by R. J. Koreto
“I am very glad it did, my lady. I just hope Ethel and Violet are careful with their borrowed clothes.”
Frances laughed. “I’m sure they will. They’re good girls, and they won’t be having dinner in them. I told them to go around the park and lead our stalker on a merry chase. Even if he eventually realized he’s been fooled, we’ll be on our way to Shrewsbury.”
“It serves him right, my lady,” said Mallow stoutly.
“Yes, it does. He’s a shrewd one. His persistent and careful stalking of us has convinced me he’s the missing Alexander Braceley, the actor-turned-soldier who was one of Helen’s suitors. If he somehow survived the Sudan and came home, he’s a formidable opponent. As an actor, he’s used to disguising himself, and as a soldier, he can live by his wits and make quick decisions. But what does he want? Just to frighten us? To send us a message? We’ll have to think on that. He won’t attack Ethel and Violet, not in a cab or in front of the hotel. But we will need to watch out for him, and sooner or later we will have to catch him.”
It was a three-hour trip to Shrewsbury, and the train served a very nice breakfast. Mallow watched the countryside go by as they ate. A London girl born and bred, Mallow always found the countryside exciting and a little scary. Although she felt at home in London’s worst slums, it took a lot of reassurance from Frances before she accepted that there weren’t wolves lurking behind every tree.
“I’ve never been to Shropshire, my lady.”
“I’ve only been once or twice myself,” said Frances. “It’s a very rural county known for the River Severn, the longest river in England.”
“Longer than the Thames, my lady?”
“Yes, even longer. Blackthorpe, where we’re going, is built on a stream that flows into the Severn. I expect it will be rather picturesque. Anyway, we’re going to look up the Bradleys, and we’ll start with the church. In small towns like this, everyone knows everyone else. I want to find out about Mrs. Lockton’s past.”
Mallow poured more tea for Frances and herself. “So much wickedness in your investigation, my lady. Everyone seems to be lying.”
“Yes. We have a great many lies, but they are not necessarily all due to wickedness. Remember what we know about Helen and all the men who loved her. She married a man who I suppose she loved. Some people do the most terrible things for love, Mallow.”
Mallow gave that a lot of thought.
At Shrewsbury, they changed to a small local train that took them the few miles to Blackthorpe. It was indeed picturesque. The train station, even as small as it was, seemed to intrude on a town that didn’t look like it had changed much since Henry IV had fought a major battle there in the fifteenth century. There were thatched cottages, muddy streets, and an ancient church with black stone stained in places with moss. One of the more substantial buildings on the main street was the Boar’s Head Tavern, where farm workers, who had no doubt been hard at work for hours, were taking an ale break.
“It’s a rare situation that I’m the best-dressed person in sight,” said Frances wryly.
“I think, my lady, that you’re the best-dressed woman in the entire history of this town,” said Mallow.
“You may be right. I bet the Boar’s Head does a very nice lunch with fresh country food, but we’ll find that out later. For now, let’s visit the church and see what we can find out about the Bradleys.”
They got more than a few curious glances as they walked. There was probably a local squire who owned much of the farmland and served as the justice of the peace, and his wife would be the de facto social leader of the community. But even she wouldn’t be able to compete in status—or in the expense of her clothing—with the London-born daughter of a marquess.
The church was dark inside, but there was enough light to see that it was clean and well-maintained. A figure in black was tidying the altar, making sure everything was perfect. He was elderly and moved surely but slowly. His silver hair was brushed straight back from a well-lined face.
He looked up, and Frances saw him squint. Perhaps his eyesight wasn’t as good as it had been, and the church was not lit as brightly as it would be during a service. “Can I help you?” he asked. From the strength of his rural accent, Frances was willing to bet he had spent his entire life in Shropshire.
“Perhaps you can,” she said and walked closer. “I see from your robe you are a verger here.”
“Yes, I have that honor. Peter Doakley at your service. But perhaps you seek the vicar? He should be here shortly.”
“Thank you, Mr. Doakley. I am Lady Frances Ffolkes, down from London, and this is my assistant, Miss June Mallow. I think you may be able to help us. We’re involved in a little family research project, and I was hoping to view your baptism records.”
