by R. J. Koreto
But Frances just laughed. “No offense taken, Dr. Grayson. I am bolder than most ladies, I fully admit. Meanwhile, take my card. I’m an officer of the League for Women’s Political Equality, dedicated to achieving the vote for women. Tell Arabella she’s welcome to contact me about joining.” That left the doctor speechless. Frances continued, “But I am sure you’re busy, so I’ll get to my reason for coming. I told you the other night that I was at the exhumation as a service for a friend. That is true, but it’s a little more complex.”
Dr. Grayson looked a little wary. “Complex” was clearly not something he wanted to hear about.
“And what can I do for you?” he asked.
“The woman who should’ve been in that grave was married. Her husband was killed in London not long before she died herself. Through friends of mine in the Home Office, I was able to get the police report for his murder.” She produced it for him. “I want you to look at the description of the wound and tell me how he died.”
He opened the folder and read the description. “Fairly detailed description. It seemed to be caused by a long, flat knife from the description. However . . .”
“Yes?” said Frances eagerly.
“It was a very deep wound. Too deep for a typical kitchen knife.”
“But might a professional killer carry a blade like that?”
“I perform autopsies, Lady Frances, but I’m not an authority on criminal weaponry. Although, to be fair, I’ve seen my share of murdered bodies, and, well—” He looked up at Frances.
“Please, Doctor. I managed to get through an exhumation without fainting. I daresay I can handle whatever you are going to tell me.”
The doctor grinned. “Fair enough, my lady. I was going to say that you can kill with a short knife as easily as a long one if you know what you’re doing. And how would you conceal something this long?”
Frances nodded. That made sense.
“I’m not sure what else I can tell you, my lady.”
“Oh, there’s much more; we’re just beginning,” said Frances cheerfully, watching the doctor’s face fall. “There was another murder just a few days ago of someone who I have reason to believe had a connection with the deceased Mr. MacKenzie. I want you to compare these wounds to those of a man named Anthony Mattins, killed outside the Emerald Theatre.”
Dr. Grayson just stared at her for a few moments, blinking. “I can’t imagine what we could possibly learn from a comparison.”
“Oh, but we have a weapon we can compare it to: a long, flat blade, as you said.” She reached into her bag and slapped the bayonet onto his desk. She took pleasure in watching him jump.
“Lady Frances . . . where did you get this?” Dr. Grayson looked at it for a while, and then his professional curiosity got the better of him. He picked the blade up, handled it, and then looked at the police report again. “I have to say that this, or something like it, could’ve been the murder weapon.”
“Not inconsistent with the wound. Is that how you would put it?” she asked. She took great pleasure in his smile.
“You have it perfectly. But you mentioned Anthony Mattins—the theatre chap? He was one of mine.”
“What a delightful coincidence,” said Frances.
“Not really,” he said, a little ruefully. “I’m junior man here. I get all the ‘plum’ assignments, like murder victims and midnight exhumations. It’s a recent case, and I think I still have the file here.” He reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a file that was similar to the one Frances had.
“Let’s see what we have here,” he said, and Frances was pleased to see that he was forgetting that he was discussing deadly wounds with the daughter of the marquess and was throwing himself into his professional curiosity. He reviewed the file, then from another drawer produced a ruler. He took careful measurements of the bayonet and made some notes. Then he smiled.
“So again, ‘not inconsistent’ with the weapon?” asked Frances.
“Oh, I can do better than that, my lady. I would say that the MacKenzie and Mattins wounds seem to have a great many similarities. And the bayonet would definitely account for Mattins’s death. Look here. See the blade’s edge? It’s not completely smooth. That means there would have been tearing, and see my notes . . .” He handed her the file. “Read right here—the flesh wasn’t neatly cut, but torn in places, as we’d expect from a nicked blade like this.”
He was clearly excited by his discovery.
“So this was the murder weapon? This bayonet?”
