re the one who said I’d be the sword of Allah.”
“It serves me right for mocking the Prophet,” he said. “Your Lord and mine both work in mysterious ways.” He sighed. “So this is how it ends. With you blackmailing me.”
Frances tossed her head. “My understanding is that this is the way men do business, and if I am to work in the world of men, I need to learn it. It’s apparently called ‘negotiating.’ For a beginner, I think I’m doing very well.”
“You’re doing extremely well,” he said. “What do you want to know?”
“The night of the murder, I think you saw something. You didn’t tell the police because you didn’t want to tell them why you were where you were. They’d want to know more—why you were gone so long, why you took a hidden door, with whom you were meeting. They’d make investigations. I won’t. So just tell me. And I will do everything I can to leave it at that.”
“Even if I told you, what would it do? I am a foreigner, not even a Christian.”
“You are a man—a gentleman. Even as a foreigner, the police would have to listen to you. You have no reason to lie if it came to a court case—but I don’t think it will. The threat alone will be enough.”
He nodded. “It seems I have no choice. Very well. I saw Mrs. Blake entering the study, during the evening. I consulted my watch—it was five minutes after ten. That’s all. I had slipped out a little-used side door. I couldn’t have the police inquiring into what I was doing and when. I assume Mrs. Blake and Sir Calleford were having a liaison.” He shrugged. “These things happen in English country homes, I know.” He paused, and Frances saw the wonder in his face as he made the connection. “It was an affair, surely. You don’t think—”
But Frances cut him off. She wasn’t prepared to discuss her theories further. “By itself, it means nothing. She could’ve had half a dozen reasons to visit him there, including chiding him for neglecting his guests. But it’s all clear now and I have what I need. Thank you. Again, I don’t think we should need to publicize this. I just needed the leverage for Mrs. Blake.”
“Like the leverage you needed for me,” he said with a little bitterness.
“Oh, my dear Mr. Mehmet. You men invented the game. I’m just trying to play according to your rules. Oh, and one more thing. Later this evening, Mrs. Blake will be leaving her room to look for me. Could you do me a favor? Stop her. Just talk to her as long as you can. You’re a talented talker; I’m sure you’ll do well. Thank you.”
And with that, she left. Her brow was covered in sweat. “Oh my,” she thought.
CHAPTER 25
She went back to her room, where Mallow had laid out her walking clothes with the same care and attention as if they were an elegant ball ensemble. Always, Frances had put on these clothes by herself. Now, for the first time, she had Mallow to help—but that made it worse.
“I am not sure why you need to dress in . . . these, my lady.”
“I have to be secret. Mrs. Blake can’t know I’m leaving. No servant can know I left, and I can’t risk her seeing me. She’ll be checking the exchange to see if I made a call. She needs to think she’s safe. It’s a trap, Mallow.”
“Very good, my lady. I’ll do my part. I just wish it didn’t involve these clothes.” She started to help Frances get dressed and approached the men’s clothes with her usual attention to sartorial perfection.
“Mallow, I don’t think it has to be perfect. I’m supposed to be a working man.”
“My lady. When you promoted me to be your personal maid, Miss Garritty—maid to your sister by marriage, Lady Seaforth—made me promise that I would never let you leave your bedroom without being perfectly dressed. I will keep that promise. Even if you are dressed in men’s clothes. Now I believe the shirt is tucked in like this . . .”
“Should the braces be tightened like that?”
“The braces are designed for a man’s figure, my lady.” Mallow had a point. It was one thing to dress like a man, quite another for someone with her rounded figure to pass as one.
“If I may say, my lady, we could use the services of a valet.”
“It’s too bad Randall isn’t here to help,” said Frances, referring to her brother’s valet. Both women thought that over, then started to giggle. Although an excellent valet, Randall was a formal, humorless man, and the thought of him dressing his master’s sister in men’s clothes was really too much.
“Beg your pardon, my lady, but I think that’s one place we won’t get any advice.”
“I agree with you there. Let’s loosen the shirt a little and add this jacket, which will cover a multitude of sins. And help me tuck my hair under this hat . . .”
Frances admired the final results in the mirror. Not too bad. This just might work.
“How do I look, Mallow?”
Mallow sighed. “Again, begging your pardon, but I don’t know how to answer that question, my lady.”
Frances chuckled, then looked out her window: the workmen in the garden were breaking for the day. It was time to leave. “Now make sure the hall is clear and I’ll be off.”
Mallow gave her a nod and Frances slipped out. She had memorized the way to the back stairs, where she planned to leave through the servants’ entrance at the back. She was almost out when she heard a voice from the stairs above her.
“You! What are you doing inside?” It was Pennington, the butler. Frances kept her head low to hide her face under the hat brim, and hoped a harsh whisper would pass for a man’s voice. Fortunately, the stairwell light was dim.
“Beg pardon, sir. Won’t happen again.”
