Death Among Rubies (20 page)

“Oh, you should have heard it, Miss Mallow. She accused the master of romancing Miss Hardiman, and just as angry, he denied having made an offer. She told him an American lady of no background couldn’t preside at the table of the gentry.”

Mallow was surprised at that. She knew of several wealthy American women who had married into the aristocracy in London; Mr. Blake didn’t even have a title.

“Miss Hardiman seemed very respectable to me,” said Mallow.

“Oh, but it’s more than that,” said Mrs. Bailey.
Cooks were the worst gossips
, Mallow knew. Stuck in the kitchens all day, they weren’t privy to the goings-on that even junior maids saw upstairs. So when they got something, they were thrilled.

Still, she was very free with her comments.
That’s what happens
, thought Mallow,
when a house doesn’t have a mistress to properly watch over the servants
.

“Mrs. Blake wants him to marry his cousin, Miss Gwen, then they’d live at the Eyrie. She said that the late Sir Calleford had wanted to share a grandchild with her, that they were Marchands too—that’s what the family was in olden times—and you couldn’t always do what you wanted when you were a noble.
You had responsibilities. And then Mr. Blake said the oddest thing.” Mrs. Bailey frowned. “He said he would never force Gwen to have a child. He’s usually a temperate man but then things really heated up, I can tell you. Mrs. Blake said Mr. Blake owed his uncle a lot, but he’d be damned—yes, he used that word, Miss Mallow—he’d be damned if his gratitude to his uncle meant being tied to Gwen for the rest of his life. And then his mother said, and I remember these words: ‘I gave him everything. And you will too.’”

“Everything?” asked Mallow.

“I guess, giving up her home and keeping house for Sir Calleford.” She shrugged and they sipped their tea, lost in thought. Miss Gwen was a pretty girl and possessed a huge estate. Why not get married? No accounting for the behavior of the gentry.

“Ah well, he’s the master and can make his own decisions,” concluded Mrs. Bailey. “It’s all right for some, but for me, I have to see about luncheon.”

The walk put color in everyone’s cheeks, and they enjoyed it, despite the cold. A fire was waiting for them in drawing room and hot tea was served. Gwen was chatting away, and her black dress was the only sign that she was in mourning. Tommie had noticed too and seemed so pleased with Gwen’s mood.

Miss Hardiman, meanwhile, was hanging on every word Christopher Blake was saying. Frances recalled what her own mother had said at the start of her first season: “Men like to talk about themselves and what they find particularly interesting. You would do well to appear fascinated.” At this point, Mr. Blake was talking about dairy cattle, and Miss Hardiman was indeed looking fascinated.

But Miss Hardiman had grown up on a farm. Her interest in cows may have been genuine. Frances upbraided herself for not realizing that her interests were not everyone’s. Indeed, a really good Stilton cheese was the extent of her dairy interests.

After lunch, Mr. Blake apologized for having to leave the ladies to attend to business and promised to be back for dinner. The ladies, meanwhile, played backgammon and cards and took turns reading to each other.

“My father was very much looking forward to his hunting with the general,” said Miss Hardiman. “In fact, he went into the village yesterday, and bought some scotch whiskey for the general and some chocolates for us this evening. I remember from an earlier chat—you liked the crèmes, Miss Kestrel; and you liked nuts, Miss Calvin; and white chocolates were your favorite, Lady Frances.”

Frances suppressed a shudder. She loved chocolate, and it was very sweet of Miss Hardiman to remember everyone’s favorites. But the memory of the dead Mrs. Sweet, with her chocolates spilled over her, was still fresh. It was funny how she indulged herself—well, everyone had their fancies. And yet she was careful in other ways, carefully cultivating dried herbs. But herbs weren’t going to prevent her from becoming quite stout if she kept eating chocolate like that—Dolly mentioned the dressmaker having to let out her clothes. Still, something about those herbs tickled Frances’s memory, but why? Frances had never had much interest in gardening—yet another exasperation for her mother. Who had ever heard of a well-born Englishwoman not making at least a show of pottering about a garden?

