Death on the Sapphire (11 page)

“I won’t bore you ladies with the details, but we raised some hell, I can tell you, pardon my language.”

“But it ended badly,” Frances prompted.

Barnstable nodded. “And that’s what this is about, my lady, what I wanted to talk to you about. But now I don’t know if I should tell women—”

“Oh, for goodness sake, Mr. Barnstable, you’re keeping me up after a long day. I’ve not been as sheltered as you think, and Mallow grew up in one of London’s livelier neighborhoods. Get on with it.”

He grinned. “That I will.” He took another long drink. “We’d been harrying Brother Boer and were heading out for another patrol when some red-tabbed officers from HQ showed up. The major received them in his tent, but the discussion became an argument, and although we couldn’t hear all the words, it was clear they wanted the major to do something with us he didn’t want to do. We kept hearing references to the War Office, but that was all we could make out. Still, we found out what happened soon enough.”

Barnstable’s cheerful face suddenly looked grim, and his eyes lost focus as he went back to the African veldt. Frances was reminded of the older soldier at the soup kitchen, the veteran of the Sepoy Mutiny.

“On that last day, we didn’t do what we had been doing. We didn’t attack the way Major Colcombe had us do in the past. We bit off more than we could chew, and that’s a fact, and we got hit hard. As the sun fell, a couple dozen of us found ourselves stuck between an exposed ridge and a Boer force twice our size by the Sapphire River. Our lieutenant was killed.

“We dug in, but it was only a matter of time. Night fell, but that meant nothing to the Boer. Ammo almost gone and worse yet, water gone. You don’t want to be without water in Africa. The full moon rose, men said their prayers, and we fixed bayonets and prepared for one last charge. But we heard some
Boer shots just to the left of us. They were shooting at Major Colcombe, half-running, half-crawling in the dark and carrying canteens and ammo. Two trips he made, a quarter mile each way, dodging bullets and carrying water and ammo. He even carried a wounded man on his back to bring him to the field hospital. On his second trip back, he was shot in the shoulder but made it anyway.”

“Oh! May God bless him!” cried out Mallow.

Barnstable just smiled sadly at her. “Yes, Miss Mallow. May God bless him indeed.”

Frances was lost for words, however. She tried to imagine the horror, with bullets in the dark, an unseen enemy, and a score of men whose lives depended on him.

“We thought we were dead men, but with water and enough bullets, we held them off. The major had sent the fastest rider with two horses to bring back reinforcements, and shortly after dawn, a score of mounted troopers appeared on the ridge to pin down the Boers long enough for us to escape. I’m not what you’d call a religious man, but whatever Major Colcombe did in life, his sins were wiped clean by what he did that night. And I take some comfort from knowing that he’s in a better place.”

Barnstable leaned back to finish his beer while Frances and Mallow contemplated the story. No one had ever doubted Colcombe’s physical courage, Frances knew well, but this seemed beyond comprehension. Two trips, a mile under fire.

“But why didn’t anyone know about this? My brother? The general staff?”

“Well, that was the thing. The senior officers came back and told them that because of extensive casualties, and with the Boers on the run anyway, we were being disbanded. Everyone was given an honorable discharge. We got what they called a bonus, and they told us not to discuss what had happened. We could be prosecuted, they said, for causing a loss of morale. Well I was having none of that. Major Colcombe was the only officer left
who knew what had really happened. So I told him, and not just me, all of us who owed our lives, we said that we’d throw away the money and go to prison, but the major ordered us to keep quiet. He said someday, when things had quieted down, he’d tell the story and told us not to hurt ourselves by disobeying his orders. So we left, back to England or Australia. A few stayed to make new lives in Africa.”

That explained a lot—the book was no doubt about that tragic battle, which was apparently covered up. It was a travesty, and she felt herself getting angry. Danny couldn’t even tell his friends, and he should’ve received the Victoria Cross, the highest decoration in the army.

“Tell me why you’re in London—and why you seem so cautious.”

