by R. J. Koreto
“We’re not going to safely wait here, Mallow.”
“No, indeed, my lady.” And together they headed down another aisle, between rows of metal pipes. They heard muffled clanks as workmen moved items in adjoining aisles, but they seemed to have this aisle to themselves.
“You look on the right, and I’ll look on the left,” said Frances.
“Yes, my lady,” said Mallow. They walked slowly, seeing if their stalker was hiding in the shadows, behind a pipe. They’d have him yet. He couldn’t hide forever, and in his uniform he’d be challenged and stopped if he tried to leave. Slowly, they walked. Between them and the constable they had the first two aisles, and she didn’t think their assailant had time to go farther.
“My lady,” said Mallow. Frances turned and saw her maid had noticed a discarded street worker’s uniform.
“Good catch, Mallow. He anticipated us, unfortunately, and probably had another outfit under this uniform so he could easily escape. But why leave the uniform right here?”
A second later, Frances realized why. She looked up and saw a man sitting right above them on the upper shelf. He now wore a workingman’s rough clothes that would let him fit in anywhere. A wide-brimmed hat obscured his face.
“You, get down, now.” And she blew her whistle. But the stalker jumped off suddenly, which the women didn’t expect. Frances tried to block him, but he pushed by both of them, sending them stumbling. Frances blew the whistle again, and she heard the constable come running, but it was too late. By the time they made it to the front, the newly disguised assailant had slipped out with some other workmen.
Frances stamped her foot in frustration. “He was prepared and had another set of clothes under his first disguise. We would’ve had him otherwise.”
“I’m sorry, miss,” said the constable. They looked around the warehouse. In fresh clothes, there would be no finding him. “Would you like to come to the station and file a report?”
“Thank you. Maybe later. But I appreciate your diligence,” she said. She looked at Mallow. “My maid is with me now, Constable, so I will be all right. Thank you again; you may go back to your post.”
“Very good, miss,” he said and left them. Frances and Mallow stepped outside.
“What do you have wrapped around your waist?” Frances asked.
“His cloak, my lady. He probably meant to use it as an additional disguise. I tied it around my waist to keep my hands free while we were searching. But—well, there’s something wrong with it.”
Frances frowned. “What? It seems normal.”
“But feel it, my lady. It’s very poor-quality cloth. What good could it do? It’s like what Mrs. Mancini showed me at the Emerald Theatre. It’s all poor quality. It doesn’t have to work; it just has to look right for the audience.”
Frances smiled. “Very good observation, Mallow. That’s a real clue. We’ll save this, and now we must be off to Lady Torrence.”
Running up to them was the cab driver, who had followed Mallow. “Miss, you chased away my passenger, then left yourself—and you took that cloak. It should be given back to him.”
“I am sorry we cost you a fare,” said Lady Frances. “But you can take me to my next stop so you won’t lose a fare.”
“But what if he comes back?” said the increasingly confused driver.
“He won’t be coming back. Did you get a look at him?”
“What? No, not really. He just gave me some coins and told me to wait. Quiet voice, and he hid his face under his hat. Now what is going on?”
“This is Lady Frances Ffolkes, sister of the Marquess of Seaforth,” said Mallow. “She is not accustomed to answering questions, only asking them. Her ladyship has some urgent appointments, so please show us into your hansom cab without further delay.”
He started to talk but then stopped and led the women to his cab.
CHAPTER 16
“Empty?” asked Lady Torrence. “My daughter’s grave was empty—but a child was buried there?”
Lady Torrence and Frances sat having tea in the Torrence drawing room.
“Yes. We don’t know why no adult was buried in that casket or who that mysterious child was. We don’t know if Louisa is alive. All we know for certain is that there was a clever plot here, and judging from the complexity, I don’t think your daughter was a victim. I think she was a willing participant. Perhaps even the orchestrator. To what end still remains to be seen, but with your agreement, I will keep looking. I am confident of answering these questions.”
