Death on the Sapphire (16 page)

“Mallow—”

“Please, my lady, I am sure you will like it,” she said, forcing confidence into her voice. She watched Frances climb out of the hansom, her face full of curiosity. Mallow peered in through the shop window and rapped sharply on the door.

“We’re closed,” came the muffled reply.

She rapped again, and now the door opened to reveal a plump, older man, who was already speaking as he opened it. “. . . and if you bother me again I’ll have the police . . .” Then he peered into the dark street and broke into a smile. Mallow answered him with a smile of her own. The shop hadn’t changed over the years, and neither had Mr. Pennystone.

“Bless me, it’s little Junie. What are you doing here? But come on in, you’re always welcome.”

“I brought someone with me,” she said. “My lady, this is Mr. Abel Pennystone, manager of Ely Street Tea Shop and great friend to my late father. Mr. Pennystone, please meet my mistress, Lady Frances Ffolkes.”

“Well, don’t stand in the street. Junie—and my lady,” the man gave a brief bow, “I am pleased to welcome you.”

Mallow felt a shiver of delight in seeing the wonder on her ladyship’s face as they entered. The tea shop was indeed closed, with chairs put up on the table and the floor a little damp after a mopping. But two men in waiters’ uniforms, half undone, stood up and, at Mr. Pennystone’s direction, placed two chairs at table. They smiled briefly but said nothing. The tea shop often employed immigrant waiters, Mallow remembered.

“Now what can I get you, my lady, Miss Mallow?” said Mr. Pennystone grinning.

“Don’t tease me. You know very well,” said Mallow a little coyly. “And you of all people may call me Junie.”

“You’re maid to a lady,” he said. “And so I will call you Miss Mallow.” She felt herself turn pink as Mr. Pennystone headed behind the counter.

“Mallow, what is this place?” asked Frances.

“Just a tea shop, my lady. Mr. Pennystone was an old friend of my father’s and helped out after he died. He’s managed this shop as long as anyone can remember, and for special days, there were special treats here for me and my sisters. As you will see.”

One of the waiters deposited a plate with plain biscuits, and a moment after that, Mr. Pennystone came around with two frothy pink drinks in tall glasses.

“Pink lemonade,” said Frances.

“The very best in London, my lady. In all of England,” said Mallow. Now was the test. Had she judged right? Her ladyship was used to the very best wines and sherries. Mallow took a sip and felt her body practically dissolve in bliss as the sweet-tangy taste slid down her throat and spread throughout her body. But her eyes never left her ladyship’s face.

Frances took a long drink and then leaned back.

“I have never tasted anything like this,” said Frances. “Do you share the recipe?”

“An absolute secret, my lady, but I thank you for the compliment and for taking on little Junie here. We were so thrilled
when we heard, back in the neighborhood, that our June Mallow was maid to a titled lady. She’s done us proud.”

“She has done herself proud indeed, Mr. Pennystone. A fine maid . . . and, apparently, full of surprises.” Mallow felt transported at the compliments from Mr. Pennystone and Lady Frances.

“Well, the lads and I will finish tidying up. No rush. Enjoy your drinks.”

Mallow now saw the Ely Street Tea Shop as her mistress must have as she watched her ladyship’s eyes dart all around. The English pastoral scenes she adored as a child were nothing like the oil paintings in great houses. The glassware and china that seemed so elegant back then were chipped. The chairs rocked. Lady Frances liked the drink, that was clear, but what would she think of this place so dear in Mallow’s childhood memories?

“When I was ten, our cook made me the loveliest walnut cake for nursery tea. That was the last time I felt like I do right now.”

Mallow completely relaxed. “Do you feel better, my lady?”

“Oddly, I do.” She toyed with the spoon in her glass. “Do you know, Mallow, he used me—that is, Lord Gareth. His true affections were engaged elsewhere.”

“He was a cad, my lady. He was not worthy of you,” said Mallow.
Just let Lord Gareth call on my lady again
, thought Mallow.
He’d better pray I’m not around to receive him
.

“It was more than that. You know I’ve been working to find the manuscript for the Colcombe family. You helped me at the Colcombe’s house. Lord Gareth is part of a group of friends, and they want the manuscript, too. Lord Gareth clearly had other motives. It is very dark, Mallow. I do believe Major Colcombe was killed because of what he wrote.”

Wide-eyed, Mallow just nodded. She had seen a bit of life since going into service, courtships and infidelities, tenderness and fights, protestations of friendship and nasty wit. But at the end of the day, she thought of Society—with a capital
S
—as
one group. They would sleep with each other’s wives—that she knew. But such sordid crimes as theft and murder . . .

They sat in silence for a while, quietly finishing their pink lemonade. The only sounds came from Mr. Pennystone and the waiters cleaning up.