“You were all told the house was off limits. But wait a minute.” His voice grew softer. “You’re young Abel, aren’t you? I heard you had started work. Good for you, my lad. No doubt here to visit your sister?” He chuckled. Frances concluded she had been mistaken for the young brother of one of the maids.
“Yes, sir. Just thought I’d say hello.”
“Very well. But from now on, you call on your sister in the servants’ hall and on your own time. Now be a good lad and go off with the rest of the men.”
Frances almost went limp with relief. She didn’t think she could keep up the charade much longer. She nodded and pushed her way out the door. The real Abel and his sister would be thrown into a lot of confusion later.
She was just in time to meet the crew of about a dozen men as they headed toward the road that led to the village. One man was clearly the foreman: he was older than the rest and they all deferred to him. The men looked up curiously as Frances approached, wondering if one of their number had gone astray. She walked up to the foreman, and only then was her deception apparent.
“I have to slip out of the house for reasons that are my own.” She produced a purse. “Keep my secret and you’ll all drink on me this afternoon.”
The foreman laughed. “I’d like to know that story, but very well.”
They all marched along together and Frances listened to their rough talk. Then she felt a heavy arm around her shoulders, as one of the men sidled up to her.<
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“So, sneaking out to meet your sweetheart? Where did you get so much money anyway—steal it from the mistress?”
“Get your arm off me,” said Frances. The man just laughed, and she wasn’t strong enough to remove it. She wished she had Mallow’s rolling pin, but no matter, she had heavy boots on. Between Mr. Mehmet’s servant, Silas Watkins, and now this man, she had had her fill of being assaulted by men. And so, she slammed her heavy boot heel down on his instep. The man quickly snatched away his arm and came out with a string of obscenities.
“Touch me again and you’ll find there are worse places for me to kick you,” she said, to much laughter.
When they got to the village, the foreman winked at her and grinned as he and his men went into the village public house, and she continued on. It was startling to be dressed as she was, not just like a man, but a working man. Her position as a woman—as a lady of quality—garnered respect and acknowledgement.
Now, she was invisible. And yet, she could easily have joined the rest of them in the tavern, something the daughter of a marquess couldn’t do. Something to consider, she realized, as she came to the village police station.
Dill looked up from some paperwork and cast a frown. Again, noted Frances, daughters of the nobility were treated much better than working men.
She didn’t need any interruptions, so she shut and bolted the door and pulled down the shade.
“See here, my man” said Dill. “That’s police property. Do you want to spend the night in jail?”
“No, I’ve done enough jail time,” said Frances, doffing her hat. “But I have a counteroffer. How would you like to solve a murder and earn your sergeant’s stripes?”
“My—my lady . . .” he stammered.
“Exactly. Now I don’t have much time. So listen carefully. You’ll need to come by later this evening and you’ll need another constable, someone obedient who doesn’t ask too many questions.” And the constable got out his notebook.
“I am under orders to have nothing more to do with you, my lady,” he said.
“I’m sure you are. But you’re too smart to pay attention to silly orders. Now, listen carefully.”
He noted his instructions, and Frances was rather pleased he gave no arguments, just accepted his orders. So someone in this county had some common sense.
When they were done, Frances put her hat back on and strode out of the door. She felt a little wistful passing by the tavern: It was dim inside and she might be able to pass as a man for a while. She wondered what that might be like. But now she had the clothes, and rural England was well-populated with inns and taverns, so there would be a chance to try that again some other time. No need to tell Mallow.
CHAPTER 26
It was with relief that Frances heard the car leave with Mr. Hardiman and the ladies. At seven, Frances made her way to the great hall. She reviewed everything that had happened since arriving, and the realization that no one could’ve engineered all that had happened except for the mistress of the house. The coordination with servants, the knowledge of the estate. No one had as much too lose—the management of a house, an institution, really—that gave purpose to her life. Frances could understand that. It hadn’t explained all the bloodshed though. That was something else entirely—it was love, love for a man who never loved her back.
There would be time enough for philosophy later. For now, she checked to see that the servants had done as asked. Indeed, as Gwen had ordered at Frances’s request, a fire had been built in the great hall, which was most welcome because it had become quite cool. The footmen had put two wingback chairs by the fire, and on the little table between them were two glasses and a decanter of the extraordinary port Christopher had inherited from Sir Calleford. She was delighted he had not yet gotten around to removing it to his own house. Everything was perfect, and she wondered how Mallow was getting on.
Mallow made sure she had her sewing kit, took a deep breath, and headed to Miss Jenkins’s room. As befitted the maid to the lady of a great house, she had a rather pleasant room for a servant. It was on a high floor, so there were a lot of stairs, but it was quiet. No one should be able to hear their talk. Mallow knocked.
“Come in.”
Jenkins seemed surprised, and not particularly pleased, to see her. She put on her haughtiest face, however. Was she not a lady’s maid to a daughter of the House of Seaforth?
“I beg your pardon, Miss Jenkins, but I seem to have run out of thread and need to repair my lady’s hem. I was hoping you had some in a similar color.”