It would come later, no doubt.

Christopher returned just as dinner was served. Miss Hardiman’s eyes glittered when she saw him, and he greeted her warmly. He was gallant to all the ladies, in fact, and Frances was pleased to see him particularly solicitous for Gwen.

As everyone enjoyed the plain roast and potatoes with good country mustard and cheese made on the Blake estate, Christopher held court among his guests. He was a natural-born storyteller, and had amusing anecdotes about the old county families, from pompous squires to the workmen who had managed the estate for generations. This wasn’t tedious provincial gossip,
but genuinely funny stories. Gwen seemed to delight in them, and among her giggles, Frances reflected on the nature of jealousy. Someone might be unhappy to see someone else amuse their beloved, but not Tommie, who was just pleased that Gwen was cheerful.

When it was time to go, Christopher saw them into the motorcar, and said he hoped to see all of them again soon, looking meaningfully at Miss Hardiman. Once they were driving, she took out the chocolates to share, and everyone reflected on what a nice visit it was. But Frances had to force her merriment. She still couldn’t get chocolates and Mrs. Sweet out of her mind. And the horrible, illiterate note left for Tommie, the second threat made to her.

The ladies all said they were tired and would head to bed, but Frances said she wanted a word with Tommie and went with her to her room—she motioned for Mallow to join her.

Once the door was closed behind them, Frances turned sharply to her friend. “Tommie. I keep thinking of that awful note left for you. Someone wasn’t just threatening you, but accusing you of being a killer. And we’ve been gone all day. If someone wanted to make you look like a murderer, today would be the day to do it. You’re in danger, but I don’t know how.”

“What? From whom? Whoever has been threatening me?” Her eyes grew big, and she licked her dry lips in fear.

“From those who want to separate you from Gwen. Now, we see one stabbing murder. One shooting murder. And one poison murder—Mrs. Tanner, I’m sure.”

“Am I next?” whispered Tommie.

“Not directly. I think someone wants to ruin you. I keep going back to that line in the note—someone says they know you’re a killer. And look, no one wanted to call in Scotland Yard to help that incompetent inspector. He’s made no arrests, but he’s going to have to. Arresting you, Tommie, would solve two problems—ending your friendship with Gwen and solving Sir Calleford’s murder. No one cares about an ancient servant
or a poor widow, whose death can be laid to a chance robber. But Sir Calleford was wealthy and important. Someone has to be arrested, and you’ve been accused twice already—one in the cathedral and once here. Someone has to be convicted.” She smiled. “But not you, Tommie. If someone is setting you up, we’re going to stay one step ahead of them. Come, the three of us are going to search this room, right now. It shouldn’t take long.”

It wasn’t a big room and Tommie didn’t have a lot of baggage. Tommie and Frances went through her things and Mallow began searching drawers and little corners, as only a good servant knew how.

It was Frances who found what was out of place, a dress stained on the sleeves.

“Mallow, what does this look like to you?”

Mallow looked it over under the light. “That’s blood, my lady.”

“But that’s my traveling dress, what I wore here and haven’t worn again since. I didn’t get any blood on it.”

“It’s the perfect way to make it look like you killed him. Someone poured blood on it. This is farm country—there is always blood around for anyone who wants it. The inspector will find this dress thanks to a tip and figure you killed Sir Calleford because he wanted you away from his daughter.”

“Oh, dear God.” She put her face in her hands.

“Don’t worry. Mallow, can you get another stain out today?”

Mallow was affronted her ladyship should even ask. “Of course, my lady. I’ll have it out in a matter of minutes. I’ll take it back to my room, wait until later when the laundry room will be empty, and have it back up to your room in the morning, miss.”

Tommie collapsed on her bed. “Why?” she asked.

“Sir Calleford was either killed because someone wanted the Eyrie, because of Gwen, or because of something having to do with the diplomatic meetings here. Someone calculated this very neatly, killing him when there were so many motives. But only one of them could have led to all three murders.”