Frances had been afraid of upsetting her elderly client and was prepared to quickly call for her maid. But she underestimated her. Instead of fainting, Lady Torrence smiled wryly. “I feel like I’ve landed in one of Baroness Orczy’s melodramatic works. It’s like a scene out of the Scarlet Pimpernel.”
“I agree,” said Frances. “Although I find her writing a little overheated.” Lady Torrence laughed in agreement.
“One more thing. As I once told you, I have to keep some secrets. But do the names Halliday, Lockton, or Bradley mean anything to you?” She wanted to see if there was a connection between the Torrences and the Hallidays or Emma Lockton née Bradley, the Halliday’s former companion.
“No, I’m afraid not. As a diplomat’s wife, I’ve always been good with names, but those are not familiar. I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologize. It actually would’ve been a surprise if you had heard of them.”
“So what next?” asked Lady Torrence.
“I have more people to speak with. There is clearly a strong connection to some incidents happening recently at the Emerald, and I believe that there are still clues waiting to be uncovered. I will report when I know more.” She paused. “I am assuming you want me to continue.” Frances couldn’t bear the thought of quitting now, but she had to remind herself that she was serving a client. How could she continue if Lady Torrence didn’t want her to?
“Of course. You never promised me peace of mind, only the truth. But I could no more ask you to stop than I believe you’d be able to. God go with you, Lady Frances.”
Frances went home and had lunch, scratching comments into a notebook in Miss Plimsoll’s dining room. It was time to tackle Emma Lockton. It was true that she was not part of the Halliday household until after Helen had supposedly died, but if she was close to the family, she might know something. She’d bring Mallow too, who was doing a fine job as her “Watson.”
She’d have to approach Emma Lockton carefully. A well-regarded shopkeeper couldn’t afford even a breath of scandal or the hint that she gossiped about her distinguished clientele. Very well then; she’d approach Mrs. Lockton as a possible customer. If she owned a Bond Street shop, there was no doubt she knew the names of London’s leading families—including the Seaforths.
Finally, knowing that she had to appear more “ladylike,” Frances allowed Mallow to dress her up a bit, which delighted the maid. Mallow fussed with her hair and discussed dress choices until Frances was driven to distraction. But she did realize that being a consulting detective required some sacrifices.
“I thought we’d try putting your hair up and back like this, my lady,” said Mallow as Frances sat in front of her mirror.
“That will be fine,” said Frances.
“Unless, my lady, you would rather that we do it like this . . . of course, the first way, it would go perfectly with the neckline of your blue dress.”
“Whatever you think best, Mallow,” said Frances with impatience.
“Very good, my lady,” said Mallow with just a trace of censure. She knew that Frances’s late mother, the old marchioness, happily had held lengthy discussions with her maid over every detail of hair and fashion. Ah, well, being the maid to a consulting detective required some sacrifices.
Dressing done, they made their way to Lockton’s store. A boy was cleaning the glass window and brass fittings out front. Mrs. Lockton clearly knew how important it was to make a good impression before a customer even
entered the store.
A cheerful bell rang as Frances and Mallow entered. Two shopgirls were seeing to customers, one attending a middle-aged woman while the other was bent over the counter, showing an elegantly crafted jewelry box to an older gentleman.
“Lovely, just lovely. I’m sure my goddaughter will enjoy it. Here is my card. Have it properly wrapped and sent to my house,” said the gentleman.
“Very good, sir,” said the shopgirl. The man thanked her again and tipped his hat to Frances as he left. The shopgirl carefully put away the box and then looked up. Frances recognized her immediately—the beautiful girl who had been sitting with the seamstresses in the Emerald Theatre right after Anthony Mattins had been killed. Frances thought she saw a flicker of recognition from the girl, but it was gone in a moment.
“Good afternoon. How may I help you today?” the shopgirl asked.