“I would say very likely. One doesn’t think of a bayonet killing someone—that is, outside of a battlefield. It’s long and awkward to handle unless it’s at the end of a rifle, and you don’t see rifles on London streets. Either thirty years ago or today.”
Frances leaned back. There was a lot to think about. She had made the mistake of underestimating her stalker, but he had also underestimated her. If the bayonet was going to be left as a warning, he clearly didn’t expect her to realize it was a valuable clue.
“Dr. Grayson, you have been very helpful, and I am deeply in your debt.” She took the MacKenzie folder and the bayonet and put them back in her bag.
“You’re taking it back? Shouldn’t the police be called to take charge of that weapon? It’s an important clue.”
“Of course. I have friends in the Home Office, as I said.”
“But Lady Frances, you can’t just walk around London with a bayonet—a possible murder weapon!” Once again, Dr. Grayson was a little overwhelmed.
“I didn’t walk. I bicycled. And you can be sure that as an established consulting detective, I will take good care of it. Good day, and thank you again. I’ve used up a lot of your valuable time and know how busy you are, so I’ll see myself out.”
Feeling very pleased, she headed back to the lobby. She saw the operating theatre was still closed, and she briefly thought of slipping in and seeing what was there. But no, she had other appointments, and there would no doubt be an opportunity some other time.
For now, it was off for a visit with Mary. She retrieved her bicycle and, after checking again for stalkers, pedaled off to the Seaforth house.
CHAPTER 23
Cumberland greeted Frances at the door. “I am sorry for any delay in answering, my lady. I am used to hearing the sounds of horses or motorcars in front of the house, not bicycles.”
“I have a bell on the handlebar. I’ll try that next time,” said Frances, grinning.
“I shall look forward to that, my lady. Meanwhile, her ladyship is in the morning room. If you would like some tea, I’ll send some up straightaway.”
It was early in the day for making calls, so Mary wasn’t yet in the larger drawing room or out making calls herself. She was busy planning dinner parties that she would host and considering those she and Charles would attend, as befitted socially prominent people and Charles’s senior position in government.
“Dear Franny, you are here just in time,” said Mary as Frances entered the room. “Next month we’re having a rather intellectual evening. The chancellor of the University of Bologna—I think that’s his title—is coming, and among some government functionaries, we’ll have an Oxford don or two. It should be interesting. Maybe my appetite will come back by then; this early seasonal warmth seems to have killed it. In any case, would you and Hal join us?”
“I’m sure I can say yes for both of us.”
“Excellent. And since we will not need to engage any outside staff, you won’t have any opportunity to get into a wrestling match with a kitchen maid.” A moment later, she was laughing at the look of shock on Frances’s face.
“How on earth did you know? Is it already all over London?”
“Too many witnesses, my dear. You know how gossip spreads. One brief mention to a maid, who chats with the predawn milkman, and so on. It made it to my kitchen even as breakfast was being cooked, and my maid, Garritty, with great flourish, told me the story with so much drama one would think you had
been kidnapped by gypsies.”
“Does Charles know?”
“He won’t hear it from me. But I daresay some valet will hear it soon enough and pass it to his master, who will tease Charles about it in the hallway of some government building. I knew if you had been seriously hurt that Mallow or Hal would’ve called us, but I am consumed with curiosity. According to Garritty, you caught out a sneak thief in Hal’s kitchen.”
“Oh, if it was only that! My investigations have earned me a stalker, someone who is very unhappy even after all these years that I am trying to find Louisa Torrence. He disguised himself as a kitchen maid. But don’t worry. Even though he escaped, Mallow and I gave him a thrashing he won’t soon forget. And I am getting closer. I think I might know who the stalker is and perhaps why he’s acting this way. Louisa remains a mystery, but bit by bit I am finding out more about her.”
Mary smiled and shook her head. “I’m at loss for words. I won’t tell you to stop, but I will tell you to be careful.” She took a sip of tea, frowned, and put it down.