“But you know, don’t you, my lady?” asked Mallow.

“Almost, Mallow. Come Tommie, we’ll save the day yet.” And Tommie forced a smile.

Mallow liked her ladyship like this best of all—cheerful and brisk, with unshakable confidence in her own abilities.

“Tommie, get a good night’s sleep. We’re going to be busy. We’ll talk more about this tomorrow.” She turned, but then stopped. “Tommie, your room and Gwen’s are at the end of this hallway. But I saw a door beyond—do you know where that goes?”

“Oh, yes. I was curious myself. Gwen said it goes to the original house, from the mid fourteen hundreds, which the Elizabethan portion eventually encompassed. It hasn’t been lived in for more than a century, and it’s now just used for storage. But there can’t be anyone there—the door is locked. Gwen said Mrs. Blake always wanted to make sure the servants didn’t get up to anything.”

Frances nodded, and went back to her room with Mallow, who would help her get ready for bed before heading to the laundry room.

Once Frances was in her night clothes, Mallow took a look at the dress and frowned.

“Are you in doubt about the stain, Mallow?”

“Oh, no, my lady. No trouble with that. But I see there was a tear in the seam here, and the repair stiches are not as even as they could have been.”

Frances smiled. Very little needlework met Mallow’s high standards.

“You learned from an order of Anglican nuns, didn’t you, Mallow?”

“Yes, my lady, as a young girl. They would teach any girl who had a mind to so she could live a virtuous life by her own hand. The sisters made money for their order by taking in sewing. Mostly for gentlewomen who were with child, my lady, and needed their clothes let out.”

That was it. Frances hit her forehead with her hand.

“Mallow, Mrs. Sweet wasn’t letting her dresses out because she was getting stout. Mrs. Sweet was with child. The herbs she had, ginger and the rest. I remember now—they provide comfort to pregnant women. She was having Sir Calleford’s child. Her passion for candy—common with women in her condition. It all makes sense.”

“So you know who killed her, my lady?” whispered Mallow.

Frances didn’t answer for a moment. “I thought this was just about marriage and control. But this is darker, and deeper, than I realized. I need to think . . . actually, what I need is a good night’s sleep.”

“Yes, my lady. But before I go, my lady, you might want to hear what the Blake cook told me.” She related the gossip about Mrs. Blake arguing with her son.

“Well done, Mallow! That shows what I’m beginning to suspect. There is a level of desperation there. This helps us move forward. But you have something else?”

“There’s just one more thing . . .” Mallow seemed hesitant. “It seems I had to tell a little tale to the cook to get some gossip in return. I had to say you were about to get engaged . . .”

“Indeed. And to whom?”

And in a small voice, she said, “Lord Lucas Brakeland.”

“You told the cook I was about to marry the stupidest, most offensive peer in England? And she believed you?”

There was a moment of silence, then Frances burst out laughing, with Mallow immediately following. “Oh dear Mallow, you and I are wasted. With our talents, we should both be in the Foreign Office with my brother. Good for us. We’re going to need all our wits about us these next few days.”

F
rances got up early and found herself first down at breakfast, although Mr. and Miss Hardiman joined her soon after.
Had Gwen and Tommie slept in? Had Gwen had another bad night? Mr. Mehmet wasn’t there either. Had he wandered off somewhere—to his wife?
But no, he came down next, and bowed to everyone before getting himself a plate.

The Americans filled their plates, and Mr. Hardiman joined Mr. Mehmet, his hunting companion of the previous day. It seemed they were reliving their shooting. Meanwhile, Miss Hardiman joined Frances, who didn’t think she had ever seen anyone looked as pleased with herself as Effie Hardiman did at that moment. She looked like she was about to explode with mirth.

“You seem to have had some good news, Miss Hardiman?” The girl nodded, not even trusting herself to speak. “Let me guess. Mr. Blake asked to speak to your father, didn’t he, when we were at Blake Court?”

