Death at the Emerald

by R. J. Koreto

  “That’s interesting. I’ve heard Helen was an actress, and friends and colleagues from the theatre told me that she had married and moved away. But it seems she was a widow.”

  Mrs. Lockton shrugged. “I can only tell you what Mrs. Halliday told me. I didn’t come until some months after Helen’s death.”

  “Yes, of course. Where did you say you came from?”

  Mrs. Lockton hadn’t said. She was clearly thinking about her options—telling Lady Frances, or simply refusing. Or lying.

  “From near Shrewsbury, a village called Blackthorpe. Mrs. Halliday’s mother had a cousin from those parts, so there was a connection.”

  Shrewsbury. The Torrences had originally come from there. Lady Torrence had said that her husband held private theatre parties at his cousin’s estate, so they must’ve been people of note.

  “You may have known some other friends of mine, the Torrences. I understand that they had a large manor there.”

  Now those shrewd eyes flickered. Frances felt her heart beat faster. She had hit a sensitive area for Mrs. Lockton. Frances would have bet anything at this point that Mrs. Lockton knew of the Torrences, even though Lady Torrence didn’t know her.

  “They were a prominent family in Shrewsbury. Lord Torrence was a large landowner.”

  “Did you know them well?”

  “Hardly, my lady. My family was very modest. We didn’t socialize with aristocracy. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.” She started to stand to indicate the discussion was over.

  Meanwhile, Mallow was in a room at the back of the shop, a small storage area. She was looking intently at some of Susan’s stitchwork. The girl looked hopefully at this much-praised lady’s maid, hoping for a good response.

  “You have fine, even stitches. As good as the work done on her ladyship’s dresses,” Mallow finally concluded. She was impressed. Very little work reached her standards.

  “Thank you, Miss Mallow. It’s my dream to have my own dress shop someday. Perhaps . . .” She eyed the maid. “Perhaps Lady Frances would favor me with her custom then? And her sister-in-law the marchioness?”

  Mallow knew Lady Frances wanted her to be encouraging and find out what she could. “Perhaps. Once you make a dress for one fine lady, your reputation will spread.”

  “That would be wonderful. I am so awfully tired of selling boxes all day.”

  “But it’s such a fine shop,” countered Mallow, who had noted the elegant fittings and the prestigious address. Shopgirls here would work only with the very best people.

  “Well, yes. But day after day, selling boxes. I bet your life is more exciting, going with your mistress to fancy house parties and great estates all over England . . .” She let the sentiment hang, hoping for some gossip to enliven her day. And Mallow indulged her.

  “Oh, yes, it can be interesting. The king himself came to dinner at her brother’s house. And her ladyship knows other famous people. We’ve even been to police headquarters at Scotland Yard.”

  “Oh, I wish I did all those things. Of course”—and now she gave Mallow a sly look—“one can always get married.”

  “Marriage is a fine and noble goal,” said Mallow, “but her ladyship believes that the choice of a husband is a very important decision reached only after a great deal of consideration.”

  Susan looked a little startled at the gravity of her words and expression.

  “Ah, yes, well of course. But I’m taking it very seriously. And while I am ready to earn my own way in the world, I just turned twenty-one, which is not too young to get married if I get a suitable offer.” And then she looked sly again. “There’s a family friend, the Reverend Halliday. He should be getting a wife at his age. A very fine vicar he is, handsome, and he has a private income that lets him live nicely. I have a dowry, and I think it should be delightful to be a vicar’s wife. Everyone looks up to you, presiding over tea with the most important people in the parish, dining regularly with the bishop.”

  Mallow nodded. There was a lot to be said for marrying a vicar, but she wasn’t sure Susan was taking it as seriously as she said. A vicar’s wife had to be very proper.

  Susan frowned, coming out of her daydream for a moment. “But my mother isn’t being very encouraging. She doesn’t want me working at the theatre—you’d think she’d be glad I was earning good money. I could also do well at a dressmaker’s, but she keeps telling me she wants me to stay here until I get a little older. I don’t know why. And she gets very annoyed every time I talk about the Reverend Halliday. Surely she can’t think I’d find someone better.” She sighed rather dramatically. “I wish had a normal life like yours, Miss Mallow.”