“You look very thoughtful, Mallow.” Her ladyship raised an eyebrow.

“I can’t understand why the major was killed, my lady. Whatever he wrote, why would anyone care?”

“It’s not about money. It’s probably power. People want to be in charge. What was in that manuscript would end someone’s political career. Maybe a lot of people’s political careers.”

Mallow frowned. She wasn’t sure what a “political career” was. These were men who already had houses and servants and all the food they could ever want.

Her ladyship broke into her thoughts. That was a spooky thing about her—she seemed to know what people were thinking. “You’re wondering, what is a political career, and why is it worth so much? It’s not worth a man’s life. Indeed, it may not be worth anything at all.”

“Yes, my lady.” Her mistress now looked restored. The pink lemonade would do that. She looked full of purpose again.

“Do you remember the reception for the French ambassador—when I was home from college? I slipped out to go to my very first suffragist meeting, counting on my mother to not notice among all the people that I had gone. But she did. What did you do, Mallow? You were still just a housemaid then, but what did you do?”

“I lied, my lady,” said Mallow quietly. She remembered. She had never been so scared. “I lied to your mother, Dowager Marchioness of Seaforth, and told her you were in bed with a headache and didn’t want to be disturbed.” It had hurt to do it. She had kept secrets from Lady Frances’s mother before, but this was the first time she had told her a bald-faced lie. The
marchioness had been good to her, but Mallow, for reasons she could not articulate, had developed a closer loyalty to her daughter, Lady Frances.

“You weren’t concerned that I was doing something foolish, even dangerous, and that my mother and brother should know about it?”

“I trusted you, my lady.”

“Yes, Mallow. Trust and loyalty. I believe I will need all of your trust and loyalty in the days to come.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Seeing they were done, Mr. Pennystone came back. Frances realized they were there as guests, not customers, so did not insult him by offering to pay. Mallow was glad Frances had accepted the lemonade as a guest.

“I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Pennystone. This has been delightful.”

“You’re welcome anytime, my lady. A friend of Junie’s is a friend of mine.” He then realized his gaff—Lady Frances was not June’s friend but her mistress. He frowned and said, “Beg pardon, my lady, I only meant—”

Frances felt terrible for Mr. Pennystone, who seemed so embarrassed at his error.

“I know what you meant. And there is nothing to apologize for. Thank you again.”

And that was worth everything to Mallow.

Smiling again, Mr. Pennystone dispatched one of the waiters to walk them to a cabstand. He was from somewhere in East Europe—Poland, perhaps—as were so many of the workers in Soho. But his lack of English skills didn’t prevent him from being respectful and attentive, and he saw them into a hansom on the main road.

“Thank you, Mallow. You anticipated my needs, and only the very best lady’s maids can do that.”

“I do my best, my lady,” she said. And then Lady Frances started to laugh out of nowhere.

“Remember Miss Pritchard, my mother’s maid, the one you called the tigress? Can you imagine her bringing my mother to Mr. Pennystone’s for a pink lemonade?”

Mallow knew a proper maid did not show undue emotion in front of her mistress. But there was no helping it—a moment later she was laughing too.

W
hen Frances awoke the next morning, the pain of what Gareth had done to her came rushing back. But she had been soothed by her late-night Soho visit, and she was determined to pour all her energies into the tasks at hand. She swung her legs out of bed: time for tea and eggs and toast and a visit with Mrs. Elkhorn’s—well, “friend” probably wasn’t the best word. “Colleague,” perhaps: Lord Ashton Crossley, the retired War Office powerbroker.

Social calls weren’t properly made until later in the day, but this wasn’t really a social call yet perhaps was something less than a business visit. Most of the political figures Frances knew were members of the Liberal Party, friends and associates of her brother’s and their father before him. Except for brief pleasantries at large events, she had never spoken with a Conservative politician.

Frances had Mallow dress her in the same severe dress she used for the Wheaton law office. The thought of Hal picked her up a bit. She hadn’t bothered to even open it last night, but a message from him had been waiting for her when she got home, fixing a time for the promised dinner at his house.

Well-breakfasted, Frances assigned Mallow some tasks for the day and then made her way to Lord Crossley’s town house.

His house was small but well appointed on the outside. The brass shone and the windows were clean. Frances knew the signs of a house that was owned by someone who cared for it and had money to spend.

A butler answered the door and accepted Lady Frances’s card. He showed her into the morning room and said Lord Crossley would see her shortly. It would seem Mrs. Elkhorn’s letter of introduction had done its work.

The room was perfectly decorated. Not an item was out of place, and there were enough interesting objects to keep visitors entertained. A maid had cleaned it carefully. It was almost like a stage set—Frances wondered if she was the first person to visit the room in more than a month. She was there for a fair amount of time. Usually, people of their class saw you right away or not at all.