“What’s wrong with it? You always have the best tea here.”
“It tastes a little off somehow.”
Frances looked more closely at her sister-in-law. She had always been pale and willowy, but now she seemed almost wan. And she had said something about having no appetite.
“Are you sick, Mary? Should I ring for Garritty?”
“No, please. It will pass.”
Frances’s eyes narrowed, then her face lit up. “Of course, you’re not sick—you’re with child!”
Mary laughed. “I should’ve known the Lady Sherlock would figure it out. I was going to tell you but didn’t want to interrupt your investigations. Only Charles and I know. I haven’t even told my mother yet. I imagine Garritty has guessed, but she isn’t saying anything.”
“This was well worth the interruption.” She gave Mary a hug. “What could be more important? I am looking forward to my nephew or niece, whom I will spoil terribly.”
“You’ll take them to all kinds of unsuitable places and be their absolute favorite aunt.” They both laughed. “But for now, I can’t seem to eat anything, although I’m told in a few weeks I won’t be able to stop eating.”
“I’m so happy for you, my dearest friend. You can now be my source for all things maternal because my case seems to be full of maternal feelings.”
“I’m not quite a mother yet,” said Mary.
“Oh, but you are so very nearly, and more maternal than I will ever be. I am faced with a kind vicar, who was deeply loved and wanted by his parents. Although they have gone to their final reward, he is close to his mother’s companion, a widow who seems to love him too—but perhaps too much like a woman, rather than a mother, if you take my meaning. But he’s rather unworldly, and I don’t think he realizes it.”
“How deliciously scandalous!” said Mary.
“Exactly. The vicar’s parents knew Louisa when she took refuge with them. And this widow has a child of her own and is very protective of her daughter, just a few years younger than we are. And finally, there’s Lady Torrence herself, who so misses her older daughter. Mothers and motherhood keep cropping up.”
“Well, I am not a detective like you, my dear, but if you want a perspective from an almost-mother, know this: mothers will do anything, things you cannot imagine, for their children.”
Frances considered that. “The Greeks even had a special word for the kind of love a mother has for her children.”
“And well they should. Could the passions that impel your stalker be a love you hadn’t thought of?”
“You have sent me in a whole new direction, dear sister. I hadn’t considered that. There is deep romantic love here, but perhaps I wasn’t considering all kinds of love. This something to think about.”
“Then think on your own mother.”
“Really? Mine?” Frances had considered herself close to her mother, despite having been largely raised by a series of nannies, as all children in her class were. Of course, there had been battles. A lot of them.
“Yes, yours. I knew her well, you know. Do you realize how hard she fought to get your father to allow you to go to Vassar?”
“Well, I knew she was on my side, even if she didn’t want to admit it,” said Frances, a little uncertainly.
“She didn’t want that life for you. She wanted you to stay home and marry well, not sit in a classroom on the other side of the world. It went against everything she wanted and meant that she had to stand up to your father. But she did, because it’s what you wanted so much, and she loved you.”
Feeling a little humbled, Frances nodded. “This has been very helpful. I need to come here more often—for your love and your common sense, which I often lack.”
“Excellent. I’ll be your Watson.”
“I’m afraid Mallow is already Watson.”
“Then I will be your landlady, Mrs. Hudson.” They laughed once more.
“I must go now. I’ve one more call and then a suffrage meeting. Do take care of yourself.”
“And you too. Your brother is so very excited. He says if it’s a boy, he’ll be prime minister.”
Frances smirked. “I’ll do my brother one better. I say, even if it’s a girl, she’ll be prime minister.”
It wasn’t far to Lady Freemantle’s house, and the butler just said, “Very good, my lady,” when Frances told him that she was leaving her bicycle just inside the front gate. Lady Freemantle received her, and Frances saw a mix of emotions play across the woman’s face. The last time Frances had come, it was to reveal secrets and bring up a painful past. But it also had also given her and her husband a little hope. Now Frances was back. What was it this time?