  That was the first time anyone had called Mallow’s life with Lady Frances “normal.”

  Susan said she should really be getting back to the front, and Mallow said she’d wait with her until her ladyship came out. It wasn’t long before Mrs. Lockton and Frances joined them.

  “How did you find Miss Lockton’s sewing skills?” asked Frances.

  “Very good, my lady. I think she would do well at your dressmaker’s.” Both Locktons beamed.

  “Excellent. We’ll be sure to pass on your name. Thank you for your help, and I look forward to giving my brother that lovely box.”

  They were about to leave when the door opened, and the Reverend Samuel Halliday entered.

  Frances’s eyes took in everyone’s faces instantly. Mrs. Lockton resumed the warm and soft look from when she had spoken of the vicar earlier. The vicar himself seemed pleased—and startled—to see Lady Frances. And there was a smile, almost a smirk, from Susan.

  “This is a pleasant surprise, Samuel,” said Mrs. Lockton as he kissed her on the cheek.

  “Yes, it is,” said Susan. She took the initiative to kiss Halliday on his cheek. Mrs. Lockton frowned but only for a moment.

  “I had a diocese meeting nearby, so I thought I’d drop in,” said Reverend Halliday. “And I see you met Lady Frances Ffolkes. She’s been trying to find more about Helen, the poor woman my parents took in. Were you able to help her, Aunt Em?”

  “Perhaps a little,” said Mrs. Lockton.

  “Oh, she’s being modest,” said Frances. “She was very helpful indeed. I’m closer than ever to finding out what happened to Helen.”

  “Helen is dead and buried in Maidstone,” said Mrs. Lockton with a heavy finality.

  “So I understand. But the dead don’t always rest easy, do they, Reverend Halliday?”

  “Are you referring to Helen, my lady?” replied the vicar, looking a little puzzled. “I should think she lies peaceably.”

  He seemed genuinely confused. Mrs. Lockton didn’t react to that at all. So the good vicar doesn’t know about the mystery of the grave, thought Frances. But I bet that you, Mrs. Lockton, could tell us something. “Of course, Reverend Halliday. I am sure she is at ease. Good day to you all. Come, Mallow, we have other appointments.” And with that, they left.

  But before they were more than halfway down the street, the Reverend Halliday overtook them. He still looked a little confused—and upset.

  “Excuse me, Lady Frances. I am sorry to waylay you like this.”

  “Not at all, Reverend. You want to talk to me away from the Locktons?”

  He spent a moment gathering his thoughts before answering. “I’ve had occasion to think about your request for information, my lady. I was pleased to help you then and to send you to the Locktons, but nevertheless, it seems . . .” He paused, clearly trying to find a way not to offend her.

  “I understand,” she said. “You’re worried my continued investigations will end up publicizing family secrets. I have been discreet, I assure you.”

  “Oh, I’m sure,” he said, hastening to reassure her, “but it is worrisome. My mother was so concerned about it . . . I know it seems odd.” He broke off lamely. A few people slipped by them on the street, but Frances wanted to press on while she had his attention.

  “Your mother and Helen were very clos
e?” she asked, making it half a statement and half a question.

  “They were. My mother spoke of her often, but nothing about where she came from or anything else about her. She visited her grave every week.”

  “Yes. And since you bring it up, it’s a very impressive monument. Seeing her properly buried was an act of great charity. But a stone of that size for someone who’s not even a member of the family . . .”

  The reverend sighed and looked around before turning his eyes on Frances again. “I’ve thought on that myself. Helen was a mystery. I can’t help but wonder at what tied her to my parents. They were the finest people, my lady, and their mission among the actors was a living testament to their Christian faith. But none of us is perfect, and I am afraid that something, some long-ago misdeed, could come to light and tarnish their reputation when they are no longer around to explain it.”

