by R. J. Koreto
“I’m sure you were very convincing, my lady,” said Mallow.
One door was closed and, as Frances had suspected, locked as well. That was why she had brought the nail file.
“Mallow, we need to get in here before the police do. I think we may find a clue why he was killed inside. Stand by the head of the stairs, and let me know if someone is coming.”
“Very good, my lady.”
It only took Frances five minutes to get into the room. The more she practiced, the better she got at this. The door clicked open, and Frances motioned for Mallow to join her. They closed the door behind them.
The room was fairly large. There was a nook with a bed, a desk, a dresser, and even a closet. Unlike the dressing room, this one was neat. Mattins was in charge of the backstage, Frances knew, so being orderly was probably essential. A few posters adorned the walls, and there was a good supply of paper and ink, as well as a pile of scripts.
“What are we looking for, my lady?” asked Mallow.
“I’m not sure. But it will be old—papers, notes, a book, a photograph. These items all look recent.” She opened the desk drawers one by one. She found some notebooks on various productions—how various plays were organized, scene by scene. She wished she had more time to review them, but there was no telling when someone else would come.
Mallow was going through the closet. Mattins didn’t have much clothing—one Sunday best suit and good footwear appropriate for a man who probably spent a lot of time on his feet. Frances meanwhile went to the dresser, but there was nothing there either. How disappointing. She was so sure Mattins knew what she was asking about and had so hoped he’d have a tangible clue relating to Louisa Torrence. Her eyes darted around—the bed. Frances practically threw herself onto the floor. Yes—she could see a box there. Taking no notice of the dust on the floor, she wriggled until she could grasp the tin box and pull it out.
“My lady,” said Mallow in a harsh whisper, “I hear footsteps.”
Oh, dear. Frances heard them too now. No chance to leave unseen. She grabbed the box with one hand and Mallow with the other, and they slipped into the closet. Frances closed the doors as best she could from the inside but could still see through a crack between the doors. Mallow was right up against her, and Frances heard her shallow breathing. She found her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
The door to the room opened, and a cloaked figure soon came into view. Well, why not? thought Frances. There was likely no lack of cloaks in the costume rooms, and whoever it was clearly didn’t want to be seen going into Mattins’s room. The figure followed their path, first checking the desk drawers, then the dresser. Oh, God, will it be the closet next?
But then the cloaked figure suddenly stopped and cocked his hooded head. Had he heard something that Frances and Mallow could not, in the closet?
He swiftly left, shutting the door behind him.
“We’ll wait a few more moments to be sure,” whispered Frances. She was right to do so, because then they heard heavy boots, and the door opened again. Frances could see it was a bobby, and Mallow tensed up. But the constable just stuck his head in to look around, then closed the door. His arrival must’ve chased away the cloaked figure. Frances cautiously opened the door.
“Mallow—I think it’s time we left.”
“I am in complete agreement, my lady,” she said with such fervor that Frances had to smile. She tucked the box under her arm, and they headed back down, hoping they wouldn’t meet anyone else. Perhaps the inspector was now in the theatre, talking to potential witnesses. It was clear to the front door, and after returning the nail file, they quickly slipped out.
The same constable was still out front. “See, Constable, in and out. Thank you for understanding.”
“Very good . . . ah, my lady . . . that box? Did you take that from the theatre?”
She hadn’t thought of that. “Of course not. I had it when I came here. Business I had to discuss with Mr. Rusk.”
He frowned. “My lady, I think I would’ve noticed—”
Mallow jumped in, her young face as full of righteous indignation as if she had been a dowager duchess. “Constable, her ladyship is not accustomed to having her word questioned. Now it is late, and I need to get my lady to her bed.”
The constable was a little astounded. So was Frances.
“I, um, see. Well then, have a good evening, my lady, and, ah, you too, miss.”
There was no problem finding a hansom in the busy West End, and once they were seated, Frances said, “That was quite a little speech there, Mallow.”