“Happy to oblige, my lady.” He was clearly tickled at having someone so well-born in his church. “We have some very old records here. May I ask how far back you would like to look?”
“Only about fifty or sixty years.”
“That will be easy then. Please follow me, and I will set you up nicely.” They followed him out of the nave and into a records room, adjacent to the vicar’s office. It was lined with bound books, neatly labeled by hand, going back about a century.
“Here they are, my lady. Baptisms, weddings, and funerals. May I bring you some tea?”
“Thank you. That would be very nice.” He left, and Frances and Mallow looked over the books. “We’re going to assume Emma Bradley, as she was then, is between fifty and sixty years old, judging from her appearance and the age of her daughter. It’s a pity we don’t have a photograph of her to show anyone here, but we’ll make do with what we have.” She heaved one volume off the shelf for Mallow and one for herself. They pulled chairs up to the desk, opened the books, and got to work. Mr. Doakley came with the promised tea. He was clearly curious about their mission but was too polite to ask. He said he’d be in the church if they had any questions.
“Certainly a well-populated town, Mallow. A great many baptisms.”
“And a vicar who wrote them all down with an elegant hand, as they used to do, my lady.”
It took them about an hour until Mallow found a name. “My lady, this may be it. Emma Bradley, baptized in this church in 1855. Daughter of Edmund Bradley and Elizabeth Bradley, née Dean.”
“Good show, Mallow. That seems right. How many Emma Bradleys could there be of that age here? Now comes the next part, finding out if anyone knows her or about her. I imagine Mr. Doakley could help us.”
They replaced the books and found Mr. Doakley still pottering about the church, making sure all the hymnals were in place. This must be the most well-ordered church in England, concluded Frances.
“Did you find what you’re looking for, my lady?” he asked.
“Yes, we did. We were looking for a name—and we found it. Emma Bradley, baptized in this church in 1855. You are a local man, I assume. Can you tell me if she is still in this village, or if you know where she moved? We know something to her advantage if we can find her.”
Mr. Doakley looked at her curiously and frowned, as if he didn’t know how to respond. Frances suppressed a shiver of delight. There was something odd here. As with Helen’s grave, something wasn’t as it should be.
“Come with me,” he eventually said. They walked out of the church and through the yard. Were they visiting Emma? If so—then who was Mrs. Lockton? They continued across the main street and down a narrow lane past some houses until they came to a cemetery. Now despite her warm jacket, Frances felt a chill, and a glance at her maid told her that Mallow did too.
“We outgrew the churchyard some sixty years ago,” said Mr. Doakley. “This land wasn’t particularly suitable for farming, and the lord of the manor at the time donated it for church use.” The verger seemed to know the way. He probably knew each section by decade.
“Here you are, my lady.” He pointed to a small stone, nothing like Helen’s elaborate one. It read, “Emma Bradley, 1855–1865
, nestled in God’s arms.”
“It was a fever, my lady. Swept through the village that year and took many. Emma was one of six children in that family, and it was a small mercy that she was the only one who didn’t have the strength to resist.”
“I see,” said Frances. “You seem to know them well.”
“Everyone knows the Bradleys hereabout, my lady. A large family and a good one. It was a sad day when we buried young Emma here. I was there myself, along with most of the village, out of respect and affection for her parents.” He paused. “I’m sorry you had to find out like this, my lady, but when you said ‘something to her advantage,’ I didn’t know what you meant.”
“Are there are no other women named Emma Bradley?”
He shook his head. “If there were, it was long before my time. This Emma here had two brothers who married local girls, but neither is named Emma. But come to think of it, I tell a lie, my lady. Her brother Luke has a daughter named Emma after his late sister, but I didn’t think of her, as she’s much younger than the Emma you were looking for, only about twenty-five. She married last year and now lives in Shrewsbury.”
“You’ve been most helpful. I appreciate it.” She stared down at the tombstone, her mind working furiously. Another lie. Another hidden person. “But tell me, Mr. Doakley. You mentioned the lord of the manor. Which lord is that?”
