Death on the Sapphire (23 page)

“And you’re not with the police?” asked Jock dubiously. It was a shame, but the police were not popular in neighborhoods like this. “And if not, why do you know so much about how people were killed?”

“I’m not with the police, but I know people—important people who can do something. Now, we’re wasting time.”

Mallow, meanwhile, let her eyes rove over the room. This was not a drawing room. People got angry fast and took offense easily. She saw Jewel talking to a small group of men and women who were now looking at them. She and Lady Frances didn’t have many friends in this establishment, and Mallow was thinking it might be prudent to make sure they could make a quick exit before they made any more enemies.

The two men looked at each other, and then Andy spoke. “He was a good man, was Alfie, but a little bit wild. Had trouble settling down to army life, but Major Colcombe, well, he was a little bit wild too. So they took to each other particularly.” Indeed, continued Andy, they all took to Major Colcombe, and he looked out for them. “Alfie told you that the major got him a job? He got both of us jobs, too—right, Jock? Good jobs.”

And they never forgot what he did to save them.

“But there was a lead-up to your final battle, wasn’t there? Mr. Barnstable said there was a fight between Major Colcombe and some generals. Did you hear that too?”

Jock turned his head and spit on the floor.

“For God’s sake, Jock,” said Andy, “that’s an insult to Davey and to the lady.”

“No insult to them,” he grumbled. “That was for that bastard Audendale.”

That was a surprise. Barnstable hadn’t said anything to Audendale’s discredit.

“Now, Jock, we don’t know anything for sure,” said Andy.

“The hell we don’t. You know damn well it was Audendale. The major was doing fine, and then the bastard Audendale changes everything. You think the major got us into that mess?”

“So you think it was Audendale’s fault? Did Mr. Barnstable? He never said anything to me about him. Do you think General Audendale wanted the book stopped?”

“That’s a lot of questions,” said Andy, laughing. “Anyway, we all thought that maybe Audendale didn’t, well, didn’t do right by the major and by us. But who knows?” He shrugged and drank some more. “It’s all above the heads of a couple of Australian privates. But Major Colcombe said he didn’t want anything said against Audendale, so we took that serious. Most of us did, anyway—” He glared at Jock. “Still, if you’re thinking General Audendale killed anyone—well, I can’t see him doing that.”

Jock muttered something.

“Let’s think more recently,” said Frances. “Did Mr. Barnstable say anything about men he was afraid of? Anyone threatening him or asking him anything about the book?”

“As I said, miss, Alfie was a bit wild, and he and the major took to each other well. So Alfie felt it special when the major died. He knew better than any of us that the major had promised a full accounting, when the time was right, and he wanted it, for the major’s sake, for all our sakes, right Jock?”

Jock sighed and began speaking, as if it were an effort. “Alfie told me some men were bothering him, but he wasn’t worried.”

“Men—you mean more than one?” She leaned over the table, and even the surly Jock seemed startled with this short woman all but grabbing him by his shirt in her excitement.

“Yes, miss. Now how did he put it? ‘But I don’t care if it’s a toff or one of us,’ he said, ‘they could all go to hell.’”

“By ‘one of us,’ did he mean another Australian?”

“Could be. Or just any working man—you know, not a toff.”

“Toff” was a nickname for anyone from the upper classes. So Private Barnstable was up against both his own kind and a gentleman.

“But no names? No further details?”

“No, miss, no names,” said Jock. “But he laughed and said he’d be aware of the men who rode by night.”

“It’s what we called the Boers—they often traveled after dark,” explained Andy. “But who’d be afraid of the Boers in London? Still, after he died, we wondered.”

Frances remembered that Dorothy Tregallis had mentioned Danny Colcombe had said it in his sleep—the “men who ride by night.” Was it a joke? Or did Colcombe mean something by it, something that Barnstable didn’t pick up, at least at first? She felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck. Keepers of secrets. Men who rode by night . . .

The four were lost in their own thoughts for a few moments. Frances caught the eye of one of the barmaids. “Please serve Mr. Jock and Mr. Andy another drink. Davey has a tab for me,” she said.

Andy grinned, and even Jock managed a pleased look. When their fresh drinks were served, Frances said she just had a final few questions.

“I want to know about the night Mr. Barnstable died. Was he here drinking with you? Was there anything odd about him that night, anything unusual?”

“Yes, he was drinking here, but no more than usual. He was laughing, talking with everyone—flirting with the ladies.
No offense, miss,” continued Andy, still thinking Frances was Alfie’s girl.

“Not at all,” she said dryly.

But nothing odd that night. They didn’t even hear the noise. Someone just stumbled over his body, lying flat on his back, halfway down the block. No one had seen anything. Frances was a little disappointed. She had hoped that someone had knowledge they hadn’t wanted to share with the police but would share with her.

“But I will tell you this, miss. Do you know anything about firearms?” asked Andy.

“Just a little.”

“I don’t want to upset you, but I’ve seen lots and lots of bodies killed by guns. It looks different when it happens up close. And with Alfie, it was up close. Someone was right near him when he shot him, I’ll stake my life on that. This place being loud and all, though, we heard nothing.” That was what the inspector had said, too.

They all lapsed into silence again. Frances couldn’t think of any additional questions to ask and was about to thank them and take her leave when she became aware that others had joined them. Jewel was standing over them, looking smug, along with another woman and an angry-looking man.

“What the hell do you want, Mickey?” asked Jock. His scowl was worse than ever, and now even Andy lost his smile.

