Death Among Rubies (25 page)

I
t was with relief that Frances heard the car leave with Mr. Hardiman and the ladies. At seven, Frances made her way to the great hall. She reviewed everything that had happened since arriving, and the realization that no one could’ve engineered all that had happened except for the mistress of the house. The coordination with servants, the knowledge of the estate. No one had as much too lose—the management of a house, an institution, really—that gave purpose to her life. Frances could understand that. It hadn’t explained all the bloodshed though. That was something else entirely—it was love, love for a man who never loved her back.

There would be time enough for philosophy later. For now, she checked to see that the servants had done as asked. Indeed, as Gwen had ordered at Frances’s request, a fire had been built in the great hall, which was most welcome because it had become quite cool. The footmen had put two wingback chairs by the fire, and on the little table between them were two glasses and a decanter of the extraordinary port Christopher had inherited from Sir Calleford. She was delighted he had not yet gotten around to removing it to his own house. Everything was perfect, and she wondered how Mallow was getting on.

Mallow made sure she had her sewing kit, took a deep breath, and headed to Miss Jenkins’s room. As befitted the maid to the lady of a great house, she had a rather pleasant room for a servant. It was on a high floor, so there were a lot of stairs, but it was quiet. No one should be able to hear their talk. Mallow knocked.

“Come in.”

Jenkins seemed surprised, and not particularly pleased, to see her. She put on her haughtiest face, however. Was she not a lady’s maid to a daughter of the House of Seaforth?

“I beg your pardon, Miss Jenkins, but I seem to have run out of thread and need to repair my lady’s hem. I was hoping you had some in a similar color.”

Jenkins did not look like she wanted to help, but it would be an unforgivable breach of etiquette for one maid to refuse to help another.

“Come in, then. I’m sure I can match that color.” Then, with a little malice, she added, “You might remember to bring your own next time. A proper lady’s maid always travels with a well-equipped sewing kit.” Mallow burned at that. But Lady Frances had told her she had to play a role.

“Oh I did,” said Mallow, feigning sadness. “But you don’t know what it’s like. Lady Frances is always running around. She never looks where she’s going and is always catching her hems. I’ve repaired this one three times already and simply ran out of thread.”

“Oh dear,” said Jenkins, who seemed to relish Mallow’s discomfort while seeing a chance for some gossip. “Busy girl, is she?”

“You have no idea,” said Mallow mournfully. Jenkins smiled.

“You’re welcome to sit here and repair the hem. It’s quieter and the light is better than in the servants’ hall.”

“That is very kind of you,” said Mallow. She sat and began sewing. Jenkins complimented Mallow’s fine, even stitches, and soon they were talking like old friends. With just a little sympathy, Mallow started talking.

“I have to say, Miss Jenkins, that at first it was very exciting, being maid to a titled lady, but it has become very difficult—living in a hotel, not a proper house, with all sorts of unsuitable people calling on her ladyship. But worst of all is the way other servants look at me, being maid to a lady subject to so much gossip.”

Jenkins clucked in sympathy.

“And she’s not as high and mighty as she wants you to think,” said Mallow. “She doesn’t know that I know that she likes her bit of gin.”

Jenkins was surprised.
Who’d have thought Lady Frances liked a nip at the bottle?
Then Mallow got a crafty look. “She can’t even remember how much she’s drunk. In fact, I have the bottle myself . . .” And from the folds of her dress she produced a small bottle of gin. “If you have a couple of glasses, Miss Jenkins, you can join me in a swallow or two. Don’t know about you, but without an occasional gin there’s no way I can get through the evening.”

Jenkins looked greedily at the gin. No doubt Mrs. Blake ran a tight ship and even senior servants wouldn’t have a chance to drink spirits. Jenkins produced a pair of mismatched glasses, but Mallow fumbled them; one fell and rolled a bit and then the bottle cap fell too. Jenkins bent to fetch them, and meanwhile Mallow filled the remaining glass.

“There we go. This one for you, and now I’ll fill this one. Cheers!” And they downed their gin.

Mrs. Blake appeared in the great hall and found Frances looking at the old family portraits in the dim light.

“Lady Frances, what is happening? I heard the motorcar leave. What are you doing here of all places?”

“They left for Blake Court. Gwen, Tommie, and the Hardimans. They’re going to spend the night.”

“That’s . . . so sudden. Cook was set to have dinner ready.”

“Gwen told the staff there would be no need for dinner tonight. In fact, she gave them the evening off. She even ordered the fire in here. And why shouldn’t she? Gwen is the mistress of Kestrel’s Eyrie.”

That struck home, and she saw Mrs. Blake flinch. Frances had caught her off balance. Mrs. Blake’s plan was falling apart, but she didn’t know why, or how.

“I’m glad to see you are feeling better. We all thought it was a miracle you kept going as long as you did. Running this enormous house, caring for Gwen, managing the funeral and all the guests.”

Mrs. Blake pursed her lips, and Frances could see her try to figure out what she should say. “When I heard the motorcar, I decided to dress and come down immediately, but my maid Jenkins suddenly seems to have disappeared. And then that extraordinary Mr. Mehmet intercepted me in the hallway and I couldn’t get away. I thought the police said everyone could leave—and yet he’s still here.”

Well done, Mr. Mehmet
, thought Frances.

“Jenkins apparently became unwell. I believe she is sleeping in her room.”

Mrs. Blake approached her, and Frances saw she wasn’t composed as neatly as she usually was. Her hair was askew and her dress hadn’t been adjusted properly. She had wanted to leave her room quickly, and her maid wasn’t around to help her. Frances’s eyes fell on a bag Mrs. Blake was carrying.
She had come prepared.