But eventually the butler returned and said Lord Crossley would see her if she would follow him. Frances was a little surprised, believing that this little room would be perfect for a two-person meeting. Of course, if Lord Crossley was old-fashioned, he might want to receive her in a more formal drawing room.

But the butler didn’t lead her upstairs to where a drawing room would be. Rather, he led her across the hall to what was no doubt a study. He entered without knocking.

“Lady Frances Ffolkes,” he announced.

The study had the same particular smell of polished wood and old paper as Hal’s study. The furniture too was a little old-fashioned. But everything fell into the background at the site of the man behind the desk. His hair was completely white and brushed straight back to reveal a high forehead. Dark eyes took in Frances very quickly, and she felt as if he could see right through her. His face was lined, and his mouth was formed into a sarcastic smile.
He’s already decided to laugh at me
, concluded Frances.

She was shown to a large, comfortable chair facing the desk. But it was low, and because Frances was short to begin with, she
had to look up to Lord Crossley. She felt like she did as a child, when she was allowed into her father’s office at Whitehall as a special treat.

The butler left and closed the door behind him.

“Please excuse my not standing, Lady Frances. It is a little difficult. My apologies.” He gestured to a silver-topped cane leaning against the desk. His voice was smooth and precise. Frances decided to match him for courtesy.

“Do not apologize, my lord. I should be thanking you for taking the time to see me at Mrs. Elkhorn’s request.”

“Dear Winifred. Do you know we see each other every Sunday? We both worship at St. Edmund’s. We have almost nothing in common politically, but the Church of England is one commitment we share. And barely that. I pray to God to release me from my pain. And she prays that God keeps me on earth until I can personally witness women get the vote. We view it as a popularity contest with the Almighty as judge. He’s the only authority Winifred respects. And some days, perhaps not even Him.”

Frances didn’t know what to say to that. But she realized Lord Crossley’s expression was not designed to mock her. It was a grimace of pain. This was not the comfortably tired old age of General Audendale. This man was in agony, with a body rebelling against a mind that she could tell was still sharp.

“Like Mrs. Elkhorn, I’m sure I would relish political debate with you. But I respect your time and come only to see if you can help me.” When he didn’t respond, she added. “This is a matter that goes beyond party politics.”

“Indeed. How unusual. But I knew your father somewhat and your brother by reputation, so perhaps reasonableness is a family trait.” Frances thanked him. “Now tell me, and I’ll see if I can help. No, I misspoke. I’m sure I can help. The question is whether I want to. Are you going to behave like Winifred, racing around like a bull in a china shop, wrecking beautiful things
in your zeal for a better world and leaving men like me to clean up the mess? Or can I count on you to show some moderation?”

Frances wanted to argue with him but stopped herself. It would be neither prudent nor profitable. She took his warning to heart and began. She spoke clearly and succinctly: “As you may remember, my lord, there was a war scandal involving the Empire Light Horse and the battle of Sapphire River. An officer, a man who led the troops in the battle, was writing a book about it. Now he is dead, and we don’t know how. His manuscript was taken. I want to find out who took it. And I want it back.”

“Talk of the Colcombe manuscript has reached even me in my solitude here. So if I understand you correctly, you want justice, my lady?”

Frances started to answer yes but stopped. He was looking so closely at her. He didn’t want that pat answer. That would be a naïve response, and Lord Crossley was not going to help an idealistic child in an unwinnable crusade.

“Justice is always a goal,” she said carefully. “But neither you nor I are in a position to dispense it. For now, I will settle for the manuscript.”

Frances met his eyes and realized she had answered correctly.

“Fools tire me. Winifred said you weren’t a fool, and I see she was right. I remember the scandal of the Empire Light Horse very well. Believe it or not, Lady Frances, I was too high up to know exactly what happened. As a member of a political family, you may know that men of power don’t always know what’s going on under them. I cannot tell you who was responsible for that debacle or who covered it up. Do you believe me?”

He flashed her that sardonic smile again, a mix of amusement and pain.

“Mrs. Elkhorn told me you might help me but that I couldn’t trust you.”

Lord Crossley allowed himself a laugh at that.

“Then you and I shall prove her wrong, and I cannot tell you how much satisfaction that would give me,” he said. “I no longer possess political power, and I am facing a meeting with my maker. The politics of yesteryear seemed petty. If I can help you, I will. Even my political colleagues deserve what they get, Conservatives, Liberals . . . we all do. But tell me, if this manuscript is so important, why would someone not have destroyed it?”

Another test, thought Frances. “Because possession of the manuscript is power. This is all about power, I am sure of it. To destroy the manuscript is to lose that control.” She gazed at Crossley, hoping for his approval.