“Oh, the Torrences. They own all the land over here, my lady, from this field and behind toward Shrewsbury. The farms over there, nearer to the stream, mostly belong to Squire Henley, a very fine man, like his father before him.”
“Torrence. I think I know about one of the family—not the lord but his cousin, Sir Arnold Torrence, who was a colleague of my father’s many years ago.” She would have to be careful here. The Torrences were an old family, wealthy and no doubt with a lot of influence. Someone like Mr. Doakley would not criticize the family, especially to a stranger.
“Aye, I knew him,” said Mr. Doakley. And that was it. No “very fine man” comment for Sir Arnold. “His cousin, the old lord, died about ten years ago. Lord Reginald Torrence, he was, and Sir Arnold visited frequently with his wife and daughters. A good man, Lord Reginald Torrence.” But not, apparently, Sir Arnold.
“I never met Sir Arnold myself,” said Frances. “But I know his widow, Lady Beatrice Torrence. She had two daughters.”
He nodded. “A gracious lady,” said Mr. Doakley. He gave Frances a look. “May I ask if your inquiries are on her behalf?”
“We are trying to locate a member of the Bradley family, but my information may not have been accurate,” she said, not quite answering him. “I also know the younger Torrence daughter, Sarah.”
He perked up at that. “I remember her, my lady. A lovely little child, scrambling after her older sister, Louisa. A very spirited girl, was Louisa, but not unkind, and very sweet to her little sister.” Everyone seemed to deserve a compliment—except Sir Arnold. “May I ask if the daughters are well?”
“Yes, Mr. Doakley. Sarah married well and lives in London with her husband. She is now Lady Freemantle. She has two grown sons. Louisa—I never met her. She is married too, and her husband holds a government position in the colonies.”
He nodded. Frances saw he wanted to say something but was struggling.
She spoke gently. “Mr. Doakley, I am acting as an agent for Lady Torrence in London. What you tell me will only be shared with her, and I will not tell her the source. But for reasons I can’t say, I am researching both the Bradleys and the Torrences. What can you tell me?”
He smiled sadly. “For all that, my lady, I don’t know much. A silly thing, really. I can’t see how it will help. It’s just that the young Louisa and young Emma were the same age, more or less. When the London Torrences came for visits, they’d come to the village. There are some very pleasant walks and the ruin of an old abbey, which ladies like to sketch. They got on nicely, the two girls, with the younger one tagging along.”
He sighed, as if girding himself for the rest of the story. “Unfortunately, on one of the last visits before Emma’s untimely death, Sir Arnold put an end to the friendship. He said that his daughter should not be associating with . . . with a girl not of her class, my lady. It was a public scene, I’m sorry to say, leaving both girls in tears and Lady Torrence deeply upset. She saw no harm in the friendship. It was a very unhappy moment, my lady. Left a lot of bad feeling in the village. It might’ve been forgotten, but with Emma’s death the following winter—well, it lent a tragic pall over it all.”
They stood in silence for a while as the cool spring breeze passed over the field and ruffled the grass. Frances reflected that Lady Torrence hadn’t told her that story, but it had been so long ago, perhaps forgotten among Sir Arnold’s other cruelties.
Finally, Mr. Doakley cleared his throat.
“If that is all, my lady, I should be getting back to the church.”
“Of course, Mr. Doakley. Thank you for being so frank. I will keep your confidence.”
“Thank you, my lady.” He turned and headed back toward the church.
They were alone for a few more minutes before Mallow broke the silence in a hesitant voice. “My lady. Are we going to arrange for another exhumation?”
“No, Mallow,” she responded with a smile. “I have no doubt that a girl named Emma Bradley is in this grave. The real question is, who is the woman pretending to be Emma Lockton, running a fine shop on Bond Street? But it’s getting late. Let’s see what kind of lunch the Boar’s Head offers.”
“Very good, my lady. Do you think they serve proper London food there?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” said Frances with cheer. Mallow sighed.
