by R. J. Koreto
So she found herself a hansom and soon was on her way to Wimbledon, a pleasant neighborhood now best known for its tennis. The driver dropped her off at the Trinity Church vicarage, a substantial mid-Victorian brick building, and she knocked on the door. It was opened by the vicar himself.
She was startled at first. Frances had never thought of vicars as handsome, but then again, why shouldn’t they be? He possessed well-formed features, welcoming eyes, and a shock of black hair over his brow. He also had a warm and cheerful smile.
“Reverend Halliday?”
“You have found him. Please come in, and let me know how I may serve you.”
“Thank you.” She stepped inside. “I’m Lady Frances Ffolkes. You will think I’m very forward, but in searching for an old family friend, I came across a connection to your late parents. I hope you may be able to help me.”
He chuckled. “Most intriguing, my lady. Do come through, and we’ll discuss it.”
He led her through the hallway into a study. She was reminded of Lady Torrence’s house because his home displayed examples of African art—no doubt mementoes of his time in the missions. The place was well-kept and the furniture modern and fine. Also, from the state of the house, he clearly could afford a good housekeeper and perhaps a housemaid as well. Mr. Jellicoe had said his parents had been well-off, so no doubt they had left their son a nice legacy, along with the mission endowment.
But she noted that he was not above answering his own door.
His study was also nicely appointed, with his papers well-organized and shelves of handsome leather-bound books. He showed Lady Frances to a seat and offered to ring for tea, but she politely declined and got to the point.
“I was doing some researches on behalf of a friend, and we came across a reference to your parents. The woman I was looking for was an actress, and I know your parents founded a mission to the theatre community. Did you know of a woman named Helen?”
She saw at once he did. The Reverend Halliday had a look of recognition and sadness.
“Yes, Lady Frances. My goodness, that was a long time ago. You were right; my parents did found a mission, and Helen was a woman that they helped. I’m afraid that many in the theatre community were not as receptive as my parents might’ve wished, but Helen was. I don’t know the details, but I do know she married.” He stumbled for a moment. “He died suddenly. And in her grief and confusion, she came to my parents for refuge. My mother was with child—me, as a matter of fact. So it was fortuitous, as my mother wasn’t in good health at the best of times, and apparently this Helen was a kind and useful companion. The plan was for Helen to stay on after I was born and help until she made some long-term plans. But it wasn’t to be. A week before I was born, she was hit quickly with a fever and died in two days. My mother was grief-stricken at the loss of her new friend, but as I was told, she recovered mostly with my birth—a healthy boy.”
“Thank you for telling me that story. I grieve for the loss of your mother’s friend, but I’m pleased that your mother came through. I was wondering—do you have a likeness of Helen?”
The vicar shook his head. “No, but my mother once mentioned that she was uncommonly beautiful, with the bluest eyes and blackest hair. She was a practical woman, my mother, and she once mentioned that had Helen lived, she would’ve had no trouble finding a new husband, as lovely as she was, and still so very young.”
There could’ve been more than one actress named Helen, but Frances knew the men at the Emerald Theatre had recognized her description of Louisa. The vicar had just described Helen as Louisa. Helen had played Juliet in the program that Mattins had so carefully saved alongside the Halliday flyer that had led Frances here. So it seemed that Louisa was dead, without ever having seen her mother again. Frances had known that this was a possibility, but still she felt the sadness hit her hard. She had so wanted to effect a family reunion. She couldn’t be completely sure yet, but it seemed like her search had led her to an unhappy end.
“Thank you, reverend. It’s a sad story, but I appreciate the truth. I am acting as an agent for an elderly friend and will break the news. But tell me, I don’t suppose you know Helen’s surname, either her maiden or married name?”
He shook his head. “I don’t ever remember my parents telling me. She went by her theatre name, just Helen.”
“But surely there were some papers—a death certificate for Helen or her marriage license?”