“Please make yourself comfortable and have some tea.” Lady Freemantle paused while searching for the right words, and Frances watched. It was interesting to see what Sarah’s feelings were. There would be joy if Frances could find her sister. But what else would come out? “I know you work for my mother, not me, but do you have anything to tell me?” Then she smiled wryly. “Or are you here to ask me more questions?”
“I know it’s terribly vulgar of me to show up again to question you about your family.”
“Oh, it is—but that won’t stop you, will it?” said Lady Freemantle, laughing with such good nature that Frances joined in.
“Oh, I’m afraid not, but it won’t take long. I came across a name that wasn’t familiar to your mother, but maybe it is to you. A name from your childhood: Bradley.”
Lady Freemantle closed her eyes for a moment. “Dear lord, I haven’t heard that name, or thought about it, for many years. I assume you mean Emma Bradley from Blackthorpe, in Shropshire. How did you come across that name? But don’t answer. I’m sure you can’t tell me, and I’m sure I don’t want to know. What do you know?”
“That she was a childhood companion of your sister’s. That your father discouraged the friendship. And that Emma Bradley died tragically young.”
Lady Freemantle nodded. “That’s the basics. I can tell you that Louisa was never happier than when we went to the country. With our cousins and local children, a certain . . . informality was allowed, at least at first. Now I’m not a fool, and I know that it was never forgotten who lived in the manor and who lived in a thatched cottage, but when you’re chasing butterflies in the field, positions in life tend to seem less important.”
Frances nodded. That was true.
“So Louisa loved the country, and I was allowed to play with the local children too, although I was younger. And then . . .” She sighed. “And then my father had to intervene. He decided that Louisa was too old for such foolishness, that it was time to separate her from those in the working classes, and he banned her from playing with them. Mother pushed back, but when our father made up his mind, there was no discussion. I was too young to really understand what was going on, but Louisa discussed it with me for years afterward. She had a lot of bitterness. When we found out later that
Emma had died and Louisa hadn’t been allowed to go to the funeral or even been told, she was furious.”
“I can understand. I don’t wish to criticize your father in your own home, Lady Freemantle, but his behavior sounds unusually strict. My brother and I were allowed to socialize with the local children at our country estate.”
“Don’t hesitate to criticize on my account. It was terrible and unreasonable. Especially for Louisa, who was high-spirited to begin with. She spoke about it to me until the day she left. She swore she’d go back to Shropshire someday. It’s odd, really, that you bring it up. It seems when she finally ran away, it was to join the stage. But I always thought her choice would have been to settle in Shropshire. I’m afraid I can’t tell you any more. My mother may have forgotten the name—she may not have even known Emma’s surname—but she couldn’t have forgotten the event. Unless . . . unless she wanted to forget it.”
Frances could see why she’d want to, the pain of seeing her daughter hurt and being unable to do anything about it.
She stood. “Thank you again for your frankness.”
“Lady Frances—” Lady Freemantle hesitated, and her voice became almost a whisper. “Will I see Louisa again?”
“I cannot offer a guarantee right now. But I can tell you that I am optimistic. If Louisa lives, and I think she does, I will produce her. Thank you again, and good day.” With that, she let the butler show her out.
So the friendship with Emma was a defining moment for Louisa, a disappointment she held onto for years. Why had the false Emma Lockton taken that name? It tied her somehow to Louisa, but the reasons were obscure. Was the imposter somehow an agent of Helen’s, if Helen was the author of the conspiracy that let her disappear?
She thought of Mary’s impending motherhood. Mothers were a theme here. Lady Torrence, losing her daughter as an adult, and Emma Bradley’s mother, losing her daughter as a child. And some mother losing the baby they found in Helen’s grave.
It would no doubt become clear later. Meanwhile, it was back on her bicycle to the suffrage meeting.