The proprietor of the Boar’s Head may have known nothing about London society, but he could tell Frances was a lady of quality and Mallow was a superior servant. He led them to a table in a semiprivate alcove, and Mallow brushed a hand across the chairs before declaring them suitable for sitting. It turned out that the pub actually served savory meat pies, and even Mallow, after some close examination, pronounced the food quite acceptable, especially when accompanied by half pints of the local ale. One didn’t drink ale in London drawing rooms, but Frances had a “When in Rome” attitude.
“So let’s think here,” said Frances. “The mysterious woman known as Mrs. Lockton takes the name of a childhood friend of Louisa Torrence and then goes to work for the Hallidays—who had given shelter to that same Louisa Torrence, then called ‘Helen.’ But she arrives after Helen went missing. The Reverend Halliday seemed certain that Emma didn’t show up until after Helen died. Of course, he also wasn’t sure where his mother knew Emma from. The families had known each other, he said, and ‘Mrs. Lockton’ mentioned that it was a connection through a cousin. Perhaps Mrs. Halliday had never met the real Emma, so it was easy for the imposter to disguise herself.”
Mallow frowned. “I see that, my lady. But why? She helped Mrs. Halliday and then got married and runs her shop.”
“I don’t know . . . yet. I’m seeing a triangle here: Emma Lockton. Emma Bradley. And Helen. But how . . . ?” She shook her head. “This may be much larger than a missing daughter. We may be looking at an act of exquisite revenge, Mallow. Someone wanted to punish the Torrences by killing their daughter. Even if she was Emma’s friend, it could’ve been a grim ‘eye for an eye’ logic, brought to extremes. Even assuming the Reverend Halliday is honest—and I do—we can’t be sure that Emma actually didn’t show up earlier, when Helen was still alive. But that’s still all supposition. And that soldier, Alexander Braceley, showing up after all these years? It’s quite a mess so far. But step by step.”
The proprietor came by to ask if he could get them anything else.
“He’s a local man,” said Frances when he left. “That accent marks him as being from Shropshire. Mr. Doakley is the same. It’s the Welsh influence—a similar intonation to Llewelyn, my uncle’s butler. Did you hear it from Mrs. Lockton?”
“She sounded
like a London native to me, my lady.”
“Yes, she’s been living there for years and would want to sound as if she fit in. She’s gotten rather good at it. Unless . . .”
“Unless she was never from Shropshire at all, my lady?” asked Mallow.
“Exactly. I was thinking that we should confront Mrs. Lockton, letting her know that we know she’s a fraud, but I’m going to hold onto that for now. I may have made a mistake in telling her we knew the grave was empty of Helen, but at least we found out that she also knows something isn’t as it should be. Is she fearful about that anonymous child? I’m going to hold back on telling her we know she’s not Emma Lockton. I want her to think her disguise is safe, and I won’t bring up the child. We don’t know who is on whose side right now. For all we know, Mrs. Lockton may be in league with our stalker, and I don’t want them to panic. Emma Lockton may know where Helen is or what happened to her.”
“Very good, my lady. What will you be doing next?”
“We can’t forget that there were two murders: Helen’s husband, Douglas MacKenzie, and Mr. Mattins. Inspector Eastley is trying to find the details of MacKenzie’s murder, and we’ll see what clues his work brings up. For now, we’re going to have to wait, I’m afraid.” She wasn’t happy about that but could think of no one else to talk to, no other avenues to explore for now.
“You’re dining at Mr. Wheaton’s house this evening,” Mallow reminded her.
“Yes, Mallow, a proper dinner party.” She smiled wryly. “Don’t worry; there’s a train back to Shrewsbury and then to London within the hour.”
“I’m not worried, my lady, but we need time to do your hair up proper, get you into a dress, and choose jewelry. The green dress with your grandmother’s necklace should work very well, my lady.”
“I put myself in your capable hands,” said Frances, and that made Mallow happy.
CHAPTER 20
Although her head was full of her investigation, Frances realized that it was good to have an evening off visiting with Hal. And of course, there was the pleasure of being in his company. There would be other couples at dinner, his solicitor friends from the best firms in London and their wives. And Frances. She was not a wife yet but would be, and these would be the people she’d socialize with when she moved into his house. Which would become their house. She had to sort out her feelings—as soon as she solved the mystery of Helen.
