Death Among Rubies (10 page)

“Thank you, that means a lot to me,” she said softly. And then she decided it was time to get back to the subject at hand. “You see I can keep a secret. What is going on here?”

Charles sighed. “Oh, very well. I can give you the outline. There’s a bit of a mess brewing on the Continent—France,
Germany, Russia, the Ottoman Empire, everyone jockeying for position. Sir Calleford was as shrewd a diplomat as we have. M. Aubert was the best France has as well. They were genuine friends, and this week were expected to talk and reach some important conclusions. Mr. Mehmet, who is staying here, represents certain Ottoman interests.”

“‘Certain interests.’ That doesn’t mean the sultan, then?”

“A shrewd observation and conclusion, Franny.”

“Thank you. But why weren’t you there yourself—but I know. This was quiet and unofficial. That’s why a senior government official like you couldn’t come.”

“Very good, Franny. What a shame you’re not in the Foreign Office yourself.”

Frances wanted to start again with her usual line about admitting women to the ranks of government, but now was not the time to get sidetracked.

“Sir Calleford never sought out an official position in government, never stood for parliament. He was an intellectual with many interests, and it suited him, and us, for him to be a sort of unofficial diplomat. And a very good one.”

“I see, thank you. But what about—”

“That’s all, Franny,” he said.

But she wasn’t put off. “But back to Mr. Mehmet. Whose interests does he represent?”

“He’s a man with connections to various businesses and to the sultan’s government. As well as his own interests. Stay away from him.”

“But—”

“Franny. He is a dangerous man. Stay away from him.” He looked hard—and then once again broke into his charming smile. “This isn’t about your being a woman. It’s about some very secret and delicate negotiations.”

“Can I conclude then that Mr. Mehmet is not an
official
representative of the Ottoman Empire? Or does he combine work with the sultan with other interests, as you say?”

“Come, Franny. You know that the Ottoman Empire is very shaky. Let us say Mr. Mehmet is an unofficial representative, just as Sir Calleford was for Britain and M. Aubert was for France.”

“So that means—”

He cut her off. “You already know much more than you should. Help your friend through the funeral tomorrow, then come home with me.”

“Thank you. But Miss Kestrel still requires my support. I will be staying on a while longer.”

Charles knew there was no point in arguing with her, but as they headed back to the house, he said anyway, “Do as you please. Right now, I have to meet with Inspector Eastley—and no you can’t sit in. It’s government business.”

“Oh, very well. But can you tell me about another guest? Who is Ezra Hardiman? He and his daughter are visiting from America. What is he—a senator? An ambassador?”

“Hardiman? Never heard of him.”

“You must’ve. I know he’s wealthy and I assumed he was also invited here as a representative of the American government.”

“Franny, I may decline to tell you something, but I won’t lie to you. I have no idea who Ezra Hardiman is. It’s very possible that he speaks officially, or even unofficially, for Washington. I keep up with Europe, but America is not my department. Sir Calleford may have found it useful to have American insights at this time. As I said, Sir Calleford was unofficial. He worked his own way and had his own contacts.”

“So, could I call the Americas desk at the Foreign Office?”

“Yes, you could. And they would tell you precisely nothing.” Frances looked exasperated, and Charles continued. “But we’ve strayed from the subject—which is your interference with the police investigation of a murder.”

“That’s not why I’m here—” she said primly.

“Franny, I just told you I’m busy and I don’t have time for all this.”

“You sound just like our father. But never mind; you trusted me, and I will trust you. Tommie Calvin came to me—before Sir Calleford died. She was threatened with ugly accusations—something that could destroy her reputation, hers and Gwen’s both—although Gwen knows nothing about it, and can never know. I’m not going to see my friends’ lives destroyed.”

“Oh, very well. It sounds like a crank, but if anyone can help, you can. And I’m not being patronizing about that—I mean it. But promise me you’ll stay away from the police. Give me that much.”

“I will. If I can.”

“What do you mean, ‘if you can’? Of course you can. Franny, this isn’t London—”

As they exited the gardens, Frances saw they weren’t alone. Tommie had joined them; she had clearly been running from the house.

“Oh! I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was interrupting. I’ll just . . .”

“You’re not interrupting. My brother has very important work and was leaving anyway.”

Charles sighed. “Miss Calvin, good day. Franny, I’m staying for the funeral tomorrow. We’ll talk more.” And he left.

“Franny, I’m sorry, but I wanted to show you this.” She looked stricken—and when Frances saw she was holding a piece of paper, she knew what was in it.

“A note—it was slipped under my door sometime after I left for breakfast.”