He nodded and reached for paper and pen on his desk and started to write, consulting a small leather notebook as he did. When he was done, he folded it carefully, put it into an envelope, and then held it out to her. Frances stood to take it from him.

“I have written a name on that piece of paper. Many are responsible for the Sapphire River debacle, but more than anyone, he was the architect. Did he steal the manuscript to protect himself or destroy his enemies? I have no idea. But more than any man, he has the most to lose from its publication.”

Frances thought again about the mysterious fight she had witnessed in the mews and the police constable who wouldn’t give his name. She thought about Danny, who was no doubt murdered. She was getting close to some powerful people who were not used to be being casually thwarted.

“Mr. Davis Bramwell, member of Parliament.” Frances raised an eyebrow, and Lord Crossley smiled. “I see his name is known to you.”

“Yes. He attended Major Colcombe’s funeral. His name was on the list Kat Colcombe and I compiled.”

“Indeed,” said Lord Crossley dryly. “That is interesting. Mr. Bramwell was Parliament’s de facto policy liaison with the general staff during the war. He is a member of Parliament still, ambitious and obsessed with power, chaffing until the Conservatives are
back in control and he can resume what he no doubt believes is his rightful place in the world.”

He leaned back in his chair, and his face was looking a little ashen. “You look concerned for me. I think Mrs. Elkhorn is concerned, too, but perhaps she is a better actress. Don’t worry. My butler will be in shortly with some relief. But since I’ve helped you, please indulge me and answer one question. What led you to the War Office?”

Frances told him she had concluded someone well placed was behind the theft because there were whispers among the aristocracy. She told Lord Crossley that she had been invited to a Heathcote event because, she suspected, someone in the group was curious about her and her connection to the manuscript.

“In your sojourns with that august company,” he said, “did you come across Lord Gareth Blaine? He’s deeply involved with them. Too deeply.”

Frances tried to control her reactions but felt her face grow red anyway. Crossley chuckled. “The answer is yes, I see. Don’t be ashamed of your feelings. He’s had the devil’s own charm since boyhood.”

“I take it you know him then?”

Crossley leaned back. “You are very bright, my lady. You are well suited to be Winifred’s protégé. But you are still a student and have made a mistake she wouldn’t have. Winifred would’ve checked connections beforehand. Lord Gareth is my nephew, son of my sister, the Duchess of Carrolton. He was in this very room just days ago asking what I knew about the Sapphire River debacle.”

Equal parts embarrassment and rage surged through Frances. Crossley was right—she should’ve done more research. Her favorite professor at Vassar would’ve roasted her over the coals for that omission. And Gareth should’ve told her his uncle was a powerful man in possession of key information. He was more deeply involved than he had indicated.

“That is very interesting, my lord. I have to say . . . I don’t know what to believe.”

“You must believe what you think is right, Lady Frances. And now, my lady, we really are done.”

There were beads of sweat on his brow, and Frances noted his hands were shaking. She was about to ask if she could ring for a servant when the butler entered with a tall glass. With great care and patience, he helped his master drink.

“Momentarily, I will become useless. If I did not inspire trust, I hope you can say at least I gave you something to think about.”

Frances stood. “You helped me immensely, Lord Crossley. I shall pray for your relief and that it should be immediate.”

“Not even a wait for suffrage?” he said.

“Oh no, my lord. I pray that will be immediate as well.”

And she heard him chuckling as the butler showed her out the door.

Back on the street, Frances breathed deeply. That beautiful, much-loved house had been filled with pain, both physical and emotional, and it had gotten into her too. She felt guilty for feeling relief to be away from it, because she knew what it had cost him to receive her, to talk with her. She hoped the morphine solution—for that is no doubt what he had been served—would provide him at least a little peace. Frances was not particularly religious, but she hoped the Almighty would take into account the good work Lord Crossley had done that morning.

She opened the envelope and looked at the address. Mr. Bramwell was just a short walk away. As an old governess had said, “No time like the present.” Parliament was not currently in session, which meant Bramwell might be working out of an office at home.

His town house was somewhat larger than Crossley’s and well kept, but without the elegance that came from someone
who cared deeply about his house. The butler received her with more casualness.

“Do you have an appointment?” he asked. Frances raised an eyebrow and produced a calling card.

“No, but I was hoping Mr. Bramwell could spare a few moments. Lord Crossley, his colleague in the party, suggested it. And my brother, you may want to remind him, is the current undersecretary for European Affairs.”

This butler clearly wanted her to establish her bona fides, and this seemed to do it.

“Very good, my lady.” He showed her into a morning room, and again she saw the difference. This room was used heavily—furniture was not aligned and items were disarranged. Frances didn’t know if there was a Mrs. Bramwell, but at any rate, the house wasn’t being properly supervised. The morning room should look better, and as Frances knew, she looked every inch a lady; the butler should not have questioned her on the doorstep.