Death Among Rubies (4 page)

“Of course not.” She gave her friend a slightly embarrassed look. “Gwen looked so unhappy about her summons home that I was the one who suggested she ask her father if you and I could come for a working visit. He said yes, of course.”

“That was very forward of you,” said Tommie with a trace of censure. And then she grinned. “But I’m glad you did. I never would’ve done it, and she’s so much happier with us joining her.”

They talked over suffrage matters, then Tommie asked the waiter for some rolls and jam for Gwen. “It’s all she’ll want. No doubt she’ll have something more substantial when we arrive.”

In fact, Gwen had woken up and was perfectly happy with what Tommie brought her. Meanwhile, Mallow had managed to get her a cup of tea.

“Gwen, will there be other guests at the Eyrie this week?” Frances asked.

“Oh yes,” she said. “We have ever so much room there. Father says only Pennington, our butler, knows how many bedrooms. Father wrote me and said the Auberts were staying. They’re French. He’s an old friend of Father’s, and they’ve visited a lot. And some Americans Father met, a father and daughter. I don’t know many Americans, but he said they were nice. And there’s a big dinner party tonight, with the usual locals. Mrs. Bellinger and Mrs. Sweet, widows who rent cottages. And the doctor and his wife, who always come. And of course Christopher.”

That was interesting
, thought Frances. Sir Calleford was a well-regarded diplomat; her brother knew him well and thought a great deal of his skills. French and Americans staying over—that spoke of international discourse and negotiations. These men were no doubt representatives from Paris and Washington.

“Oh, and one more guest. I can’t remember his name. It was funny and foreign.” Gwen pursed her lips in concentration.

“Do you think it was Russian?” asked Frances, trying to be patient. “German, perhaps?”

“He had an odd-sounding name. Oh, I remember now, he’s Turkish. Father said he’s a friend from London.”

Turkish. An envoy from the Ottoman Empire? The situation in the East was volatile. Frances wondered what they were walking into. It also explained why Gwen’s aunt had apparently encouraged them to come so late in the evening. Gwen disliked large, formal dinner parties.
And it would be disturbing
, thought Frances ruefully,
to place noted suffragists among such august diplomats
. She knew she was making a name for herself as a speaker and writer in London. Sir Calleford might welcome an outspoken progressive woman to his house, but would think twice about seating her at a dinner with international implications.

It wasn’t much longer until they arrived in Morchester, which had once been a sleepy village, but had become large and prosperous with the coming of the trains half a century before. Handsome new redbrick buildings were replacing the old wooden ones. Mallow, however, was unimpressed. Born and raised in London, she found every other town in England second-best.
Who knew what services were available in a small place like this
, she wondered,
especially at this late hour?

“Are we to be met by a motorcar or carriage from the house, my lady?” she asked.

“I imagine things are run very strictly at a great estate like the Eyrie, Mallow, so I’m sure we’ll be met. But perhaps you can find some porters?”

Mallow was excellent with porters, and a few minutes later returned with two, leading them like a colonel with his troops. Fortunately, coming up behind them was a chauffeur.

“Mrs. Blake sent me to meet you.” He bowed briefly to Gwen. “Welcome home, Miss Kestrel. I will have your luggage brought up by wagon shortly, but you ladies may join me now in the motorcar.”

Frances loved motorcars and was thrilled when her brother traded in the family coach for one of these new technological marvels. Mallow, however, as much as she liked train travel, distrusted motorcars. Gentlemen and ladies should be traveling by coach with a team of strong grey horses.

Frances gave the Kestrel car an admiring look. She had heard about this—the remarkable new car from Rolls-Royce.

“This is the Silver Ghost, isn’t it?” asked Frances.

“Ah . . . Yes, my lady,” said the astonished chauffeur. He had driven many ladies, but none had any interest in motorcars.

“My understanding is that it has a six-cylinder, 7036 cc engine. Is that correct? I’ve been told that it’s almost silent, hence the name ‘ghost.’”

Frances relished the look on the chauffeur’s face, and Mallow took pleasure in watching her ladyship amaze him. Lady Frances was special.

The chauffeur roused himself from his stupor, helped the women into the car, and started it up. Frances was pleased to discover it was indeed a quiet engine, as they drove out of town to the Kestrel estates.

The car’s headlights lit up an elaborate iron gate that had been forged more than a century ago, and opened onto a long tree-lined drive, the entranceway to Kestrel’s Eyrie. At the first sight of the house, brightly lit, Frances and Tommie forgot their patrician upbringing, and Mallow forgot her servant’s training, and cried out. The house seemed to rise from the road in all its Tudor splendor—welcoming, but still ancient and strong in a way the later Georgian manors could never match.

“It is something, isn’t it?” said Gwen. “Everyone is stunned the first time they see the Eyrie.” But her tone was more sad than proud.

Mallow continued to be dumbstruck by the house, but Frances cast a practiced eye on the grounds. Even by nothing more than the lights from the car and manor house, she could tell the lawn was well-tended, and properly pruned trees dotted the parkland. Signs that someone was overseeing the estate with a sharp eye.

The motorcar had barely stopped when two footmen emerged from the front door to greet them. Following at a more sedate pace was a tall woman dressed for a formal party. She looked to
be in her fifties, and Frances saw a little gray among the auburn of her hair. A welcoming smile softened her strong cheekbones and chin.

Gwen was out of the car first, and greeted her aunt with a hug. “So good to see you again, dear. It’s been too long. And your friends are welcome, too.”

“Aunt Phoebe, these are my very great friends from my suffrage club. This is Miss Thomasina Calvin. She and I work together on so many projects and she’s my dearest companion. And this is Lady Frances Ffolkes, who is absolutely the cleverest girl you ever met. This is Mrs. Phoebe Blake, my aunt.”