“Well, I wanted to see the home country after I was mustered out, and the major said to come back to London with him and he’d find me work, and so he did; he was that kind of man. I wasn’t really cut out for city life, but the major wrote a friend and found me work handling sheep up in Scotland. It was good, but I decided it was time to go home, look up my brothers, and think about getting a place of my own. I thought to look up the major but then heard he was dead and how it happened. I was going crazy trying to figure out who could help me. And then I see your note, my lady, and it was a godsend. The major could disassemble and reassemble a firearm in absolute darkness. He never would’ve had an accident like that. And any man who tells me he killed himself is a damn liar. Again, pardon my language.”

He started asking around—other veterans he had known all expected the major to tell the full story eventually, and Barnstable didn’t want the major’s death to silence the truth about the Empire Light Horse forever. From his time in London, he had become friends with a Colcombe footman. He said the staff knew that the master had been writing something but that the manuscript had disappeared sometime after the master’s death.
This footman had said a family friend was helping them look for it—and when he heard who it was and then saw the notice in the club, that decided things for him.

“The major was an easygoing sort, my lady. I remembered your name from talks around evening fires. And he said how your brother was a mate of his. I never served under your brother, but I knew many who did, and there was no one to say anything against Major Ffolkes. He was a right good man and officer. I figured if you were a Ffolkes, I could speak with you. But like I said, South Africa made me a cautious man, and I wasn’t taking any chances I didn’t need to. Especially with the way the major died.”

“You mean you thought Major Colcombe was murdered?” Frances spoke quietly, almost afraid of the words.

“I’m saying that an accident was impossible, and he never would’ve killed himself. If you have another choice, my lady, then I’d like to hear it.”

Frances leaned back in her chair and contemplated Barnstable. He was a frank man, and she sensed no dishonesty there.

“Thank you for your kind words about my brother and for trusting me. I am trying to find the manuscript. Can you tell me if Major Colcombe ever said anything to you about it?”

“Not in England. But we were laid up together in a field hospital in South Africa right after we were relieved. He told me again not to worry. He wanted to give things a chance to calm down and then he’d tell the whole story, the truth, for all our sakes. ‘All of it,’ said the major, ‘more than you men know. But not now—later, when feelings aren’t running so high. And I promise the bastards who sent us to be slaughtered on the Sapphire River will pay.’”

Barnstable finished his beer.

“That was all the major told me,” said Barnstable. “But I’m glad I could pass the story on to you. I know I promised the major I’d be quiet about this, but now he’s gone, and I don’t
care what they do to me. I’ve been shooting my mouth off all over London. If they want to find me in Australia, good luck to them. Now you’re titled, my lady, you and your brother. I hear he’s a marquess. You know the right sort. Maybe you could talk to your brother—”

“Thank you for the suggestion, Mr. Barnstable, but I think I’m capable of doing what needs to be done.”

Barnstable wasn’t offended. He grinned.

“You sound just like my mother, God rest her soul. She was a fine woman and did not take well to being crossed.”

“I’m sorry I never met her,” said Frances.

Barnstable stood. “I think I told you all that I could, my lady, and feel better for getting it off my chest. But I’ll tell you to watch your back, if I may be so bold. There’s a lot of talk about this. As for myself, I’ll probably be in London another month, then off to Australia. But I’ll call in again if I think of anything else before I go. I’m staying with a mate in Rotherhithe, and I wouldn’t send a lady there.”

“What you did tonight was good and brave and a testament to Major Colcombe,” said Frances. Barnstable just blushed and stammered. Frances pulled out one of her calling cards and gave it to him in case he needed to write or even telephone her. “I just want to make sure you’re settled. Now, my note said any veteran who came to be would be rewarded.” She reached for her bag, but Barnstable just got annoyed.

“No need for that. I came here out of duty and respect, not for a handout. I took your beer as you’re my hostess. Visit me in Australia and I’ll make you welcome and serve you one in return. But no money.”

Embarrassed, Frances apologized.

“You have a good heart, and I know you meant no harm. Thanks for listening, and for the beer, and God be with you.” Barnstable stood and made for the door, but Mallow suddenly stood up.

“It was wicked, Mr. Barnstable. Wicked what they did to you and the major. My lady and I won’t let this go.”

