by R. J. Koreto
“Even for you, that seems like an outrageous statement. Are you so eager to take revenge on that inspector who humiliated you that you would throw around such insane statements?”
Frances just shook her head. She knew Mrs. Blake wasn’t going to surrender without a fight. “I accuse you because of what you did.” Frances looked around the great room. “I learned from my mother how a lady should manage her household and supervise her servants. Only the mistress of such a grand house could have done all this. That much was clear early, but why? That took me a while. You see, I thought it was about who would inherit the Kestrel fortune—but the solicitor Mr. Small tied that up neatly. And then I thought it was about marrying off Gwen, to keep control of the Eyrie. That was part of it. But mostly it was about ancient, frustrated desires.”
Mrs. Blake laughed, but it was tinged with hysteria. She’s been on the edge of breaking down for days, realized Frances.
“Years ago, there were two men and two women,” said Frances in a rhythmic voice, as if she were telling a fairy tale to a child. “They were all very close. And then they got married. Only, one of the women was unhappy. She wanted to marry a brilliant, intellectual man and become a great political hostess, propelling him to become foreign secretary, even prime minister. But he chose her friend—a sweet, childlike woman. And she settled for his cousin, a genial country squire, and a life of organizing dinners with the local worthies. But she never forgot what she might’ve had.”
Mrs. Blake raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Frances continued her story, and by keeping a close watch on Mrs. Blake, she could see how right she was.
“Eventually, the woman lost her husband. And her first love lost his wife. So she moved in. At least she could be with him. It was probably too late to push him into a London political career he never wanted anyway, but she could organize his diplomatic meetings and share his life—and running this enormous estate gave her purpose.”
Mrs. Blake just stared, without denying anything.
“You were Sir Calleford’s wife now, in all but name,” said Frances, being deliberately provocative. “In his drawing room, his dining room—even, I believe, his bedroom.”
Mrs. Blake should’ve struck her for saying that, but Frances had guessed right: She couldn’t resist giving Frances a triumphant took. It gave it all away, but clearly Mrs. Blake felt it was worth it to show Frances how close she had come to achieving all her ambitions.
“I never met the late Sir Calleford, but clearly he was a passionate man. How furious you must’ve been when he took up with Mrs. Sweet. And a woman as sharp as you couldn’t have failed to notice she was carrying his child.”
“How did you know? Did the whore tell you herself?” asked Mrs. Blake, barely getting the words above a whisper.
“She was growing stout and had to send her dresses to be let out. A passion for candy. Preserves of red raspberries, ginger, and chamomile. There have been enough babies in my family for me to have learned which herbs give pregnant women relief. And scraps of a conversation she had one evening with Sir Calleford. Perhaps he was even going to marry her.”
“A slut like that? Pay her off and send her away,” said Mrs. Blake.
“Perhaps. But he was talking to her, making plans for the future. Maybe he would’ve married her, and had a son who could inherit. You would’ve been thrown out the day the banns were posted. The hurt and humiliation must’ve been overwhelming. No wonder you killed him. You did it perfectly. Killed him with a Turkish dagger to throw suspicion on Mr. Mehmet, during a political meeting where it would be so hard to narrow down the suspects or motives. That’s what kept me guessing. I thought you had everything you wanted as mistress of the Eyrie. Sir Calleford was not very old and he was in good health. You could’ve stayed here for many years. But you wanted Sir Calleford’s love.”
Frances could almost admire her, she had done it so well. Mrs. Blake had been one of the most distinguished figures in the county as mistress of the Eyrie. She had no doubt been the leading voice in discouraging the chief constable from calling in Scotland Yard, guaranteeing the incompetent Inspector Bedlow would take charge.
“But that didn’t end your problem. That only began it. Lord knows what Mrs. Sweet would eventually say. So you shot her. There must be all kinds of weapons tucked away here; this is sporting country.”
“Really?” asked Mrs. Blake. “I’m just an angel of death. I suppose I killed Betsy Tanner too. Tell me why I killed an ancient servant who was practically senile.”