“Do you have gifts for men? I thought my brother might like something here,” said Frances, affecting the somewhat languid tone used by ladies who devoted much of their time in shops like this. “Perhaps a cigar box? I’m Lady Frances Ffolkes. My brother is the Marquess of Seaforth, an undersecretary in the Foreign Office. Smokes entirely too many cigars, but he might as well do so from an elegant box.”
“Oh, yes, my lady. We have some very handsome boxes that would nicely complement any Whitehall office. Let me show you.” She produced several boxes, and Frances cast an appreciative eye over them. They were indeed beautifully crafted.
“Are these made in your workshops?”
“Yes, my lady. Everything we sell is made in our workshops from our own exclusive designs.”
“Very nice. Mallow, which do you think his lordship would like? You have such a good eye.”
Mallow looked over the boxes. “They are all fine, my lady, but I think he’d especially like this coloring.”
“I agree, Mallow. You can send the account to me at Miss Plimsoll’s Hotel,” she said to the shopgirl.
“Very good, my lady.” The girl looked pleased with herself.
Frances jumped in. “Have we met before? You look very familiar. I’ve seen you somewhere else, I believe.”
“I’m sure not, my lady,” said the girl, but she looked nervous and cast an eye on the other shopgirl, who was still seeing to the woman customer.
“Yes, I’m sure we have.” The girl bit her lip as Frances continued, “The Emerald Theatre, right after the tragic death of the stage manager, Anthony Mattins. You were there; I’m sure of it.”
“Yes, my lady,” she stammered. She glanced now to a door behind the counter. Then she said in a low voice, “I sometimes assist with the costume work there, when I am not scheduled here, but the proprietress doesn’t like me working there.”
“I don’t see how it’s any of her business,” said Frances. “She’s your employer, not your owner. You have a right to any other respectable occupation during your own time.”
“Yes, my lady. Except that the proprietress is also my mother. It is my ambition to become a fine dressmaker, and I would like some practical work experience. My mother supports me in this, but she doesn’t like me mixing with theatre folk.”
Frances smiled and nodded. “I see. Mothers are a different group altogether. Discretion is the better part of valor. I will keep your secret, of course. So you must be Miss Lockton?”
“Yes, my lady, Susan Lockton. My mother is Emma Lockton and has run the shop on her own since my father’s death some years ago.”
“May I meet your mother? It’s unusual to see a woman running such a fine shop, and I am curious to meet her. I am a member of the League for Women’s Political Equality, and I encourage other women to patronize women-owned businesses.”
She watched a variety of emotions chase themselves across Susan Lockton’s face: surprise, confusion, and pleasure that this well-born lady was willing to recommend her shop. Never mind that she was a suffragist!
“Of course, my lady. Please follow me around the counter.”
“Thank you. This is my personal maid, June Mallow. I make no important purchases without her advice.”
They went through the door and down a hallway. Frances could hear a loud woman’s voice as they approached a closed door. The words became clearer as they approached.
“I’ll tell you again: those designs are not today’s fashion. We went over this already . . .” Susan knocked and entered without waiting for a reply.
“Mother? An important new customer would like to meet you.” Frances stepped into the office. A middle-aged woman sat at a desk piled with neatly ordered business papers. Her hair, black with some silver creeping in, was arranged simply but fashionably. Her face was strong and cheeks a little flushed from conversation with a man standing over her. He appeared just a little older than Susan and was dressed in working clothes. He was a tall man, fair-haired with a heavy build and calloused hands.
He didn’t seem too upset at the woman’s loud words, more resigned with a hint of amusement.
“Lady Frances, this is my mother and the proprietress, Emma Lockton, and Hiram Alton, head carpenter at our workshops. This is Lady Frances Ffolkes. She has just purchased a cigar box for her brother, the Marquess of Seaforth.”
Mrs. Lockton pulled herself together quickly, stood, and pasted a smile on her face. “Lady Frances. I am so glad you are pleased with our goods. May I ask which model you picked?”