Frances was astonished. She had never seen Mallow angry like that, but it made a certain amount of sense. People like Barnstable and Mallow served people of quality, gave them loyalty, and in return received care and protection. It’s the way Mallow believed the world worked. And when the system didn’t work, when loyal men like Barnstable were abandoned and great men like Major Colcombe had to give so much to save them and then die, what hope was there?

“I’m sure you won’t, Miss Mallow,” he said, and then he was gone.

Mallow took a moment to control herself. “My lady, I apologize most deeply. I spoke without thinking, and I assure you it will not happen again.”

“Don’t apologize, Mallow. You were completely right. It was wicked, from beginning to end. Why were those men sent to their deaths? Who sent them and why? Forget propriety, Mallow. Take a seat and let’s work this out.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

“So Danny—that is, Major Colcombe—knew what had happened and why. But he wanted to wait for the right time, when passions had cooled. He was too thoughtful to even tell my brother, because Danny didn’t want let Charles hurt his own political career doing the noble thing.”

“Mr. Barnstable said they were talking about the War Office, my lady. You must know people there.”

“You’re right, Mallow. I do. Let’s start with General Audendale. He was Major Colcombe’s and my brother’s superior in South Africa. Charles always spoke of him as a man of honor—one of the old school, he had said. He now lives in family manse about a two-hour train ride outside of London. I’ll write to him and ask for a visit. If the War Office had interfered in South Africa, Audendale would know.”

“Very good, my lady.”

“And we’ll just hope my brother doesn’t find out what we’re up to. Come Mallow. It’s time for bed. We’ll take a fresh look at this in the morning. We have a lot to do and think about.”

Frances quickly got into bed. She was exhausted but couldn’t stop thinking about Danny. His death was tragic, but she thought of the men he had saved, and no one could have a better epitaph. Tomorrow was soon enough to plan.

She forced herself to stop focusing on South Africa and instead thought about the party. Frances had enjoyed it more than she had expected. The conversation with Lord Gareth had been entertaining . . . no, make that stimulating. He’d be introducing her to Lord and Lady Heathcote and their lively set! And feeling rather warm inside, she fell asleep.

F
rances didn’t sleep quite as late as she expected but felt refreshed and went downstairs to call General Audendale.

“Hello, General Audendale? This is Lady Frances Ffolkes. My brother, Charles Ffolkes, served under you in South Africa.”

“Of course, my dear. Very nice to speak with you.”

“I was hoping to visit you in the near future. I know Danny Colcombe was working on a manuscript. I had some questions about it and hoped you could help me. Would it be acceptable for me to visit you?”

“Poor Colcombe. Tragic end. But of course. Let’s set a date and you can come down by train. Don’t get many visitors and would like to see you, my dear . . .”

Frances stepped out of the phone closet and saw two notices waiting for her—unusual for early in the day.

“Both delivered by hand,” said Mrs. Beasley, who approved of old-fashioned ways.

The first was from Henry Wheaton:

That sounded most pleasant.

The next was from Lord Gareth:

Luncheon was the annual planning meeting of the Greater London Library Guild. The goal was to improve literacy by giving greater access to books for the less fortunate. Then it was back to her flat at Miss Plimsoll’s to get ready for dinner at her friend Thomasina’s house. Thomasina—“Tommie” to her friends—was a fellow suffragist, and their good friend Gwendolyn would also be joining them. Tommie lived in a drafty old place with her bedridden mother, who ran their few servants ragged keeping up with her demands.

Frances brought along a bag full of suffragist papers—pamphlets and speeches she wanted to go over with the other women. They spent an hour reviewing them but gave over the rest of the evening to fun. Tommie had given the cook the night off after she served Tommie’s mother an early dinner, and the three women had great fun making toast and cheese in the kitchen along with baked beans. Frances had also brought some fine apple cider, and they stayed up late talking about childhood days.