“I know you have other guests. We hope we’re not imposing,” said Frances.

“Nonsense. I’m glad you could be here to offer companionship for Gwen. And as you can see, there is no lack of room in this house.”

Mrs. Blake led them through the spacious Elizabethan hall, with its exposed beams and high windows designed to provide light to the vast space. Frances guessed that even on a clear day, the corners of the expansive room remained lost in shadow.

Then up the stairs and onto a long corridor. “All three of you will be here. You in this room, Lady Frances, and my maid will be along to show your maid her room in the servants’ quarters. Gwen, your usual room is available, and you, Miss Calvin, will have an adjoining room. Now, I have things to see to, but if you want, you may gather later in the solar. I’ll have some refreshments sent there.”

“A solar? You really have a solar here?” asked Frances. It was a gathering room in homes built centuries before. The term had long gone out of fashion.

“It seems silly, I know,” said Mrs. Blake. “But an old house has old terms. We have a large drawing room, and the hall, which we rarely use, but we still like the old solar for family events.”

“It could take days to get used to a house like this,” said Frances.

“It takes years, I assure you. A lifetime,” said Mrs. Blake. “Again, welcome. Now Gwen, Miss Calvin, I’ll see you to your rooms.” She floated out.

Frances found that her room was a large space for a guest room, with a view of the back lawn and the farmlands beyond. Again, Frances noted it had been immaculately cleaned and well-appointed. Footmen followed shortly with their luggage.

Mallow was a practiced hand at unpacking, and soon had Frances’s clothes put away and her ladyship refreshed.

“Mallow. I had a talk with Miss Calvin on the train. It seems that someone has been threatening her and Miss Kestrel, although Miss Calvin is the only one who knows.”

“I am upset to hear that, my lady,” she said, her voice thick with indignation. “If I may say, there are no nicer ladies in London.”

“I agree. I am going to try to find out who, and why. Miss Calvin was told not to come here this week, so it may be someone in the house. So just keep your ears open—if anything odd is happening here, or there is any gossip, let me know.”

“Of course, my lady. And may I say I hope the local vicar is an effective preacher, so whoever did this will see the error of their ways this Sunday, and repent.”

“I hope so too,” said Frances, although she had far less faith in religious conversion than her maid.

Mallow had just finished unpacking when there was a knock on the door.

“I am Jenkins, my lady, Mrs. Blake’s maid. I will show your maid to her room.” She cast an eye on Mallow, who stood straight and met her look right back. Jenkins was about the same age as her mistress and as tall—and not just tall.
She was a large woman, built more like a cook than a maid
, thought Frances.

“This is my maid, Mallow.”

Mallow tried to look serious, even haughty. Mallow was young for a lady’s maid, promoted when Frances went out on her own. She was sensitive about being taken seriously by older, more experienced maids.

“Of course, you will be known as ‘Miss Ffolkes’ in the servants’ hall. We follow traditional ways here, and visiting servants are known by the names of their mistresses and masters, for simplicity.”

“We follow the same customs in Seaforth Manor, country seat of the Marquess of Seaforth,” said Mallow with such clarity that Frances suspected she had rehearsed it. The meaning was clear: Jenkins may be lady’s maid to the mistress of Kestrel’s Eyrie, but Mallow was lady’s maid in a noble household.

Jenkins’s mouth gave a twitch, which Frances suspected was as close as she came to a smile. “Then there will be no confusion. We dine each evening promptly at eight o’ clock.” Mallow told her mistress she’d be back later to help her get ready for bed, then followed Jenkins. When they were gone, Frances grinned and shook her head. Her mother always said that even the greatest duchess in the land was not as snobbish as a superior servant.

Frances wasn’t tired, so she started making some notes for some suffrage speeches, but it wasn’t long before there was a knock on the door.

“Come in!”

It was a housemaid.

“I beg your pardon, my lady. I just wanted to make sure all your luggage arrived.”

“Yes, thank you. But since you’re here . . .” She looked at the little table in the room. “I have some work to do and this table is very small. Is there an estate office or somewhere where I could spread out?”

The maid expertly hid any surprise that a lady would have “work” to do requiring office space.

“There is an estate office, my lady. Gentlemen from the accounting firm are reviewing the books there this evening, but there is plenty of room. I can take you there, if you like.”

Frances gathered up her papers and followed the maid to a spare and practical room in a far corner of the mansion. She knew from her own family’s experience that late-night work
was common for accountants going over quarterly accounts. The two accountants, clearly the senior partner and a junior, greeted her briefly as the maid refilled the tea pot.

Frances set herself up on a broad table and happily got to work.

“Oh, and please tell my maid Mallow where I am, in case she comes looking for me,” she said.

“Very good, my lady,” said the maid. The room lapsed into silence as the two accountants and the lady scribbled away with their pens.

Meanwhile Mallow was acquainting herself with the house. She had been to great houses before, but never one this large. Miss Jenkins had told her that visiting servants could join the house staff in the servants’ hall. Cook had laid out some evening snacks, as the staff would be up late due to the party.

“Thank you, Miss Jenkins,” said Mallow, putting just a little hauteur in her voice. “I will join the staff as soon as I have unpacked my own case.”

It took a couple of false turns, but she eventually found her way down to the ground floor and headed toward the servants’ hall entrance. There was indeed a nice spread laid out, and Mallow was introduced to a few of the other servants, one of whom told her, with some surprise and curiosity, that Lady Frances was working in the estate office. She clearly hoped Mallow would enlighten her as to why a titled lady needed access to an office.

“Her ladyship runs several important charitable groups and must work at all hours to meet her responsibilities,” said Mallow grandly. She stayed for a while, then decided to head back to her room until Lady Frances was ready for bed. Along her way, she passed a footman knocking on a door and frowning.