“Oh, Lady Frances. I’m not supposed to say anything to anyone yet. But it seems—”

Frances just motioned for Miss Hardiman to be quiet. “Things are a little different here, my dear. I take it this house will be your dowry.” The house that Christopher had craved since childhood.

“I haven’t asked him, but I’m sure Father would make an offer to Miss Kestrel’s lawyer. Christopher says she doesn’t want to live here.”

“And his mother?”

“Oh. I guess she’ll go back to her house.” Blake Court. But she no doubt thought of the Eyrie as “her” house now. So Christopher couldn’t wait. Maybe he felt Miss Hardiman would take her dowry back to London and find herself the son of an earl if an offer didn’t come through soon. She’d do anything to avoid another winter in Buffalo.

“Yes. I’m sure he’ll work it out. But this is a very big change. These are important families, and you aren’t just getting married. You’re rising to a highly visible position. And it must be done very carefully and delicately if you want to get off on the right foot. Now, do you know if Mr. Blake has told his mother?”

Miss Hardiman looked a little shifty at that. “Christopher said his mother was a little . . . well, being as Christopher is her only son and I’m an American. As we discussed earlier, I may not be exactly what she wants. He said he’d ask my father in a week, as the police investigation should be done by then. And then we’d tell his mother.”

“That sounds very wise. Just be patient. I know all will be well, but don’t rush things, don’t let the word out too soon. It could make your life difficult for a long time.”

Frances felt bad then, spoiling Miss Hardiman’s good news. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to dampen your enthusiasm. Your news is great indeed, and I’m sure you’ll be very happy here. I just want to guide you in English ways.” She spread some marmalade on toast. “You and I will be friends. So I should think, by this point, we can be a little less formal with each other? My friends call me ‘Franny.’”

Miss Hardiman turned pink. “Oh, yes, I entirely agree. I’m Euphemia, but only my mother called me that. My friends call me ‘Effie,’ as you’ve no doubt heard from my father.” Across the
room, Mr. Hardiman looked up from his talk with Mr. Mehmet to smile benevolently at the two young ladies.

“Well talk later, I promise. Remember, Effie. Discretion.”

She stepped over to Mr. Mehmet and Mr. Hardiman.

“Good morning, gentlemen. Mr. Mehmet, I recalled last night some friends we have in common. Do you remember the Dowager Countess of Fairhaven?”

Mr. Hardiman took the hint. Or perhaps he just didn’t want to get involved in a discussion of the English aristocracy. He excused himself to sit with his daughter.

Frances lowered her voice. “I want you to know, Mr. Mehmet, I’ve realized it’s clear the buffoons in the local police seem completely out of their depth. My family has connections with Scotland Yard. I think I can bring London pressure on the local chief constable to turn this over to some professionals.”

His face fell. “Are you sure that’s wise, Lady Frances?”

“Wouldn’t you welcome that? So much suspicion in this house. But then again, you were the one who warned me about secrets. We all have them, and they’re not all criminal. Of course, I know one of your secrets. But you have more, don’t you? You were friendly enough with Special Branch. And my brother. But you still don’t want regular London detectives here, do you? And why? Your marriage may be private, but it’s hardly illegal.”

She took what she knew was a childish satisfaction in seeing Mr. Mehmet concerned. But he wasn’t upset for more than a few seconds, and he gave her his debonair smile again. “I said you were the sword of Allah. And I must bow to the will of the Prophet.”

“If you bowed to the will of your Prophet, you wouldn’t be eating bacon, which is forbidden to your people.”

And he laughed, but to Frances’s ear, it sounded forced. “I keep forgetting how much you notice. I will need to be more careful.”

Frances smiled and excused herself. She looked around and began wondering where Gwen and Tommie were—or Mrs. Blake, who never failed to oversee breakfast.

And then Mallow came into the dining room. It was startling—a lady’s maid did not bother her mistress at a meal, and Mallow was practically running. Frances met her for a private word near the door.

