by R. J. Koreto
“I wish. A prop is a position in rugby. You’ve probably heard my brother mention it—a violent sport played by boys and by men who think they’re still boys. A prop is apparently one of the strongest and toughest men on the team. It was a compliment. I suppose.”
“I see, my lady. When I was giving the ladies their cloaks as they left, one of the gentlemen told me I’d make a very good fast bowler. Is that also a position in rugby?”
Frances smiled. “That truly is a compliment, Mallow. It’s a reference to cricket.”
“I’ve seen gentlemen play that at the country estate when we visited.”
“It’s a much more civilized sport. Anyway, a fast bowler is someone who can throw a ball with great speed and accuracy, as you did this evening.”
“I am pleased to hear that, my lady, although should we take up sports, I hope that we’d be playing the same game on the same team.” She spoke earnestly with no trace of a smile.
Frances took Mallow’s hand. “Always, dear Mallow. You and I will always be playing the same game on the same team.”
“That pleases me, my lady. Thank you.”
“But as for Mr. Wheaton. Will he have such a storm petrel as his wife?” She looked at her maid with a half smile.
“If I may be so bold, my lady, my impression of Mr. Wheaton is that he is most steadfast and unlikely to change his mind, despite this evening’s unpleasantness.”
“I do believe you’re right. But I have been careless and won’t be again. We will not let our stalker sneak up on us again. Although I daresay that he’s found attacking us is far more trouble than expected. I am getting a sense of what this is all about. I still have much to figure out, but I think a lot of what we’ve been through is window dressing. What we really have here is a woman, this Louisa-Helen, who had to run away. Everyone else is just trying to hide their parts in her disappearance—or their parts in her husband’s death—and making sure we do not find out the truth.”
“What do we do next, my lady?”
“That bag you have—I’ll wager we have a clue, and as tired as we are tonight, we’ll have a quick look. Soon, we’ll see if Inspector Eastley has found anything about Helen’s murdered husband. And we will have to take another look at the Emerald Theatre. I think there are more secrets there. They have had a little time to gather themselves after Mr. Mattins’s murder, and now that we know more about Helen and Sir Arnold’s penchant for actresses, we are in a better position to ask questions. We are by no means stuck.”
Despite Frances’s assurance that they were under no more threat that night, Mallow looked around carefully before alighting from the hansom cab. The hotel’s night porter let them in, and Frances checked the mail rack on the piecrust table in the foyer.
Oh, my—three interesting items, one stamped with the seal of the Metropolitan Police Service and the other two in a lavish green script of the Emerald Theatre. The police and actors both writing her in the same evening. Mrs. Beasley would have been very displeased.
“We advance, Mallow!” cried Frances, opening all three and scanning them quickly. “Inspector Eastley writes us that he has discovered something and invites me to call on him at my convenience. Very nice. And here are two tickets for the opening night of Romeo and Juliet, as Mr. Rusk promised, as well as the opening night party. Two nights from now. That is perfect. The actors will be there, and I can question them. Perhaps I can hear more from Mr. Rusk and Mr. Prescott, and maybe there are others. And this second letter is actually from the Emerald Theatre film studios. They have developed our film, Mallow, and are inviting us to see it. That should be fun. All this is excellent. Now, upstairs. We’re going to see what our stalker has been hiding.”
In their rooms, Mallow again laid out some newspaper to protect the table, and Frances carefully reached into the bag. First she came out with a long, tapered blade.
“It’s like a small sword, my lady.”
“It’s a bayonet, Mallow. Infantry soldiers attach them to the ends of their rifles when attacking.”
“My lady, you don’t think—” Her eyes were wide.
“I don’t know what to think, Mallow. But it’s a horrible, lethal-looking weapon. What else do we have?” She pulled out a piece of cheap paper. Frances read the heavy block letters: “‘You will stop meddling in the search for Helen. She belongs to me and me alone.’ Now that is very odd, Mallow. Let’s say our attacker is Mr. Braceley, Helen’s suitor, the actor-turned-soldier. This is a weapon he might have. He was going to leave us this note. Perhaps dramatically pinned to Mr. Wheaton’s wall with the bayonet. He wanted us to know how easily he could threaten me, even in my fiancé’s house. How terribly theatrical. But why have we made him nervous now, just because we’re trying to find Helen? Unless we’re being elaborately played with?”