Gwen had already said she would stay the night, and Tommie offered to put Frances up for the night as well, but Frances gracefully declined, saying it was just a ten-minute walk home, and it was a pleasant night. She had worn shoes that were comfortable,
if unfashionable. Also, she was able to take a shortcut by passing through the mews behind some fashionable homes instead of the busy main street that was well lit. Frances wasn’t nervous; her neighborhood wasn’t dangerous, and she had done this walk plenty of times.

When she first heard the footsteps in the dark, she assumed it was a groom seeing to horses. But the footsteps kept coming. She stopped to listen more closely, and the footsteps stopped too. She told herself she was being ridiculous. She picked up her pace and heard the stranger following her more quickly as well.

Her heart pounded and throat got dry. She thought of running, but even in a simple dress and good shoes, she knew that she was unlikely to outpace her pursuer. She was stupid—she had just learned that Danny Colcombe had been killed. She had stepped into Special Branch and Secret Service territory; Lord only knew what she had stirred up.

There was only one thing to do—scream. Maybe a servant at the back of the house would hear her. She took a deep breath, but then she heard a shout: “You there, stop! Police!” Then more footfalls and the sound of an ash can being overturned.

She knew the sensible thing would be to race home, but she was too curious. “Constable?” she called into the darkness. She saw the glint off a helmet.

“Are you all right, my lady?”

“Yes, Constable, thank you. But I think that I was being followed.”

“Yes, my lady. I saw a lurking figure and gave chase, but there are several exits for grooms along the way, and he disappeared into the night. But if I may, you shouldn’t be walking home alone this late. I’ll see you the rest of the way.”

“Thank you, Constable. I’m just around the next corner, at Miss Plimsoll’s.” They walked in companionable silence the short way along the rest of the mews and then onto the street
again. By the front door, Frances turned to him, her mind working furiously.

“You were both diligent and kind, Constable. I would like your name so I can commend you to your superiors.”

“Thank you, my lady, but that’s not necessary. Just glad I could help. They wouldn’t know me here anyway—a couple of the local lads were sick, so I’m filling in from another station. Good night, my lady.”

And before she could ask another question, the constable disappeared into the dark.

Mallow was waiting for her upstairs, and Frances told her the story. Mallow was horrified and asked for a promise that her ladyship would never again take a shortcut or walk alone after dark.

“There is great wickedness in this city, my lady. Begging your pardon, you have no idea.”

Frances was going to argue with her but stopped. She saw a little piece of London’s grimmer parts while working in the soup kitchen, but that was relatively safe. Mallow had grown up in the East End, seeing horrors Frances could only imagine.

“You’re right,” said Frances. “I will be more careful.”

Mallow shook her head as she tidied up. “I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you, my lady.”

“Nothing will happen. And even if it did, Lord and Lady Seaforth would take care of you and see you into a new position.”

“Very nice, I’m sure, my lady. But . . .” Mallow struggled to find the words, and Frances sat patiently. “But I would like to keep working for you, my lady.” She blushed and turned to cover it.

Frances was touched. “Let’s not worry. Nothing really happened. It was probably just a thief after my bag—oh, that’s it!” Frances grabbed her bag, which was full of suffragist club papers. “What if someone thought my bag contained Danny Colcombe’s manuscript and that’s why I was followed?”

“You mean, my lady, someone else wants it too—and thinks you have it?”

“Exactly—but who? And there’s something else I can’t figure out.” She frowned.

Mallow was used to her mistress’s reflective moods. It was something she learned in university, she said, a way of looking at the details of a problem. “Going to the text,” she called it.

“The constable called me ‘my lady.’ He shouldn’t have made that assumption. ‘Miss’ or possibly ‘Madam.’ Unless he knew me—but I certainly didn’t know him. Now that, Mallow, is the most interesting thing about the whole affair.”

Frances woke up the next morning feeling frustrated. She could go to the local station, but she’d look a fool, talking about a constable whose name she didn’t know on the suspicion he apparently knew her. She was sure she hadn’t seen him before.

She could go to Colonel Mountjoy with her thoughts, but he hadn’t wanted her further involved, that much was clear. And there was nothing connecting this with the Colcombe manuscript except coincidence. He’d give her a pat on the head and send her on her way. Inspector Eastley? If there was something funny with the police, he’d already know it and wouldn’t discuss it.