“The new line of mahogany,” said Susan. Mrs. Lockton smiled with a little triumph and glanced at Alton. “I told you it would be popular with those who know quality, like Lady Frances,” she said.
Hiram smiled good-naturedly at Mrs. Lockton. “So you did, ma’am. Anyway, I should be getting back to the workshop. I will work on the designs as you suggest, ma’am. Lady Frances, I hope your brother enjoys his cigar box.” He bowed out and left the women to themselves.
“You have a very fine business here, Mrs. Lockton. I am active in the women’s suffrage movement and so take a great interest in women who run businesses on their own.”
Mrs. Lockton’s face wasn’t immediately readable. There was some amusement there. What are you thinking? That humoring ladies of quality with their fads is part of good business? thought Frances.
“I am glad for your interest, my lady. Managing both this store and the workshop takes all the hours of the day. I don’t have any time for politics.” Then perhaps Mrs. Lockton felt she had been too sharp, based on what she said next: “Of course, I do believe in the importance of a woman being prepared to make her own way in the world. She should not be dependent on a husband.” She glanced at her daughter, whose look said, “We’ve had this conversation before.”
“I completely agree,” said Frances.
“I am proud of my daughter’s skill as a seamstress and am looking to apprentice her to a fine dressmaker when she’s a little older. I think it’s best for a young woman to be of a certain age before going out on her own. Meanwhile I have saved money to eventually buy her a partnership.”
“How fortuitous we are here, then,” said Frances. “My maid Mallow is a very fine seamstress. Miss Lockton, if you have samples of your work here, Mallow would be happy to review them, and I can make an introduction to my own dressmaker, who also does work for my sister-in-law, the Marchioness of Seaforth.”
“An excellent idea, Lady Frances,” said Mrs. Lockton, who seemed excited, as did her daughter. “Susan, show Miss Mallow into the back room where you have some of your work. Bessie should be able to handle anyone up front.”
Susan practically skipped out the door, and Mallow followed, but before leaving, she met Lady Frances’s eyes.
Alone now with Mrs. Lockton, Frances turned to her and got a shrewd look back.
“I think you have more to ask me, my lady? I can imagine how busy you are. You didn’t come just to compliment my firm’s skill with mahogany.”
“Very good,” said Frances. “Actually, I am here at the suggestion of a mutual friend, the Reverend Samuel Hall
iday, from Wimbledon.”
At that, Emma Lockton’s face quickly softened and became full of warmth. “Yes, he is an old family friend.” She blushed a little.
“I understand that you joined the Halliday household shortly after he was born.”
“Yes. My family knew Mrs. Halliday’s once. Her health was weak for a long time after the birth, and she and her husband thought a companion would be good. I was . . . well, I needed a job and was looking to move. They were the kindest, most Christian people I have ever met. Their son, Samuel, was as fine a legacy as parents could hope for. As he grew up, he called me Aunt Em, although there was no blood relationship. Now that he’s grown . . . well, it sounds silly, but he still calls me that.” She blushed again, then seemed to remember herself, and Frances saw the businesswoman come back. “Do you have some interest in the Halliday family or the mission they founded?”
“Actually, I have an interest in another friend of theirs. At the same time Samuel Halliday was born, they had given sanctuary to another woman, known only as Helen, who had been recently widowed. Helen died while living with them. I am trying to find out more about Helen on behalf of some old friends of hers. I know this was before you joined the Halliday household, but if you were close to the family, perhaps you were told something.”
Mrs. Lockton was silent for a few moments. She knows something, but she’s trying to figure out what I already know and what she can safely tell me, thought Frances.
“I know a little,” Mrs. Lockton said slowly. “Mrs. Halliday mentioned that they had sheltered a young widow and that she died, as you said. Naturally, she didn’t want to reflect on it, as it happened about the same time that her son was born. I know they buried her. Mrs. Halliday cared for the young woman and tended her grave for the rest of her own life.”