  “I appreciate that. I can tell you this: I am acting for the family of Helen. I know nothing to her discredit. My goal is to explain her life . . . and death.”

  “And who was her family—can you tell me that?”

  “I’m afraid the rules of my profession preclude me telling you, as it is confidential,” said Frances.

  “Your profession, my lady?” he asked, more confused than ever.

  “I’m a consulting detective. I believe the first female one in all of London.”

  He appeared as though he was trying to decide if he should laugh but, looking at her face and the equally serious face of her maid, decided against it.

  “I see. Well then. Can you tell me if you have learned anything to the discredit of my family?”

  “I can share that much. No, I have come across nothing that shows your parents behaved in any immoral or illegal manner.” The baby was a mystery, but not necessarily evidence of a crime.

  “Thank you for that, my lady. Just one more question. My mother mentioned Helen acted at the Emerald Theatre. Have you spoken with anyone from there, and were they able to tell you anything about Helen? I am sorry, I know I sound like a gossipy old woman, but my mother’s friendship with Helen . . . she made me promise to visit her grave regularly. It’s a piece of my family history that’s missing, and I never thought I’d find out anything—until you said you were acting on behalf of Helen’s family.”

  He looked so hopeful that Frances hated disappointing him. “Yes, I spoke to some of the actors, but again, I can’t reveal anything. I am sorry, but I can promise you this much: I have more to discover about Helen. I will recommend to my client that she allows me to share my findings with you.”

  He nodded. “That’s very encouraging, my lady. Thank you for listening to me. God go with you on your quest.”

  A moment later, Frances and Mallow were alone on the street.

  “Family,” said Frances. “He’s concerned about reputation. He thinks something was strange regarding Helen’s death and her relationship with his family.”

  “Do you think there was something wrong, my lady?”

  “Not necessarily. But he fears there was. Secrets lead to so many problems, Mallow. I have to think on this.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Frances and Mallow proceeded to walk along Bond Street in silence. Mallow recognized her ladyship’s mood and could practically see the gears turning in her head. She was lost in thought and would walk right out of London if she hadn’t finished thinking.

  However, her ponderings only took a few blocks. “Mallow, was Miss Lockton’s sewing as good as you said?”

  “Definitely, my lady. I think she’d do well at any fine dressmaker’s.” She summarized her talk with Susan Lockton.

  “Very good,” said Frances after Mallow was done. “I wonder why her mother objects so strongly to her theatre work. Of course, many people don’t trust theatre folk, but considering how the Hallidays supported the actors, it seems a little hard of her.”

  “Yes, my lady. And one more thing. As you know, I don’t like to gossip . . .”

  “Of course not, Mallow. But we’re not gossiping. We’re investigating.”

  “Very good, my lady. It seems Miss Lockton is a little sweet on the Reverend Halliday.”

  “Is she now? Well he’s nicely set up, charming, and handsome. I daresay he’ll make some woman a good husband, and sooner rather than later might be best if he wants to avoid more fuss among the young women of his flock.”

  “It’s very serious to be married to a vicar,” said Mallow, “and, although it’s not my place, my lady, since we’re investigating, I must say I’m not sure if Miss Lockton realizes how much responsibility comes with being a vicar’s wife.”

  “Perhaps, Mallow, half of her infatuation is just to tweak her mother. I think Mrs. Lockton, for all that the vicar calls her ‘Aunt Em,’ is a little sweet on him herself.”

  “My lady!” said Mallow, shock spreading across her face. “She’s known him since he was a babe in arms.”

  Frances laughed. “It’s a little unusual. She’s probably twenty years older than he is and beyond childbearing years. But age sets no limits on the heart’s desires, and she’d be a marvelous vicar’s wife.” She had no doubt Mrs. Lockton would approach parish business with enormous energy and efficiency. “Also, we should be fair. My uncle, Lord Hoxley, has been sweet on women twenty or more years younger than he is. And I believe Mrs. Lockton has matrimony in mind, which is more than you could say for my uncle. But this is all a side issue, Mallow. I think Mrs. Lockton knows what happened the night Helen supposedly died. She seemed very uncomfortable when we spoke about it, and she comes from the same town as the Torrences. There are secrets and more secrets there, Mallow. This is about perspective and illusion. I wonder if the answer lies in Zen Buddhism, a religion practiced in the East.”