Perhaps it was a lucky guess on the constable’s part—or maybe it had something to do with Barnstable’s recent visit. No telling now, but it would bear consideration for later.

Meanwhile, she focused on the night. Lord Gareth would be picking her up for the theatrical evening with the Heathcote set. She wondered what he had meant when he had said that it would not be a typical evening of theater.

“I’ll be going out this evening. Find something smart in the closet—drinks first, then the theater.”

Mallow went through Frances’s closet and produced a dress Frances had almost forgotten about, something unusual she had had made a couple of years ago, elaborate and elegant and entirely in black and white.

“At the time, my lady, I recall you saying the simplicity of the color scheme didn’t suit you, but perhaps a second look. I really think you’ll find it a flattering cut.”

Frances agreed, and Mallow helped her get into it. Once it was all buttoned up, she gave her mistress a critical look as Frances reviewed herself in the mirror. Mallow had learned a thing or two about women’s clothes and how they change or flatter the ladies who wore them. The severity of the cut and the black and white scheme exaggerated Lady Frances’s hourglass figure. The copper hair stood out in sharp relief, and even her ladyship’s cheekbones seemed more prominent. The gray eyes appeared deeper, and the overall effect was to make her a little older. A little worldlier. So different from the soft and romantic styles she had for eveningwear or the brisk and cheerful outfits she favored for daytime.

Mallow hid a smile. Her ladyship rarely took a real look at herself in the mirror, but she was doing so today. Was it an important evening to her ladyship?

“Very well. Run an iron over it and I’ll wear it tonight.”

Lord Gareth was in the guest lounge when she came down that evening. She watched his eyes closely and was pleased to see his approval at her outfit. Mallow really did know best, she concluded.

Her escort’s evening clothes were splendidly tailored for his slim form. And again, she imagined him in something from the last century, from the lively days of Beau Brummel, the arbiter of fashion in the early 1800s, who strode through society like a peacock.

“You look lovely, Lady Frances,” he said.

She curtsied. “Thank you, my lord.”

He had a little two-seater car, smaller and more nimble than her brother’s. “We’re meeting at the Heathcote house, then we’re going in a group to the theater. It will be an evening of music and dance. Do you like dance, my lady?” She liked the way the slightly mocking “my lady” rolled off his tongue.

“I haven’t been to the ballet recently, but I do like it.”

“Tell me what you like about it,” he said with a smile.

“I like the elegance of the French dancers. I am less interested in technical proficiency than in emotional engagement.”

“So you are less interested in the Russian dancers?” he asked, and she sensed a challenge. It was like the conversation the other night, almost a fencing match, and they went back and forth.

“I’ve actually seen the dancers in Russia,” he said. “Perhaps some of the finest dancing in the world can be found in St. Petersburg.”

“You’ve been to Russia?” she said. She had never met anyone who had visited Russia, and Lord Gareth launched into several anecdotes, amusing and illustrative, populated with fatalistic peasants and talented but dark-humored musicians.

“May I ask what you were doing there? Merely to entertain yourself?”

“No, I was carrying on an affair with a married Russian countess, a cousin of the czar, no less.”

“You’re making fun of me,” she said. She watched him closely, trying to get to know him completely, but new facets kept appearing.

“You don’t think I’d be so bold as to have an affair with a woman whose husband could have me executed?”

“I still believe you’re teasing me, and you think very well of yourself if you think a Russian countess would have you.” And Lord Gareth laughed again.

They pulled in front of the Heathcote house, a handsome well-kept building whose location cleverly, like the Heathcotes themselves, straddled a line between aristocratic elegance and artistic fashion.

Lord Gareth parked the car and turned to Frances.

“Tell me, my lady, do suffragists believe in marriage?”

Frances opened her mouth in astonishment and then brought her hand to cheek. “Lord Gareth—this is so sudden! I had no idea you were so overcome. But I can’t bring myself to refuse you. We will visit my brother at once to ask his permission.”

She had the pleasure of seeing Lord Gareth deeply discomforted for several long moments before he grinned and wagged his finger at her.