“Yes, there should’ve been. When my mother explained this all to me when I came of age, she told me that any papers relating to Helen had been deposited with their local church, St. Mark’s in Maidstone. But not long after, there was a fire due to a bit of clumsiness from the priest, who was elderly. About a year’s worth of records were destroyed, I’m afraid.”
“Do you have any siblings who might remember that time?” asked Frances.
“No, I was my parents’ first and only child.” He smiled sadly. “There was a tragic irony about it all. My parents had so hoped for a child and had not been blessed. My mother was thirty-seven and had long been in poor health, as I noted. And yet she survived the birth and delivered a healthy child. But the young and robust Helen died. An example of ‘In the midst of life, we are in death.’
“Anyway, there’s not much more I can tell you. My parents saw Helen buried at St. Mark’s. I’m sure the vicar or sexton there can help you, if you or your friend would like to visit.”
“You’ve been so kind. I was wondering, though—did your parents have any servants or nearby relations who might have a memory of Helen?”
“No one still with us, I’m sorry to say . . . but I know someone who might be able to help. As I said, my mother had been planning to keep Helen with them. But when she died, after my birth, she and my father sent for another woman to be a sort of companion. Aunt Em, I called her, although she was not a relation. She lived in Shrewsbury, I believe. I think her family had known my mother’s family many years before, although I can’t recall the details, if I ever knew them. She was with my mother for a while, and they were very close. Aunt Em never met Helen, of course, but my mother may have shared memories with her. Later, my father introduced Aunt Em to a carpenter friend of his, and they married and had a daughter. She was widowed a few years ago, as her husband was a bit older. We assumed she’d sell the business, but she was determined to run it. She promoted her late husband’s most senior assistant as head carpenter and designer, but Aunt Em is very much in charge. A sharp lady, she is. I visit them about once a week. She has a shop on Bond Street. Be sure you mention I suggested you speak with her.”
Frances raised an eyebrow. “A carpenter on Bond Street among all the fine shops?”
“Oh, they’re not a typical carpentry firm. Emma’s late husband had a sideline making fine jewelry boxes, cigar boxes, and so forth. Aunt Em saw the possibilities there and encouraged him to work on those full time. The shop has continued to prosper under Aunt Em’s management and has become very fashionable, I hear. It is called Lockton’s. She was born Emma Bradley but after her marriage became Emma Lockton, thus the name of the shop. I daresay you’ve passed it.”
“I’m sure I have and look forward to visiting her.” She stood. “I cannot thank you enough for your kindness and assistance.”
“My pleasure. I just wish I had better news about Helen. Just one thing, my lady, if I may. My mother asked me, before she died, not to discuss this story widely. As you seemed to know about it already and appear to be the type of person to keep a secret, I didn’t mind filling in the details, so to speak. But I would be grateful if you would help me keep my mother’s wishes.”
“Of course. My only goal is to help reconnect friends and relations with Helen, not to reopen old wounds.”
“Thank you for understanding,” he said. He walked her to the door, and Frances turned before making her final good-byes.
She had seen Reverend Halliday stumble over the death of Helen’s husband. He hadn’t wanted to discuss
it. “One more piece of information—Helen’s husband. Was it an illness that took him?”
He grimaced. “I’m afraid nothing so common. He was killed by a robber, it seems, although again, I don’t know the details, just a chance mention from my father once. He was stabbed, my parents told me. No one was ever arrested.”
CHAPTER 6
Frances and Mallow took their seats on the morning train to Maidstone, which was only about a one-hour ride. Her ladyship was in one of her thoughtful moods, observed Mallow, and not inclined to talk, but she would when she was ready. Meanwhile, Mallow produced some knitting to keep herself busy while the train headed into Kent.
“There’s too much that’s odd, Mallow,” Frances finally said. “Helen’s husband killed by a knife in an apparent robbery, and now Mr. Mattins killed the same way—and someone wanted to search his room. I called the local police station yesterday—no one has been arrested yet. And any trace of Helen disappeared in a fire. Then, the moment Lady Torrence quietly does a little research, the entire company is purchased without any negotiation, and her permission is revoked. And I’m lied to about Helen at the theatre. Finally, I hear that Mrs. Halliday’s companion, Emma Lockton, is from Shrewsbury, where the Torrence family is from. Any one of these things happening is coincidence. But all of them happening together are very improbable.”