“I beg your pardon, my lady, but I think you should come at once.”

Frances excused herself from the surprised Hardimans and stepped into the hallway with Mallow. The maid’s eyes were wide. It took a lot to disturb Mallow’s equilibrium.

“A footman mentioned that the police arrived early this morning, even before you rose, my lady, and they were going at it hammer and tongs in the solar. I thought you’d want to know immediately. The door is closed but you can hear them.”

“You were right to get me, Mallow. Come with me—I was expecting this after breakfast, but Inspector Bedlow has no sense of propriety. You took care of the dress, didn’t you?”

“Of course, my lady. The dress looks completely new.”

“Excellent. Now, let’s come to the aid of our friends.”

Mallow knew that look. Her ladyship wore it when she was planning to deliver a speech in the park or corner a government minister in his office. She scrambled to keep up as Frances shot up the stairs and headed to the solar door. She walked right in and took stock of the situation.

Tommie and Gwen were sitting on a couch looking stricken, as Inspector Bedlow stood over them talking loudly. Mrs. Blake sat in another chair, watching, and in a corner, Constable Dill stood at attention, looking unhappy.

But that was just for a second: Everyone turned to Frances as she entered. Gwen and Tommie looked deeply relieved. Bedlow looked up, angry at the interruption, and Constable Dill seemed almost scared. As for Mrs. Blake—she looked amused.

“May I ask what is going on?” asked Frances.

“Oh Franny, the inspector is coming to arrest Tommie!” Gwen wailed.

“Is this true, inspector? May I see the warrant?”

Inspector Bedlow hesitated.
He’s losing control of the situation and he’s trying to save face
, Frances concluded.

“I’m not here to arrest Miss Calvin. But she is needed to help the police with their inquiries, and that would be better done at headquarters.”

“May we know what the conversation would be about?”

“The deaths of Sir Calleford Kestrel, Mrs. Genevieve Sweet, and Mrs. Betsy Tanner.”

“That’s beyond belief, Inspector. Surely you have some sort of evidence.”

“In a moment, Lady Frances,” he said, looking smug.
What a fool, to go out on a limb before the evidence was even in hand.
A moment later, another constable entered the room, carrying a dress—Tommie’s traveling dress from the night they arrived. So someone had tipped him off after all. Frances had to control herself when she saw the inspector vainly look for the bloodstains. He had quiet words with the constable—this clearly was the traveling dress in question.

“Well?” asked Frances.

The inspector just stared at her. Then he realized what had happened, and his face filled with rage.

“You did this. You destroyed police evidence. That is a major felony.”

“Evidence? What evidence?” She was wide-eyed innocence.

“You washed the blood from the sleeve, the blood Miss Calvin got on her when she killed Sir Calleford.”

Tommie and Gwen were clutching each other now, too stunned to speak further.

“Don’t be silly. Why would Miss Calvin kill the father of her dearest friend?”

“So her friend would inherit . . . and because . . .” He looked the around the room.
You wouldn’t dare
, thought Frances.
You wouldn’t dare say why you’re thinking
. “Anyway, until you interfered, Lady Frances, I just wanted to have a simple talk with Miss Calvin at the station. But now that you had your maid clean the
dress—” He turned on Mallow, but she wasn’t scared. There were worse things in the neighborhood where she had grown up than a stupid rural inspector.

“Accuse my maid without proof and you will regret it, I promise you,” said Frances. “Mallow, did you help Miss Calvin take off her traveling dress at the end of that evening—hours after Sir Calleford had been killed?”

“Yes, my lady,” she said loud and clear.

“Was there any blood on her dress? Indeed, you helped Miss Calvin unpack. Was there any blood on any of her clothes?”

“No, my lady. I unpacked everything. I would’ve noticed.”

Frances gave a triumphant look at the inspector.

“Your maid would swear the sun rose in the west if you asked her. But never mind. The dress isn’t all I have.”
I bet it is,
thought Frances.
Except for rumors about Gwen and Tommie. But unfortunately, that might be enough.
“So understand me. Miss Calvin comes back with me now, civilly, or I’ll be back with an arrest warrant and take her away in chains.”