“I hope I am not guilty of taking a liberty, my lady, but listening to him question you like that, the word of the daughter of a marquess.”
“Not at all, Mallow. A job well done, getting us out of there like that. Very quick thinking. But you do realize the constable was right. We did technically steal this box.”
“Well yes, my lady. But I understood it was for a higher purpose, as they say.”
“Nicely phrased. You should be appointed to a chair of applied ethics at Oxford University.”
“Very good, my lady.”
Soon they were back in their rooms, and Frances was excited about opening the box—but not before Mallow spread some newspaper on the table. “It’s a bit dirty, my lady.”
The latch was stiff but not locked, and Frances quickly had it open. One by one, she removed the items. First was a program from Romeo and Juliet, the play the Green Players were about to open. But it wasn’t for the current production. “Look, Mallow, it’s from 1875. It must have meant something to him. And that was about the time Louisa Torrence left.” She looked over the cast. One name jumped out—Quentin Prescott played Mercutio, Romeo’s colorful friend, who died in a duel halfway through the play. She didn’t recognize any other names but saw Juliet was played by an actress simply named “Helen.”
Next was what looked like another program but turned out to be a flyer from “The Halliday Mission, Maidstone, Kent.”
“I’ve heard of them, Mallow. They work to provide spiritual comfort and charitable assistance to actors.”
“A very worthy cause, my lady.” In her opinion, actors needed all the spiritual assistance they could get.
“Yes. But it says here they were in Maidstone. I know this group, and they’re located in London, not Maidstone. But again, this may be some years old. It will bear looking into.”
The third item was handwritten on fine paper, like what Frances used for her personal stationery. A male hand had written in strong, elegant script:
The Oath of Tyndareus: All men reading this shall know that the undersigned have signed the oath to support Helen in all things, according to the custom of the Greeks.
There were half a dozen signatures at the bottom: Gilbert Rusk, Quentin Prescott, Mattins himself, and three more men. One of them, Frances noted with a glance at the program, played Romeo in that thirty-year-old production.
“What is the Oath of Tyndareus, my lady?”
“It means, Mallow, that our quest for Louisa Torrence has become a lot more complicated than we may have thought. There’s an ancient legend about a Greek queen named Helen, the most beautiful woman in the world,” Frances explained. “She was kidnapped by a prince from a city called Troy, and the Greeks waged a long war before they got her back. There’s a long poem about it called the Iliad. But before this all happened, many great men wanted to marry her. Her stepfather, Tyndareus, was afraid that war would break out among the rejected suitors. So he made them swear a sacred oath to defend his choice and always be allies. It was called the Oath of Tyndareus. They all swore, and then he gave her hand to King Menelaus of Sparta.”
“I see, my lady. So maybe these men signed this paper because they all liked this actress named Helen, just like the lady in the legend?”
“It would seem so, Mallow. And I’m wondering if this Helen is Louisa Torrence. The time is right, and she was exceptionally beautiful. Anyway, I’m not goin
g to get anything more out of the Green Players for now. Mr. Rusk already thinks I’m a madwoman. But there are other avenues to explore, like the Halliday connection. Why was this so important that Mattins saved it for so long in a special box? I’ll visit their office tomorrow afternoon. Right after my luncheon tomorrow at Simpson’s with Mr. Wheaton.”
Mallow’s ears pricked up at that. “Luncheon with Mr. Wheaton, my lady? I shall consider a dress most carefully. And you will need to give me time to do your hair up proper.”
Frances sighed. “Yes, Mallow,” she said, forestalling Mallow’s usual comment that “gentlemen like to see ladies done up nicely. I heard this many times from your late mother the marchioness, God rest her soul.”
CHAPTER 5
Frances met Hal in front of Simpson’s. It was sweet the way he always seemed to light up at her arrival.
“Mr. Wheaton, are you sure you can take away time from your busy practice to romance a woman? What would the Law Society say?”