It was cheap notepaper, and the penmanship was poor.

It was written in awkward block letters, not in script, and there was no signature.

“There are several spelling mistakes,” said Frances “This was written by someone ignorant—or someone who wants to appear ignorant. Now the man who threatened you seemed a gentleman. That’s odd. And it’s someone in this house—although I suppose a servant could’ve been bribed—I’ll have to think about that.” She looked up at her friend. “Are you frightened?”

“I am angry,” said Tommie. She was almost shaking. Anger was not an emotion one associated with Tommie.

“One thing we know for sure. Whoever is threatening you is a coward. The man in the cathedral was just an agent and this note is anonymous. A bully and coward.”

“I’m not leaving,” said Tommie.

“Of course not. We’re staying in this together.”

They slowly began walking back to the house. “I can cope with this,” said Tommie. “But can you imagine what this would do to Gwen? She’s missed it twice now.”

Frances frowned. “That’s interesting. It would terrify her, destroy her. If someone wanted to ruin your friendship, Gwen would be the best person to attack. And yet, they attack you. Someone wants Gwen left whole.”

“I see what you’re saying, but why?”

“I don’t know,” said Frances. “Not yet, anyway.”

M
r. Pennington, the butler, announced to the staff that the police would be speaking privately with each servant. He sounded very aggrieved about this—he could not see the necessity. It was impossible that a servant had seen anything and not spoken, and inconceivable that one had been involved. “Naturally, it is Mrs. Blake’s and Miss Kestrel’s wish that you cooperate fully. Of course, that does not mean you share any gossip.”

He paused and looked around. “Those of you who work for guests of the family—I’m sure the same instructions apply to you as well.”

Lady Frances had already told Mallow they might be questioned, so Mallow was not surprised when a young, uniformed constable called for her. He was given permission to use the butler’s pantry for privacy.

Despite being prepared, Mallow was deeply affronted from the beginning—never mind that her ladyship knew senior officers in Scotland Yard, and now was so proud of having actually worked for the police as a translator. In the neighborhood where Mallow was born and raised, people didn’t want to be involved with the police. At least in London her ladyship met with high-ranking London constables, not a common village bobby. This one was tall and strong-looking—Mallow would’ve taken him for a farm worker if it weren’t for his uniform.

She sat straight up in her chair. The constable produced a pad of paper and pencil, licked the tip, and began. He surprised her by being well-spoken.

“I am Constable Arthur Dill, of the Greater Morchester Regional Constabulary. I understand you’re June Mallow, maid to Lady Frances Ffolkes, of Miss Plimsoll’s Hotel, City of Westminster, London. You arrived yesterday. Is that all correct, Miss Mallow?”

“Yes. Your particulars are all correct.”

The constable looked up, startled. She was a young maid but spoke like a duchess.

“Yes, well. I will ask you a few questions, then.” They were very simple questions: When exactly had they arrived? Had they been here before? Mallow answered them briefly.

Then came another question. “Why did you come? Does her ladyship know the family?”

“You would have to ask her ladyship,” she said. “It’s not my place to comment on her ladyship’s social circle.”

Constable Dill smiled. “Oh come, Miss Mallow. It’s hardly a secret. I can find that out elsewhere, but my guvnor will be very pleased with me if I can get it from you.”

Mallow thought. He was right—it was hardly a secret, and Lady Frances had told her to see if she could uncover any hints from the police questions. She should be cooperative.

“Very well, Constable Dill. Miss Kestrel, Miss Calvin, and Lady Frances are all friends from London. They belong to a . . . club for ladies. We all traveled down together.”

“One of the housemaids told me Miss Calvin was up half the night taking care of Miss Kestrel. It sounds, then, like Miss Calvin and Miss Kestrel are especially close friends.” It was half a statement, half a question. Mallow looked closely at him. He didn’t seem to have that arrogant look so many other constables had. He appeared to be . . . sympathetic.

Mallow mulled over his question. Her ladyship had said there were some wicked stories about Miss Kestrel and Miss Calvin.
Maybe this kind constable knew something. Her ladyship would be very pleased if she could uncover something.

“My lady has said that Miss Kestrel and Miss Calvin are particularly close, like sisters.”

“‘Like sisters,’” said Constable Dill, quoting her. “Really?”

“Are you doubting me?” asked Mallow, coloring. The constable was embarrassed.

“Oh, no, not at all, Miss Mallow. It’s just that someone else said the two ladies were like sisters, and Inspector Bedlow laughed and said, ‘Oh sure. That’s not what I heard.’” The constable shook his head at the oddness of his superior. Mallow filed the information away for later.