There was one more item—an old newspaper, folded open to a particular page. It was a small news item that related to the murder of Mr. Mattins. It was circled in bright-red ink.
“Our stalker has little faith in our intelligence, Mallow. Or our courage, for that matter. He was going to leave this with the note to indicate that we’d be courting death to continue with our investigations. As if we didn’t know or care.”
“Very wicked, my lady,” said a deeply affronted Mallow, “and insulting.”
“Agreed. But about this ink . . .” Who would have red ink? Accountants used it—was it a statement about the murdered Douglas MacKenzie, Helen’s late husband? Frances looked more closely and then tested the ink with her finger.
“My lady—it isn’t blood, is it?”
“No, Mallow. He’s not quite that horrific, although maybe he hoped we’d associate it with blood. It’s like what my friend Miss Studholme once showed me. This is theatrical makeup. Lipstick, it seems, which actresses use for full, red lips. It can be found in dressing rooms at the Emerald or any other theatre.”
“So is this a soldier who wants us to think he’s an actor, my lady?”
“Yes. Or maybe an actor who wants us to think he’s a soldier. Perhaps Mr. Braceley, returned from the Sudan, or someone who wants us to think he is. But I can’t think anymore. We’re both exhausted. I think we’ll be sleeping through breakfast again.”
CHAPTER 22
They both fell asleep quickly and slept well, so they actually did make it to breakfast the next morning. After eggs, toast, and plenty of tea, they met again in their sitting room.
“A busy day ahead of us, Mallow. I’m first going to see Inspector Eastley and then make a quick visit to my sister-in-law, Mary. Also, all of the excitement at Mr. Wheaton’s house shouldn’t make us forget what we discovered in Shropshire. Lady Torrence didn’t seem to remember the name Bradley, but I wonder if her daughter, Lady Freemantle, can help us more with the story. I’ll call on her again. Finally, I have a meeting with some members of the suffragist club—the executive committee and our founder and president, Mrs. Elkhorn.” As Mallow well knew, there was no one in London whose good opinion Frances wanted more than Mrs. Elkhorn’s. “Then back here for lunch, after which you and I will go to the film studio.”
“Very good, my lady. I assume you’ll be taking the bicycle for this morning’s travel?”
“It’s a bright and clear day, Mallow, and the fresh air and exercise will be invigorating.”
“I’m sure it will, my lady. Meanwhile, I will consider what you will wear to the Emerald Theatre tomorrow.”
“Excellent. And bring out your best dress and hat. We shall look most impressive for the opening night of Romeo and Juliet.”
“I beg your pardon, my lady. My best dress?”
“Yes, Mallow, for the theatre. We want to look our best.”
Mallow’s hand flew to her mouth. “My lady, I assumed you would be going with Mr. Wheaton or the marchioness.”
“Dear Mallow, my turn to beg your pardon. As pleasurable as the theatre is, it’s also part of our work, and you are my Watson. We will be going together.”
Mal
low’s eyes shone. Imagine that, she thought, going to a fancy theatre like the Emerald, and on opening night. “I am pleased to attend you there, my lady.”
“Excellent. And if you’d like, I have a copy of the play on my bookshelf, and it has a summary. Shakespeare’s plots can be a little complicated, and it pays to know the story beforehand. And now, I must be off. I’m practically living at Scotland Yard these days. Maybe they can find a small office for me there.”
Having retrieved her bicycle, Frances paused in front of Miss Plimsoll’s, but there was no one suspicious in sight. She figured that the close call she and Mallow had given their stalker last night—and the seizure of his bag and threatening note—would ensure they wouldn’t see him again for a while. He wanted to terrify us. We ended up terrifying him. But it paid to be cautious.