Mallow nodded. “So we are going to look at Helen’s grave, my lady?”
“Yes. But I don’t know why. I just need to see if anything else is wrong, if anything else is just too coincidental.”
They soon arrived at Maidstone station, and Frances saw Mallow look around approvingly. Her maid thought any town in England—or in the world—had to be second best to London. If you sought food, transportation, or accommodation outside of the capital, you did so at your own risk. But Maidstone was prosperous as a center for beer brewing and papermaking, and if it was nowhere near as grand as London, it was far from the sleepy country towns and villages that they had visited in the past.
“Shall I see about getting a hansom—or something similar, my lady?”
“Thank you, but when I looked on a map, St. Mark’s was only a quarter mile from this station, so I think we’ll walk.”
Many of the commercial buildings they passed were new and in good repair, but when they headed around a corner to the appropriately named Church Street, they saw an older part of Maidstone.
“That is a beautiful structure,” said Frances on seeing St. Mark’s, and Mallow agreed. “I’m guessing fourteenth century. I don’t wonder that the Hallidays were moved to religious devotion with such a building to inspire them,” she continued. “The churchyard doesn’t look very large, however, so I imagine we’ll be able to find Helen’s grave. And if not, we’ll look for the sexton.”
The iron gate to the churchyard opened easily, and Frances and Mallow wandered among the rows of tombstones, some so faded they were hardly legible anymore. The graves were for local aldermen, businessmen, veterans of wars that were mostly forgotten, and their wives and children. Many stones were touched with moss, and Mallow stopped to brush a stray twig from one. A maid’s desire for order and cleanliness twinned with Mallow’s reverence for holy ground. But overall, the place was well-tended, with the grass and bushes neatly trimmed.
Frances thought Helen’s tombstone would be modest. It had been kind of the Hallidays to see to the burial of a woman whom they hardly knew, so she studied the small ones, keeping in mind it would still probably be in good condition, as she had died only about thirty years ago. But when they turned the corner around the back of the church, they both instantly noticed one of the most imposing stones in the graveyard:
IN MEMORY OF HELEN, 1855–1876.
GOD HAS HEARD
Frances wondered at the epitaph. The wording seemed odd. What had God heard? Was this a peaceful end to a difficult life? However you considered it, there was more here than met the eye.
“If I may say, my lady, that was a very Christian act from Mr. and Mrs. Halliday, seeing Helen buried like this.”
“Yes, it is, Mallow, but I wonder. Look at the other large stones. The only ones we’ve seen that are this impressive belong to a member of Parliament and a general who was knighted for service under the Duke of Marlborough. Monuments like this are very expensive. Would the Hallidays have spent that much when all that was needed was a simple stone?”
Frances frowned. It was too odd. But she admitted that there was a little thrill inside her too. Supposing this was Louisa Torrence—the years were right. Yet there was more mystery here. She peered at the grass growing over the plot, as if she could look underground. Did Louisa/Helen literally take something to her grave?
Her next plan was to seek out the sexton to see if he knew something, but he had already found her. A man in his sixties, dressed in work clothes, was approaching them. He had an outdoor complexion and the wiry build common to those who did physical labor.
The man gave them a welcoming smile. “Find what you were looking for, miss? I saw you from inside the church and came to see if I could help. Jethro Brent, sexton, at your service.”
“Thank you, Mr. Brent. Lady Frances Ffolkes and my maid, Miss Mallow. I think we have found what we were looking for, the last resting place for Helen. But perhaps you can answer some questions about her. Were you sexton here back in 1876 when Helen was buried?”
She watched him closely. Brent had been openness and smiles, but now he frowned and looked a little cautious.