“Just one more question, Miss Mallow, for our records. I assume your address at Miss Plimsoll’s is temporary, that you live with your mistress with a father or brother normally.”

“We do not,” said Mallow stiffly. “It is our permanent residence. It’s only for ladies from the best families and their personal servants.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s very unusual, isn’t it?”

“Lady Frances is very unusual. She went to university, in America.”

“Did she indeed? It sounds like you have a very interesting position. How did you get it?”

“Is it necessary for your investigations to know that?” asked Mallow. The constable smiled.
A little cheekily
, she thought.

“No, not really. But my mother was in service you see, in a great house, until she married my father, a local farmer. So I have an interest in, and admiration for, young women like yourself who are in service.”

Well that sounded reasonable. And respectful. “I was housemaid to her ladyship’s parents, the late marquess and marchioness. When she went on her own, Lady Frances promoted me as her lady’s maid.” She preened.

The constable closed his notebook. “It was thought I’d follow in my father’s footsteps. But I took the police exam and
passed. And I took the exam to become a sergeant and passed it, too. When there’s an opening I’ll get my sergeant’s stripes.” He stood and smiled again. Mallow thought it was a very pleasant smile. “I think we have something in common, Miss Mallow, rising through the ranks as we have.”

Mallow hadn’t considered that, but the constable had a point. She hadn’t really thought of constables as, well, as people, growing their careers just as maids and footmen in great houses did.

“I suppose you’re right,” she said softly.

Constable Dill stood. “Thank you for your cooperation, Miss Mallow.”

“You’re most welcome.” She paused. “And I wish you luck on your promotion.”

Upstairs, things were not going nearly as smoothly for Lady Frances and Inspector Bedlow, the local man from Morchester she had seen outside earlier.

The inspector had expected to get just the basics from Lady Frances for the record. Nothing much else there—she hadn’t even come down to the Eyrie until the night of the murder. She was the sister of that Whitehall lord who had come down from London, but no surprise in that. All the nobility were connected, even related to each other.

But Lady Frances was determined to give her opinion, he found. Bedlow blamed that secretive Special Branch man, Inspector Eastley; he had used her as a translator and that had given her airs. Eastley had even seen fit to snap at him for not noting that there were foreign nationals in the house. It never did to argue with the Scotland Yard boys, but he had wanted to tell him off. Ah well, he’d be gone tomorrow.

After giving her name and address and confirming how she knew the family, Lady Frances said, “Now, inspector, I was wondering if you had considered—”

“Thank you, Lady Frances. We’re considering several lines of inquiry.”

Frances colored. She hated to be interrupted like that, but realized she should’ve expected it from the police.

“I was only saying that there are some issues that I have been made aware of that might have bearing on the case.”

“That’s quite all right, my lady. I assure you we have everything in hand.” He smiled indulgently. Worse than being interrupted, Frances hated being patronized.

“Maybe Inspector Eastley will be interested.”

“Inspector Eastley will be going home tomorrow.” He put a little steel into his voice. “I am in charge of this case.”

“I thought the chief constable called in the Yard.”

“You were misinformed, my lady. The Yard has not been called in. Scotland Yard came down just to take charge of Sir Calleford’s papers. But thank you for your interest. Good day.” He snapped shut his notebook and left.

This was very irritating. Inspector Eastley was also difficult, but he was intelligent and at least he listened to her—some of the time, anyway. And of course, her brother was also adding to her frustration by being prickly—although she had to admit, he had given her some clues.

But then Mallow came up, smiling.

“You look like the cat who got at the cream,” said Frances. “Let’s sit—and do tell me.”

“Well, my lady, a rather kind constable questioned me—”

“A kind constable? How wondrous!”

“Well-spoken and polite, my lady, and I answered him proper.” She related their conversation and Frances listened intently, showing great interest when Mallow repeated the information about Inspector Bedlow laughing at the thought of Miss Calvin and Miss Kestrel being something other than close friends.

Frances frowned. This was another hint that others suspected there was something odd about Gwen and Tommie. First Gwen’s brief suitor, and now the inspector. Where was this coming from?
There had been no nasty rumors in London; Frances would’ve heard. She shook her head, then smiled again.

“Very good, Mallow—well played. This was important. Just continue to keep your ears open and we’ll get to the bottom of this.”

“Yes, my lady,” she said, looking very proud of herself.

“I suppose we’ll have another odd and awkward dinner tonight, but we’ll be turning in early. Tomorrow is the funeral. I think it’s going to be a very long day.”