“But I’m not romancing a woman—not merely, I should say. I’m meeting with a deeply valued client of my law practice. But you, my lady—allowing yourself to be romanced when you should be working to get women the vote? How do you explain that?” He grinned.
“But I am working, my love. Today’s lunch is all part of my master plan to convert men to our cause.” And with that, she let Hal take her arm and escort her into the restaurant. The maître d’ nodded to Hal and led them to a quiet table in an alcove.
“How did we get such a good table?” asked Frances. Hal shrugged. “I bet I know. This restaurant is owned by the D’Oyle Carte company. I can imagine such a distinguished company turns its business over to your equally distinguished firm. They are only too willing to show you to the best table.”
“I am not allowed to confirm that, but . . . I can say that the Lady Sherlock is thinking along the correct lines.”
“I am glad you brought that up,” said Frances with more than a hint of pride. “Because I am about to become London’s first female consulting detective. But first we order—I am absolutely ravenous for roast beef and sharp mustard.”
She insisted on nothing but small talk until the food came. “Now listen to my story, dear Hal. I too have a client. A widow, whose late husband was a Foreign Office associate of my father’s, asked me to find her lost daughter. It seems my reputation, good and bad, has caught up with me.” She gave Hal a concise summary of the job she had been given and the results she had so far. But she decided to leave out the death of Mattins for now. The connection wasn’t proven, and there was no need to worry him.
When she was done, Hal didn’t say anything right away. He always thought before speaking. It must be something you learned while training to become a solicitor, Frances assumed.
“She must be a remarkable woman, this client of yours. She could’ve engaged any number of people in London. But she chose probably the only one in town who is both able and willing to truly help her.” She flushed at that. “You must keep your client private, as I do mine, but if you need any legal help, I am at your disposal.”
“I will call on you as necessary. But Hal . . .” Now Frances struggled for words. “I’m running all over town, associating with actors, smuggling boxes out of theatres. How could you introduce a wife like that to dinners at the Law Society?” She was half joking. Only half.
“Do you jest with me?” asked Hal with mock severity. “You’d be the most popular guest there. Come, Franny, you’ve met several of my friends from the legal profession. They’re not a bad lot, are they?”
“Of course not, they are a delightful group—”
“Don’t forget that I had to get you released from a police jail over that little mess at Kestrel’s Eyrie, and still I’m more than willing to marry you.” He smiled, and she returned it.
“But Hal, how can I do all this . . . while being mistress of a house, seeing the house is provisioned, meeting with the cook.”
“You know my housekeeper. She’d put Otto von Bismarck to shame with her organizational skills and heavy hand running the house. She’ll do it all happily.”
“But as lady of the house, people will expect me to run things. As they did my mother.”
“And since when did you ever care what other people think? You’re worried about what I would think, right?”
Now it was Frances’s turn to pause, and they ate in silence for a few moments. “Sometimes I wish I hadn’t fallen in love with such a perceptive man,” she finally said. “Oh, very well, I can’t shake the fact that once we’re set up as husband and wife, it just won’t—I mean, I can’t imagine myself protesting in the park, tracking down missing persons, and then returning to our townhouse.” It was hard to admit this to herself, and she felt the frustration building up inside her, her love for Hal and her commitment to everything else. “So, Hal, isn’t this where you tell me that if I really loved you, you and I would find a way of making it work?” She made the tone light.
“My dearest, I know you love me. I’m not going to ask you to prove it. I suppose it’s for me to prove it to you. Now, Franny”—he held up his hand to stop any further protests—“you wanted to use our engagement period as a test, to see if we could really merge our lives as husband and wife. I think we can. As a solicitor, problem solving is what I do. Now can I tempt you with some treacle tart?”
“What are you up to? You sound of subterfuge.”