  “You mean there are answers in a non-Christian religion, my lady?” said Mallow, a little nervously.

  “Well, yes, Mallow. But it doesn’t mean it’s anti-Christian. For our purposes, it’s more about how you look at a problem. For example, remember our last visit in the country, where my brother and his friends were practicing archery?”

  “Yes, my lady. Sir Avery Rowley shot an arrow into the herb garden and frightened Cook so badly she had to lie down for an hour.”

  “Yes. That was unfortunate. But the point is, especially as far as Sir Avery is concerned, that in the West, we look at things separately. In the East, they look at things together. That is, the arrow and the target are not separate but part of the same reality. When you look at things like that, everything becomes more understandable.”

  “Very good, my lady. I know Cook would appreciate that.”

  “I’m sure. For now, I think I’ll visit Inspector Eastley and see if he’s come up with anything since last night. I recently had an idea, something I had forgotten, that will keep him and Constable Smith busy.”

  They went home, and Frances changed back into her business-like shirtwaist before bicycling off to Scotland Yard. She didn’t see their stalker out front, but she suspected she wouldn’t be free of him forever.

  The sergeant at the front desk frowned at her approach. “My lady, are you planning to be a frequent visitor with your bicycle?”

  “Yes, I am, Sergeant.”

  “Of course. It’s only that we have limited room here, my lady . . .” He let his voice trail off under Frances’s full gaze, his hope dashed that she would pick up his implications.

  “I think over time you may expect more visits from women, and since bicycles are a healthful and economical form of transportation, you might consider creating a space to easily park them. In fact, thank you for bringing this up. I will write to the Commissioner myself.”

  “My lady—”

  “It’s quite all right. I’m just here to see Inspector Eastley. I know the way.”

  It was business as usual in the Special Branch suite, with Constable Smith and others working at their desks and the door marked, “B. Eastley, Inspector,” shut.

  Frances rapped on the door sha
rply and heard, “Come in.”

  “Ah, Lady Frances,” said Eastley as she entered. “I have been expecting you. This is a little quicker than I thought, but please, take a seat. I suppose, full of energy, you’ve made a great deal of progress since our graveyard surprise and want to make sure that I have been just as busy.”

  “Inspector, although you and I may differ on approaches, I have never doubted your dedication or work ethic.”

  “I am relieved,” said Eastley. “As expected, with the agreement of Lambeth Palace, I have been asked to look into any crimes arising from the supposed missing body of Helen. Indeed, my lady, if you had come earlier today, you would not have found me. Constable Smith and I were in Maidstone. The sexton was back in service, and we had a talk with him about Helen’s grave.”

  “Did you tell him it was empty of Helen but containing an infant?” asked Frances.

  “Good question. We didn’t for now, but he isn’t a stupid man, and when a Scotland Yard inspector started asking him questions right after a marquess’s daughter did, he knew something was up. He was alternately frightened and truculent when we asked him about the grave, but although I think he knew something was odd about the burial, he didn’t know what. You’re looking very proud of yourself, my lady.”

  Frances did feel proud of herself. She had done better than she had expected. “Rather. It is pleasing to know a Special Branch inspector wasn’t able to get any more information than I could.”

  Eastley rewarded her with a rare laugh. “Indeed. We didn’t get any more out of him, which narrows the field down. Who was involved in the deception? Mr. and Mrs. Halliday, both deceased. If there were trusted servants, I’m sure they’re gone too.”

  “And Helen. Don’t forget Helen, née Louisa Torrence.”

  Eastley frowned and leaned back in his chair. “So you don’t think she was a victim or even a bystander to this but an active conspirator? That’s interesting.”