She happily pedaled off to Scotland Yard, where the sergeant on duty gave her a sour look.
“I had assumed, my lady, that you would be making other arrangements for your transportation.”
“A thousand pardons, Sergeant. I have been so busy that I have not yet been able to contact the Commissioner about making arrangements for parking bicycles. But I will get to him shortly, I promise. Meanwhile, I see that you are hardly overwhelmed with them yet, so I’ll just leave it here, for now.”
“But, my lady—”
“Thank you so much. I see how busy you are, and I know the way.” She took off down the hallway and heard the sergeant dressing down a couple of constables for snickering at the exchange.
Constable Smith gave Frances his usual taciturn, “M’lady,” and then she knocked on the inspector’s door and entered.
“Ah, Lady Frances. Perhaps I should’ve just met you at Miss Plimsoll’s. You’re continually upsetting our desk sergeant.”
“I do apologize. I was saying to Mallow how much time and bother we’d save if you could see your way to finding me a small office here. I could keep my bicycle in the corner.”
“As soon as our meeting is over, I’ll ask the chief super about it,” he said dryly. “Meanwhile, I have done as you requested. We found the records of that murder in 1886. An accountant by the name of Douglas MacKenzie was stabbed to death. The motive was assumed to be robbery. According to these records, there was no arrest. You are fortunate that the detective sergeant who investigated it took excellent notes, something that doesn’t always happen in cases like that, especially back then.” He slid a folder to Frances. “I doubt anyone will be looking for the file anytime soon, but please return it at the end of your . . . investigations,” he said with a thin smile.
“I will guard it carefully and return it as soon as I reach some sort of conclusion. Do you have the file for the more recent murder of Mr. Mattins?”
“That, my lady, you will have to get elsewhere. It’s not something I could do. Or to be more exact, I could do it, but it isn’t worth the cost.”
“But surely you could call the inspector in charge of that case? Why wouldn’t he share his findings with you?”
“Oh, he would. But he’d want to know why a Special Branch inspector is interested in a common murder. There would be questions and talk. He’d speak with his superior, who would talk to mine.”
“And you can’t say it’s to oblige London’s first female consulting detective?” asked Frances.
“Not even that. But I am sure you will prove equal to getting the information through other channels.”
“Thank you. I take that as a compliment. Very well, you’ve given me this, and it will get me started. Now, Inspector, I have been stubborn and difficult during our acquaintanceship. I realize that.” She paused and then sighed before saying, “This is when you’re supposed to say, ‘Oh, no, my lady, it has always been a pleasure working with you.’”
Eastley laughed. “Oh, no, my lady. I am not one of the Society gentlemen you are used to. You have been stubborn and difficult, and I won’t insult you by pretending otherwise.”
Frances laughed in return. “Well said. Where was I? Oh, yes. Despite it all, I am indescribably grateful to you for doing this. I give you my heartfelt thanks.”
Eastley seemed almost embarrassed at her sincerity. “Yes. Well, you’re welcome. But the favor is not entirely free. I have two requests for you. One, if someone is going to be arrested at the end, I would like to be one doing it.”
“But of course. Doesn’t Sherlock Holmes always let Scotland Yard take the credit?”
He smiled thinly. “Thank you. But that’s not the issue. We’ve cut some corners here, what with the exhumation and this file. We don’t need more people knowing about it.”
“A very fair request, Inspector. I give you my word. And the second item?”
He sighed.
Oh, this is going to be a big one, thought Frances.
“Please be careful, Lady Frances.”
“Why, Inspector, you care for me. I am flattered.”
“Don’t be too flattered. I’m imaging all the paper work required if harm comes to the sister of a marquess.” He stood. “Best of luck. And don’t forget your bicycle on the way out.”
Frances headed back to the lobby. She had the file in her bag, and she still had the bayonet. She would’ve shared her finding with Inspector Eastley if she had needed more leverage but was glad it wasn’t necessary. There would be too many questions from a man who was very good at asking them, and Frances didn’t want the police pulling her off the case because of the danger. Meanwhile, she had heard about finding fingerprints on objects and matching them with culprits. But, she realized ruefully, she had no one to compare it to. Not yet.