“You will not!” said Gwen, and everyone stopped at that. No one had ever seen Gwen angry before, but there was that sweet face, set in rage.
My goodness
, thought Frances,
love gives us all courage
. Tommie smiled warmly at Gwen, and gripped her hand.

Mrs. Blake spoke first, softly but firmly. “Gwen. Your loyalty to your friend does you credit. But you are the lady of the manor now, and you cannot thwart the inspector on a whim. Miss Calvin is sensible, and I know she will go with the inspector to answer his questions.”

So this was how it was going to end. Frances had known Inspector Bedlow was desperate, but hadn’t counted on him coming down so hard, so fast.
Well, I’ll give them a real reason to call me Mad Lady Frances
.

“Actually, the truly sensible thing would be to wait for an arrest warrant. And inspector, if you do somehow manage to get one, I will have my solicitor, Henry Wheaton, up here on the next train with a barrister, and you will regret this.”

Her eyes darted around: Pride from Gwen and Tommie. Surprise from Mrs. Blake. And rage from the inspector.

“You are encouraging Miss Calvin to withhold cooperation,” he said. “That’s a felony.”

“I doubt it. Go talk to your superiors,” said Frances. “Do whatever you want, inspector. But you have no right to be here anymore. Leave this house. Or I’ll have the footmen throw you out.”

“I am warning you—”

“No need to shout,” said Frances mildly. “Your anger is just a cover for your stupidity, stubbornness, and outright incompetence.”

So
, thought Frances,
this is what they meant when they said “so quiet you could hear a pin drop.”

The inspector turned to his constable. “Come, Dill. We’re leaving. But we’ll be back, this time with an arrest warrant, and you will be the one to regret this, Lady Frances, when I put your friend in jail.” He started to leave quickly, with the other constables at his heels.

There was a good chance he could convince his superiors to issue a warrant, and there was no way Frances was going let the inspector go after the already frightened Tommie.
How hard will I have to push him to arrest me instead?

“So, inspector. You’re not going to arrest me? Do you mean on top of all your faults, you’re also a coward?”

Frances felt almost dizzy with what she had just said. She couldn’t even focus on the other people in the room, and she felt her heart about to explode out of her chest. She had never gone this far.

The inspector said in an even voice, “If you thought your title and connections and wealth would protect you, Lady Frances, you thought wrong. You are under arrest for interfering with police duties. Constable Dill, escort Lady Frances outside. Ladies, good day.”

With a look of deep sorrow and reluctance, Constable Dill approached her. “I am terribly sorry, my lady, but—”

“No need for apologies, constable. I won’t give you any trouble. Mallow, call Mr. Wheaton and explain what has happened. Gwen, Tommie, stay here until I come back and please allow Mallow to attend you.”

Tommie met her eyes—she knew what Frances meant. Mallow would be their protector in Frances’s absence.

And with chin up, and Constable Dill and Inspector Bedlow behind her, Frances marched off to the police station.

There was no talking in the police coach on the way to Morchester. Constable Dill sat next to her and Inspector Bedlow opposite her. He was looking grim.
I hope he’s regretting what he did
, thought Frances. She was curious about what would happen to her next. She had to drag him away from Tommie, and that was essential. But the repercussions would be substantial.

Oh God—what would Charles say? Could she and Mallow escape to France for a few weeks until he calmed down?

The desk sergeant in Morchester appeared to be on the far side of sixty, one of those men who thought he had seen it all—until today.

“Put her in a cell, sir? You must be joking.”

“Do I look like I’m joking? Find a place for her.”

It seemed reasonable to Frances that there would be a place for women. In London, women could be hauled off for disturbing the peace.
Also, men were men all over
, reasoned Frances,
so why shouldn’t Morchester, like London, have its ladies of the evening?
My goodness—she’d be meeting them . . .