“She wasn’t senile. That was the problem for you. It was her remark that I should’ve paid more attention to—no one knew which man would pair off with which lady and how important it was to find the right spouse. I’ll upbraid myself forever for not realizing how important it was right away—and for not visiting her to question her again before you killed her. You were afraid of what she knew, that she would start reminiscing and tell me just how much you loved Calleford in the old days. Or maybe even that other servants shared gossip with her, and so she knew about Mrs. Sweet, and how you had been replaced in Sir Calleford’s affections. Oh, she knew way too much. And she wasn’t the only one—did you not say you had given Sir Calleford everything? By the way, the Blake Court staff was far freer with gossip than Eyrie servants. I must tell Christopher to keep a tighter watch on them. I thought you meant that giving everything meant giving your life. But you gave him your heart. All this, running this grand estate, was a gift of your love to him.”
“What an interesting fantasy, Lady Frances,”
She was trying to sound cool, but Frances heard the tremor in her voice.
“You expected to live out your life as Sir Calleford’s mistress, while running the Eyrie. All was well, until he abandoned you. That’s when you decided to kill him. He probably never suspected a thing. Meanwhile, you bribed and blackmailed an actor to threaten Tommie. You had to get rid of her too, so you could marry Gwen to your son. You got him into this house, and God knows what you planned for him to do to me, to Tommie, even to Effie.”
“No one will accept his word.”
“Perhaps. But he’s under lock and key in London by now, and will be questioned again and again by men who are very good at it. Who knows what he’ll remember to prove your guilt. Meanwhile, you were seen entering the study by someone who didn’t realize what was going on.”
“Who? Who is saying that?”
“Someone, a gentleman who will testify in court that he saw you enter at five after ten. You won’t be able to get away with that. But back to Gwen and Tommie. You needed to separate her from Gwen so you could marry her off.”
“I needed to get her away from that revolting relationship.”
“Revolting? How dare you,” said Frances, trying to control her temper. “Can you imagine how broken Gwen would be, forced from her love into a marriage with your son, while you encouraged him to seek pleasure elsewhere? Dear God. You were the one who bloodied Tommie’s dress. Too bad I was one step ahead of you. With your plan crumbling and Christopher all but engaged to Effie Hardiman, you were prepared to publicize Gwen and Tommie’s relationship. You told Inspector Bedlow. You sent Silas Watkins to threaten me. You would destroy Gwen and Tommie. Gwen would be virtually forced into marriage with Christopher in the wake of a scandal, and Mr. Hardiman would take his daughter back to America. You’d have the Eyrie. And the shared grandchild with Sir Calleford everyone knew you wanted, a pathetic link to a love you never had. It wouldn’t do to have Effie Hardiman running things, a brash, competent American who wouldn’t have accepted an interfering mother-in-law.”
“An American nobody, presiding over the table—”
But Frances waved away her objections. “And you involved your maid, too, although I am guessing she didn’t even realize what she was doing. You had Jenkins leave that threatening note for Tommie—I could tell by the nearly illiterate writing. And Jenkins delivered what was no doubt poison to Betsy Tanner—I doubt if she even knew it was po
isoned, though. She hasn’t been buried long, and there are tests for poison. I’ll have a Home Office exhumation order and the best doctors in London examining her for the cause of death, and you know full well what I’ll find. I admit I was a fool for not realizing Jenkins had been there. Mrs. Tanner’s great-granddaughter Dolly said that only relatives were around that afternoon, and I had already been told that Mrs. Tanner was related to almost everyone—Jenkins was no doubt a niece or cousin, so her presence in Mrs. Tanner’s cottage was unremarkable to Dolly.
“There can be no forgiveness for you,” said Frances, feeling the anger rising up again. Whatever mistreatment and disappointments Mrs. Blake had experienced, there was no excuse. “Gwen and Tommie have the purest hearts of anyone I know. They have a deep and real love for each other. What you did and attempted to do—”
“Spare me your university rhetoric,” said Mrs. Blake, her voice rising in anger to match Frances’s. “I had Gwen’s interests at heart, and whatever else I may have done, that was my main goal. They have a sick, unnatural relationship, and if loyal servants and London sophisticates wanted to pretend it was nothing but an innocent friendship, then I had to do something to prevent Gwen’s complete moral destruction.”