But how to get the information on Mr. Mattins’s murder? What she really wanted were the details of the killing, which would be in the police surgeon’s report.
Medical—of course. Dr. Edward Grayson, the Home Office physician who had attended the exhumation. He said he had an office at University College. Perhaps other murder victims ended up there. Dr. Grayson may have handled Mr. Mattins himself or be in a better position to ask for information than Inspector Eastley was. Back onto the bicycle; it wasn’t far. Once she arrived, a helpful student directed her to the medical hall. There was no problem with the bicycle here. A dozen of them were lined neatly by the porter’s lodge, and no wonder—they were popular with students.
In the building, Frances saw a sign to the Home Office laboratories. A clerk was manning the front desk, and above him a sign noted, “Only Home Office Staff Beyond This Point.”
The clerk looked up and smiled. “I’m sorry, miss, but this is a Home Office suite, not an area for students.”
Ah. He thought she was a student. In fact, University College had been one of the first institutions in London to grant degrees to women.
“Thank you, but I’m not a student. I’m here to see Dr. Edward Grayson.”
Now the smile turned to open merriment. “Ah, I see the problem. I think you’ve got the wrong Dr. Grayson, miss. This isn’t Harley Street, and our Dr. Grayson isn’t the kind of doctor who sees patients.”
Frances matched him with a sweet smile of her own. “Oh, I’m aware of that. He’s the kind of doctor who cuts people up to see how they died.” She watched the color drain from the clerk’s face. “I have business with him. Would you be so good as to tell him Lady Frances Ffolkes is here to see him at his earliest convenience?”
“Ah, yes, Miss . . . my lady.” He cleared his throat. “May I ask what this is in reference to?”
Frances held up her bag. “I would so like to tell you,” she said, lowering her voice to a whisper, “but it’s secret government business.”
That seemed to confuse him even more. As Frances expected, he picked up his telephone to call the doctor. So much easier than continuing to talk with this lady of quality in a conversation that was threatening to turn into something out of Lewis Carroll’s works.
“Dr. Grayson, I’m calling from the front desk. You have a visitor . . . a lady, actually . . . she won’t tell me . . . Lady F
rances Ffolkes . . . very good, sir.” He hung up the telephone. “The doctor will be out in a moment.”
While she waited, Frances began reading the papers in the file. There wasn’t much there—Douglas MacKenzie had been killed by a blade in the early evening. The street was near the Emerald Theatre; perhaps he had been going home. The alley was used as a shortcut, but no one had been around to hear anything. Had the killer known MacKenzie’s habits and been aware of that alley?
There was also a detailed description of the wound, which Frances hoped would be helpful to Dr. Grayson.
The doctor came out a moment later, dressed in a suit and looking at Frances with a mix of pleasure and curiosity.
“My lady, what brings you here? Although I am glad to see you.”
“Thank you, Doctor. I actually have some questions as a result of our . . . meeting the other day. Do you have a few minutes for me?”
The doctor now looked bewildered, and the clerk was looking a little stunned.
“Of course, my lady. Do follow me to my office,” said Dr. Grayson. He led her back through several hallways. Some doors were open, revealing men working in offices. They passed by one room separated by large double doors marked, “Operating Theatre,” but to Frances’s disappointment, they were closed.
The doctor’s office was small and rather messy. Mallow would’ve been very unhappy. There was nothing on the walls except for his framed medical degree and just one photo on his desk. Curiosity got the better of Frances, and she also needed to build a personal connection to the doctor to ensure his cooperation.
“Your wife, Dr. Grayson?”
He blushed a little. “My fiancée, Arabella. We’re to be married as soon as I’m a little more established.”
“She’s very sweet looking.”
“Thank you, my lady. I’m very fortunate to have found her. She’s very quiet and shy. I didn’t think girls like that existed in these modern times.” His blush turned crimson. “I’m so sorry, my lady, I didn’t mean to imply—”