“A solicitor? Dealing with subterfuge? You amaze me. But Franny, I don’t run one of the finest firms in London for nothing. Trust me. I have some ideas. You’ll see. We’ll have it all.” He reached over and squeezed her hand. “For now, I wish you success on your investigations.” The promised treacle tart arrived. It reminded Frances of nursery years; she absolutely adored it. She would let him be mysterious—for now.
“Ah, Franny, speaking of fellow solicitors, I assume you’re still joining me with my Law Society friends for dinner at my house? Or are you now too busy?” The man of affairs disappeared, and he looked shy and boyish now. It was important to him that she knew and liked those in his circle.
“I’m searching for a woman who disappeared thirty years ago. I don’t see how a dinner would matter. I might even get a fresh perspective.” He looked relieved, and she understood. Oddly, she had more freedom than he had. She was just “Mad Lady Frances.” Any kind of disgraceful behavior was expected of her, but no one had to be more correct than a solicitor. And yet he wanted her to be part of his life.
Which brought Frances back to her original problem. How could she live with him? How could she contemplate life without him? When this was over, she knew, that problem would have to take top priority.
After their treacle tart, he dared risk giving her a kiss good-bye.
The Halliday Mission operated out of a genteel yet shabby two-room office filled with a couple of battered desks and a cabinet overflowing with papers. But there was nothing worn out about the mission’s secretary, Mr. Jellicoe. He was in his fifties, a bit portly, and bursting with energy and most welcoming.
“Lady Frances, do take a seat. May I get you some tea? Are you sure? You know, your name is familiar to me. Are you active in charitable circles?”
“Yes, I am, Mr. Jellicoe. I work extensively with the Ladies’ Christian Relief Guild.”
“Of course, that’s where I’ve heard of you. That’s a very fine group, one that I greatly admire. I applaud your good works, my lady. Your guild makes a great deal of difference.” He seemed genuine. She was used to many men who treated charitable work with an amused condescension, saying that it kept the ladies busy and gave them something useful to do.
“Thank you. I’ve heard of the Halliday Mission and your outreach work with actors. I am pleased to see someone with interest rather than contempt for them.”
“Thank you so much. Do you know, I’m glad to see someone understand. We are not here to condemn actors or glorify them, merely to help save their souls.”
You h
ave set quite a task for yourself, thought Frances.
“But please tell me how I can help you.”
“I am actually hoping you can solve a little mystery for me. I recently came across an old handbill regarding the mission, but the address was in Maidstone, Kent. Were you once there?”
“Oh, that is a long time ago, my lady. That’s when Mr. and Mrs. Halliday themselves first ran the mission. They ran it out of their home in Maidstone at first, but eventually it was transferred to London, some twenty years ago at least.”
“Are the Hallidays themselves still alive?”
“No, they were called to God about five years ago, I’m sorry to say. It was shortly after I started here—first Mr. Halliday, and then his wife not long after. I knew them somewhat. Very fine people, deeply religious but free from judgment, always ready to help their fellow man. But your mystery, my lady—is it about the history of the Hallidays? Maybe you would like to call on their son, the Reverend Samuel Halliday.”
“So their son went into the ministry? Such pious people, who founded a mission, must have been very pleased with that.” Frances wondered if the boy had been given any choice. But that was not fair, she realized. Her brother had been delighted to follow their father into Foreign Office service.
“I know that they were very proud, my lady. Especially Mrs. Halliday. She didn’t live much longer after he was ordained—it was as if she had met her life’s goal and was ready to meet her maker. Anyway, I’ve met Reverend Halliday a few times as well. He is very busy in his own parish and did mission work himself in Africa. He’s vicar of Trinity Church in Wimbledon.”
“I will seek him out, then. I’m merely investigating a possible connection with my own family, some years back. Thank you, and good luck with your mission, Mr. Jellicoe.”
It seemed a thin enough clue—nothing really to connect the Halliday family with Helen or Louisa. (Were they the same?) But the flyer was in Mattins’s box, so it probably had some importance. And it was old because it had the Maidstone address.