Frances calmed herself, and in an even tone said, “There is nothing wrong with Gwen and Tommie. The only unnatural love I see here is your obsession for Sir Calleford, a man who ignored you for years, then used you as his servant and his whore and discarded you for someone else. And your only motive was to live out your life here in a fantasy about a love you never had and a position you usurped only because Gwen never wanted it.”
The pain and hurt on Mrs. Blake’s face was so deep, Frances almost felt sorry for saying it. Mrs. Blake started to speak, but nothing came out, and when she finally mastered herself, her voice was so low and quiet that Frances shivered. Ghosts were said to inhabit old houses like this, and that’s what Mrs. Blake sounded like—a vengeful spirit.
“I thought you of all people, Lady Frances, would understand hatred for men, how they depend on us even as they humiliate us and take everything we do for granted. That you would understand, even approve, of why I had to kill him. Especially a woman of your astonishing intelligence.”
“I was rather good, wasn’t I?” said Frances with a smile. “After you failed to scare away Tommie, you tried to frame her by pouring blood on her dress. But I was there. You thought no one would notice Betsy Tanner had been poisoned. But I did. You thought Silas Watkins would take me by surprise, but I caught him. You’re out of cards to play.” Go ahead, call my bluff. “But I’m giving you one last chance. I sent everyone away to give you an opportunity to quietly surrender and avoid a family scandal. We’ll call the chief constable now. Your servants and family won’t see you taken away. I don’t care about you. I’m doing this for Gwen and Christopher. It’s over. Don’t make it harder than it needs to be.”
Mrs. Blake smiled right back. “You just gave yourself away. You’re young. And arrogant. Pride goeth before a fall. I’ve taken on responsibilities you can’t comprehend.” She reached into her needlework bag and pulled out a dagger, the exotic-looking one with the wavy blade Frances recalled from Sir Calleford’s study.
“It’s called a ‘kris.’ Calleford loved talking about his swords and knives, and I was happy to listen. It comes from the Far East. I am going to kill you now, just as I killed him. You sent away my servants, my family, and now there’s no one to hear you. You thought I’d just give up? I’m going to do what I should’ve done when you first entered my house. No doubt they’ll arrest Mr. Mehmet, a foreigner of doubtful background.”
She raised her arm with the blade, but paused when Frances just shook her head. “I’m not alone. The police are within shouting distance. While Mr. Mehmet performed his assigned task of delaying you outside your bedroom and Mallow was disabling your maid Jenkins, I was admitting two constables into the house.”
“You’re bluffing,” she said. “You couldn’t have assembled this plan until you returned just before lunch, and even in my room I knew you never left this house. No messenger was sent. The telephone was not used. There is no possible way you summoned Constable Dill.”
Frances didn’t answer. She just grasped her silver police whistle—she would enjoy using it again—and blew it loudly. A door slammed and Constable Dill, with another younger constable, came running up. Behind them, Frances saw a concerned-looking Mallow.
Mrs. Blake just stared stupidly, as if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Constable Dill laid a gentle but firm hand on her arm, and with his other hand removed the kris.
“Mrs. Phoebe Blake, in the king’s name I arrest you for the murder of Sir Calleford Kestrel, Mrs. Genevieve Sweet, and Mrs. Betsy Tanner, and the attempted murder of Lady Frances Ffolkes. More charges may follow. Anything you say now may be used against you.” He turned to the other constable, who seemed a little startled at what was happening. “Carter, escort Mrs. Blake to her room and stay with her until you are relieved. I will call headquarters.”
Mrs. Blake seemed almost catatonic, staring blankly into space. Constable Carter touched her gently on her shoulder, and she silently turned.
“All is well with Jenkins, Mallow?” asked Frances.
“Sleeping like a baby, my lady.”
“Excellent. Please show Constable Carter where Mrs. Blake’s room is. Then return here.”
“Very good, my lady.” And the three of them made their way slowly to the stairs. When they were gone, Constable Dill just grinned.