Jenkins did not look like she wanted to help, but it would be an unforgivable breach of etiquette for one maid to refuse to help another.
“Come in, then. I’m sure I can match that color.” Then, with a little malice, she added, “You might remember to bring your own next time. A proper lady’s maid always travels with a well-equipped sewing kit.” Mallow burned at that. But Lady Frances had told her she had to play a role.
“Oh I did,” said Mallow, feigning sadness. “But you don’t know what it’s like. Lady Frances is always running around. She never looks where she’s going and is always catching her hems. I’ve repaired this one three times already and simply ran out of thread.”
“Oh dear,” said Jenkins, who seemed to relish Mallow’s discomfort while seeing a chance for some gossip. “Busy girl, is she?”
“You have no idea,” said Mallow mournfully. Jenkins smiled.
“You’re welcome to sit here and repair the hem. It’s quieter and the light is better than in the servants’ hall.”
“That is very kind of you,” said Mallow. She sat and began sewing. Jenkins complimented Mallow’s fine, even stitches, and soon they were talking like old friends. With just a little sympathy, Mallow started talking.
“I have to say, Miss Jenkins, that at first it was very exciting, being maid to a titled lady, but it has become very difficult—living in a hotel, not a proper house, with all sorts of unsuitable people calling on her ladyship. But worst of all is the way other servants look at me, being maid to a lady subject to so much gossip.”
Jenkins clucked in sympathy.
“And she’s not as high and mighty as she wants you to think,” said Mallow. “She doesn’t know that I know that she likes her bit of gin.”
Jenkins was surprised. Who’d have thought Lady Frances liked a nip at the bottle? Then Mallow got a crafty look. “She can’t even remember how much she’s drunk. In fact, I have the bottle myself . . .” And from the folds of her dress she produced a small bottle of gin. “If you have a couple of glasses, Miss Jenkins, you can join me in a swallow or two. Don’t know about you, but without an occasional gin there’s no way I can get through the evening.”
Jenkins looked greedily at the gin. No doubt Mrs. Blake ran a tight ship and even senior servants wouldn’t have a chance to drink spirits. Jenkins produced a pair of mismatched glasses, but Mallow fumbled them; one fell and rolled a bit and then the bottle cap fell too. Jenkins bent to fetch them, and meanwhile Mallow filled the remaining glass.
“There we go. This one for you, and now I’ll fill this one. Cheers!” And they downed their gin.
Mrs. Blake appeared in the great hall and found Frances looking at the old family portraits in the dim light.
“Lady Frances, what is happening? I heard the motorcar leave. What are you doing here of all places?”
“They left for Blake Court. Gwen, Tommie, and the Hardimans. They’re going to spend the night.”
“That’s . . . so sudden. Cook was set to have dinner ready.”
“Gwen told the staff there would be no need for dinner tonight. In fact, she gave them the evening off. She even ordered the fire in here. And why shouldn’t she? Gwen is the mistress of Kestrel’s Eyrie.”
That struck home, and she saw Mrs. Blake flinch. Frances had caught her off balance. Mrs. Blake’s plan was falling apart, but she didn’t know why, or how.
“I’m glad to see you are feeling better.
We all thought it was a miracle you kept going as long as you did. Running this enormous house, caring for Gwen, managing the funeral and all the guests.”
Mrs. Blake pursed her lips, and Frances could see her try to figure out what she should say. “When I heard the motorcar, I decided to dress and come down immediately, but my maid Jenkins suddenly seems to have disappeared. And then that extraordinary Mr. Mehmet intercepted me in the hallway and I couldn’t get away. I thought the police said everyone could leave—and yet he’s still here.”
Well done, Mr. Mehmet, thought Frances.
“Jenkins apparently became unwell. I believe she is sleeping in her room.”
Mrs. Blake approached her, and Frances saw she wasn’t composed as neatly as she usually was. Her hair was askew and her dress hadn’t been adjusted properly. She had wanted to leave her room quickly, and her maid wasn’t around to help her. Frances’s eyes fell on a bag Mrs. Blake was carrying. She had come prepared.
“Needlework,” said Mrs. Blake. “I was going to do some this evening. I’ve long enjoyed it, but haven’t had the time recently. I was going to sit in the drawing room before dinner, but then I heard you were here.”
Frances looked her closely in the eye. “We need to talk,” she said.
“What would you like to talk about?” asked Mrs. Blake. She tried to look as controlled as always, but there was a line of moisture on her brow. She knows why we’re here. She wondered before, concluded Frances, but now she knows. No more fencing.
“We can start talking about Tommie Calvin.”
“Tommie? She’s going to be arrested tomorrow. Running to Blake Court won’t save her. Not even London. They’ll bring her back here.”
Frances just smiled sadly. “No, she won’t be arrested. But you will be. For the murders of Sir Calleford, Betsy Tanner, and Genevieve Sweet.”
The two women just looked at each other for a few moments. Then Mrs. Blake smiled—like a tigress.