“Needlework,” said Mrs. Blake. “I was going to do some this evening. I’ve long enjoyed it, but haven’t had the time recently. I was going to sit in the drawing room before dinner, but then I heard you were here.”

Frances looked her closely in the eye. “We need to talk,” she said.

“What would you like to talk about?” asked Mrs. Blake. She tried to look as controlled as always, but there was a line of
moisture on her brow.
She knows why we’re here. She wondered before
, concluded Frances,
but now she knows
.
No more fencing.

“We can start talking about Tommie Calvin.”

“Tommie? She’s going to be arrested tomorrow. Running to Blake Court won’t save her. Not even London. They’ll bring her back here.”

Frances just smiled sadly. “No, she won’t be arrested. But you will be. For the murders of Sir Calleford, Betsy Tanner, and Genevieve Sweet.”

The two women just looked at each other for a few moments. Then Mrs. Blake smiled—like a tigress.

“Even for you, that seems like an outrageous statement. Are you so eager to take revenge on that inspector who humiliated you that you would throw around such insane statements?”

Frances just shook her head. She knew Mrs. Blake wasn’t going to surrender without a fight. “I accuse you because of what you did.” Frances looked around the great room. “I learned from my mother how a lady should manage her household and supervise her servants. Only the mistress of such a grand house could have done all this. That much was clear early, but why? That took me a while. You see, I thought it was about who would inherit the Kestrel fortune—but the solicitor Mr. Small tied that up neatly. And then I thought it was about marrying off Gwen, to keep control of the Eyrie. That was part of it. But mostly it was about ancient, frustrated desires.”

Mrs. Blake laughed, but it was tinged with hysteria.
She’s been on the edge of breaking down for days
, realized Frances.

“Years ago, there were two men and two women,” said Frances in a rhythmic voice, as if she were telling a fairy tale to a child. “They were all very close. And then they got married. Only, one of the women was unhappy. She wanted to marry a brilliant, intellectual man and become a great political hostess, propelling him to become foreign secretary, even prime minister. But he chose her friend—a sweet, childlike woman. And she settled for his cousin, a genial country squire, and a life of
organizing dinners with the local worthies. But she never forgot what she might’ve had.”

Mrs. Blake raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Frances continued her story, and by keeping a close watch on Mrs. Blake, she could see how right she was.

“Eventually, the woman lost her husband. And her first love lost his wife. So she moved in. At least she could be with him. It was probably too late to push him into a London political career he never wanted anyway, but she could organize his diplomatic meetings and share his life—and running this enormous estate gave her purpose.”

Mrs. Blake just stared, without denying anything.

“You were Sir Calleford’s wife now, in all but name,” said Frances, being deliberately provocative. “In his drawing room, his dining room—even, I believe, his bedroom.”

Mrs. Blake should’ve struck her for saying that, but Frances had guessed right: She couldn’t resist giving Frances a triumphant took. It gave it all away, but clearly Mrs. Blake felt it was worth it to show Frances how close she had come to achieving all her ambitions.

“I never met the late Sir Calleford, but clearly he was a passionate man. How furious you must’ve been when he took up with Mrs. Sweet. And a woman as sharp as you couldn’t have failed to notice she was carrying his child.”

“How did you know? Did the whore tell you herself?” asked Mrs. Blake, barely getting the words above a whisper.

“She was growing stout and had to send her dresses to be let out. A passion for candy. Preserves of red raspberries, ginger, and chamomile. There have been enough babies in my family for me to have learned which herbs give pregnant women relief. And scraps of a conversation she had one evening with Sir Calleford. Perhaps he was even going to marry her.”

“A slut like that? Pay her off and send her away,” said Mrs. Blake.

“Perhaps. But he was talking to her, making plans for the future. Maybe he would’ve married her, and had a son who could inherit. You would’ve been thrown out the day the banns were posted. The hurt and humiliation must’ve been overwhelming. No wonder you killed him. You did it perfectly. Killed him with a Turkish dagger to throw suspicion on Mr. Mehmet, during a political meeting where it would be so hard to narrow down the suspects or motives. That’s what kept me guessing. I thought you had everything you wanted as mistress of the Eyrie. Sir Calleford was not very old and he was in good health. You could’ve stayed here for many years. But you wanted Sir Calleford’s love.”

Frances could almost admire her, she had done it so well. Mrs. Blake had been one of the most distinguished figures in the county as mistress of the Eyrie. She had no doubt been the leading voice in discouraging the chief constable from calling in Scotland Yard, guaranteeing the incompetent Inspector Bedlow would take charge.

“But that didn’t end your problem. That only began it. Lord knows what Mrs. Sweet would eventually say. So you shot her. There must be all kinds of weapons tucked away here; this is sporting country.”

“Really?” asked Mrs. Blake. “I’m just an angel of death. I suppose I killed Betsy Tanner too. Tell me why I killed an ancient servant who was practically senile.”

“She wasn’t senile. That was the problem for you. It was her remark that I should’ve paid more attention to—no one knew which man would pair off with which lady and how important it was to find the right spouse. I’ll upbraid myself forever for not realizing how important it was right away—and for not visiting her to question her again before you killed her. You were afraid of what she knew, that she would start reminiscing and tell me just how much you loved Calleford in the old days. Or maybe even that other servants shared gossip with her, and so she knew about Mrs. Sweet, and how you had been replaced in Sir Calleford’s affections. Oh, she knew way too much. And she
wasn’t the only one—did you not say you had given Sir Calleford everything? By the way, the Blake Court staff was far freer with gossip than Eyrie servants. I must tell Christopher to keep a tighter watch on them. I thought you meant that giving everything meant giving your life. But you gave him your heart. All this, running this grand estate, was a gift of your love to him.”