“You cut it very fine, my lady. I feared that she would harm you, but I did as you said and waited for the whistle. Carter and I heard her confession from the closet.”
“Well done, Constable. There was so little proof, I knew an admission would be necessary.” Even with Mr. Mehmet’s reluctant testimony, it would’ve been difficult to prosecute Mrs. Blake. A trap was needed, a final chance for Phoebe Blake to get rid of her opponent. “Fortunately, your timing was perfect. Everyone’s timing was perfect.”
Constable Dill was grinning and shaking his head. “I must say, my lady, you could’ve knocked me over with a feather when you walked into the village station this afternoon dressed like a farm laborer. I won’t forget that quickly.”
“A story for your grandchildren someday, constable. Thank you again for trusting me. Now, there’s a telephone in the morning room just off the foyer, and you can call your chief constable. I think it’s best to call him directly, instead of Inspector Bedlow.”
“I agree, my lady.” He saluted and headed off. But Frances wasn’t alone long. On near-silent feet, Mr. Mehmet appeared.
“Did I play my part well?” he asked.
“Perfect, Mr. Mehmet. She was delayed even longer than I needed.”
He bowed. “I am pleased I could help. And pleased you could trust me at last. So I take it, then, as you hinted earlier this evening, that she was the author of these tragic deaths? She wasn’t just having a liaison with Sir Calleford that night. She was stabbing him?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Frances.
“She killed a kinsman, and the owner of the house that gave her shelter, the man who provided her food?” He shook his head as if unable to contemplate such wickedness. “But I was right, despite your mockery. You were chosen for this task and you followed your fate. You no doubt prevented more deaths and assured punishment for the murders already committed. You were the sword and shield of Allah.”
“Oh, very well, Mr. Mehmet. I won’t dispute your interpretation. However, I will wish you well. What are your plans now?”
He gave her a mysterious smile. “There are some tasks I wanted to complete here, but that won’t be possible. My secret is safe—you have kept your word, and I won’t have to give evidence to the police or testify in court, which would’ve been dangerous for me. However, there will be too much publicity for me to remain here any longer. Some will be disappointed, but it cannot be helped.” He shrugged. “Th
at’s the way of things. My wife and I will be leaving tonight for a place of safety, and that is all I can say.”
America, thought Frances. He had been talking with Mr. Hardiman for days, and Frances would be very much surprised if Mr. and Mrs. Mehmet didn’t turn up with a letter of introduction on Hardiman lands in the coming weeks.
“I wish you luck,” said Frances. “I will pray for you.”
He bowed again. “And I will pray for you.”
“As-salamu alaykum, peace be unto you. Do I have that right, Mr. Mehmet? Isn’t that a phrase you use with your own countrymen?”
Frances had the satisfaction of once again seeing how startled he looked. Then he quietly laughed. “You are absolutely right. And now I say, Wa alaykum as-salam, and unto you, peace. You are full of surprises, as always. Dare I say you, of all women, were more nearly created the equal of a man?”
“Very funny, Mr. Mehmet.”
But then he suddenly looked serious. “But actually, Lady Frances, I shall always associate you with rubies.”
“The rubies in that bloody dagger? I don’t know if that’s a compliment in Istanbul, but in England, that doesn’t sound very gallant.”
“My turn to surprise you, my lady. No, not those rubies, but rather, the rubies in the Book of Proverbs. There is much wisdom there: ‘Who can show me a woman of valor? Her value is far above rubies.’ Farewell, Lady Frances.” And with that, he left before she could respond.
Frances didn’t have long to mull over her amusement and pride at Mr. Mehmet’s comments, when Mallow returned.
“All is well, Mallow?”
“Yes, my lady. I did exactly as you said. Distracted Miss Jenkins, put two drops in the glass, and gave it to her with the gin. She was asleep in fifteen minutes. I checked in on her again, my lady: still snoring when I left her.”
“Excellent. We needed Jenkins away while I was confronting Mrs. Blake. I couldn’t have her blundering in on that. But no one but Mrs. Blake could order her away—not even Gwen.”
Mallow nodded, then eyed the chairs by the fire. “I beg your pardon, my lady, do you have another meeting this evening? I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