“Well, yes, m’lady. Been here since 1860. But I didn’t know this Helen.”
“I would have imagined that she’d been someone important, though, to merit such an impressive memorial. I spoke recently with the Reverend Halliday, and he told me that his parents paid for it. You must’ve known them. I understand they were prominent members of this church.”
Frances watched him think. Oh, he knows what I’m talking about, but there’s some secret here, something he doesn’t want to discuss.
“Well, yes, of course, m’lady. Knew them well—very fine people. This Helen was a friend or relation, I think. I can’t be sure. They saw her buried here and ordered this stone. Took some months, of course.” It would, a marker that impressive. “That’s why the vicar comes every month to visit. He said he promised his mother that he would.”
“Was Helen’s funeral well-attended? A woman so deserving of such an impressive remembrance must’ve had many attend her funeral service.”
The frown deepened. Brent was unhappy with where these questions were going, and Frances watched him struggle.
“May I ask if you’re a relation of Helen’s, m’lady?”
Frances felt Mallow stiffen next to her. Frances knew her maid was dying to upbraid the sexton. How dare you question the motives of the daughter of the Marquess of Seaforth? She was keeping quiet because she knew Frances was questioning a witness, which was very important.
“No, but I am acting as an agent for someone who is, an elderly friend who cannot travel. The Reverend Halliday gave me some background but of course was too young to remember her himself. He suggested I come to you for details.”
Now that stumped him, Frances saw. Brent didn’t know what Halliday himself knew or what he had told Frances. If he lied, he could be caught out. But if there was a secret, he didn’t want to reveal it. Loyalty to the senior Hallidays, perhaps augmented by some extra coins, was keeping him closed-mouthed.
He sighed. “It was a long time ago, m’lady. If I remember right, and I can’t say I do because it’s been thirty years, Helen got very sick, and Mr. Halliday was worried about illness spreading, with his own wife expecting a child. When Helen died, Mr. Halliday woke me up in the night and had me dig a grave at first light. I had a couple of local boys help carry the coffin, the vicar said his piece, and that was that. That’s all I know.” He was positively truculent at the end, as if daring Frances to push him further.
“The vicar. I don’t suppose he’s still with us, is he?�
� The Reverend Halliday mentioned that he was elderly thirty years ago.
“That would be the Reverend Uplands, m’lady. He passed away the following winter, and we’ve had two vicars since then. No one who remembers.” He was gathering himself to leave, but Frances wasn’t quite done.
“I’d like to see some parish records, but I heard there was an accident—the Reverend Uplands accidentally set fire to some of them?”
“I remember the accident, m’lady, but I have no responsibilities for the church records. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to see about my duties.” And not waiting for a response, he left.
“Well,” said Mallow. “I must say that he could’ve been more polite.”
“I’m sure, Mallow, but I had put him in a hard place. There are secrets and more secrets here. The gravestone is odd enough—but last-minute burials at dawn? It’s ridiculous. And the Reverend Halliday didn’t mention he visited regularly. Why omit that? Oh, there is something here, Mallow. Something deep. And we cannot forget that this isn’t just about Helen. Mr. Mattins is dead, and he’s part of our investigation too.” She stared at the grave for a few more moments, then suddenly roused herself.
“Come, Mallow. There’s a London train in thirty minutes, and I have much to do.” They walked briskly back to the station, and Frances didn’t speak until they were seated on the train.
“I am going to need to speak with Mr. Rusk at the Emerald Theatre again, but I want to know more before I do. Who bought the theatre and the Green Players? We need to talk to someone in the City—the financial center. I bet my brother can help us.”
“Very good, my lady,” said Mallow. But Frances heard something in her maid’s tone.
“You don’t think that a good idea?”
“I’m sure it’s not my place to comment on your ideas, my lady, but if I may be so bold—his lordship has not been inclined to help your ladyship in such matters.”
“You’re right there,” said Frances ruefully. “Perhaps I need to work on my delivery. Regardless, he should be home for tea this afternoon, so we’ll see.”