“You and your friends—” He glanced at Frances and Mallow. “—insulted Jewel here. And I think you owe her an apology.” The new arrival—Mickey—had an English accent.

Jock told the men to get lost—and did so with language so foul, even Jewel and her friend, who were more used to it than Frances, winced. Mallow glared at him.

“I see you Aussies need to learn some English manners,” said Mickey.

“Now see here—” said Andy. He stood up, and Jock stood too.

“This is an Australian bar and you and your English tarts can go elsewhere,” said Jock.

And then Mallow stood. “You, Miss Jewel, can watch your mouth and take your friends elsewhere. My—Franny and I are respectable girls and won’t be threatened here.”

Frances had never seen Mallow like that. There was steel in her eyes, and Frances was reminded again of just how tough Mallow must’ve been to grow up where she did.

Jewel looked thunderstruck, and even the two men with her looked a little stunned. Then Jewel suddenly turned to Frances, maybe seeing an easier target, and as if in a dream, Frances saw the woman’s arm go back.
My God. She’s going to hit me
.

Mallow quickly grabbed a glass and threw the beer into Jewel’s face. She shouted, and the Australians stood to face the Englishmen. Voices fell, replaced by the sound of chairs pushed back violently as Englishmen and Australians squared off.

But Mallow had bought them some time. As quickly as everything came to a boil, it ended. Davey, who was several inches taller than Mickey, suddenly showed up to grab him by his shirt collar. “This is the last problem you’re causing for me,” said Davey, and he quickly dragged the protesting man across the floor, finally flinging him out the door. Anger dissipated in laughter, but Mickey had the last word.

“You can go to hell! To take the side of some stuck-up lady from Belgravia.”

His words sent a chill down her. It was time to go before something else blew up.

Andy looked hard at Frances. “Miss, I don’t know what this is all about, but if you can help find what happened, you’ll have my gratitude. And Jock’s too—right, Jock?”

“Yes, miss,” he said, still a little sullenly.

Frances stood, thanked the men for their trouble, and headed to the bar, while Mallow scowled at anyone who dared look at them.

“Thank you for standing up for me, Davey. I’ll pay my tab now.”

“Not at all, miss. I hope we could help—but as pleasurable as it was to see you, you and your friend might want to do your drinking elsewhere.” He said it with a smile, but the meaning was clear.

“Davey, does Jewel have a tab here?”

Davey sighed. “She does. She used to have men pay it, but that doesn’t happen so much anymore.”

“I will pay it in full. On one condition—you tell her some man paid it.”

Davey said nothing, just nodded and presented the total bill. Frances pulled out her coin purse and settled, adding gratuities for the barmaids.

“God bless you, my lady. Can you see yourself home safely?”

“A hansom cab with a driver known to me is around the corner—thank you. And good fortune follow you, Davey.”

While she had been paying and talking to Davey, a couple of men had left—and now one came rushing back in, shouting.

“Davey, it’s Mickey, who you just threw out. He’s been worked over real good.”

Davey swore, and after telling the barmaids to keep an eye on the place, he raced out with Frances, Mallow, and several other patrons right behind. Not far from the entrance, they saw Mickey laid out flat. For a few sick moments, Frances thought he had been killed like Alfie, but then the man sat up, groaning. He was bruised and would have a black eye in the morning, but he didn’t seem seriously hurt.

“A great big bloke,” said one witness. “Only saw him from the back. Did it for no reason.”

Frances heard horse hooves and saw Mr. Tomkinson’s cab approaching. He must’ve seen the commotion and become concerned. His arrival was most welcome; Frances didn’t want to stay around and see if she and Mallow, as strangers, somehow
took any blame for the attack. The cab barely stopped—Mallow opened the door and the two women jumped in. Before they even sat, Mr. Tomkinson cracked the whip, and they headed home at a brisk pace.

Frances gathered her thoughts. It had been a frightening experience, but she had learned something.

“Mallow, I’m sure you noted that Private Barnstable had been talking about the major and manuscript. And he said two men had been bothering him—a toff and another, probably a fellow enlisted man. I told Inspector Eastley that I thought we might be faced with both a thief and a murderer.”

“Do you think they are working together, my lady?”

“Not if they want different things,” said Frances.

F
rances hadn’t realized how tightly wound she had been in the Red Kangaroo. The unfamiliar place and people, the disagreements, and the violence had taken their toll, and she was suddenly limp.

“Are you all right, my lady?”

“Just exhausted. It wasn’t a bad place, but I have no wish to return,” said Frances.

“Of course not, my lady,” said Mallow, and Frances smiled. She longed for a cup of tea and her bed.

Back in the welcoming familiarity of Miss Plimsoll’s, Frances paid off Mr. Tomkinson with a generous gratuity and her thanks and headed inside, where the night porter let them in. There were two letters waiting for her.

The first letter was from Hal, in his neat lawyerly hand, confirming he’d be at dinner the night after, as they had discussed, and that he was looking forward to it.

The second had a crest, and Frances recognized it. But she’d open it later.

“You’re back late,” she heard and looked up to see Charles coming out of the lounge.

“Charles, what are you doing here so late? You’re well? And Mary?”

“We’re well. I was reading, waiting for you to return.” He looked at her dress. “At the soup kitchen?”

“Where else would I be in this outfit?” said Frances.

“And, Mallow, you are now accompanying your mistress to the soup kitchen? Very noble of you.”

Mallow hated lying to his lordship. He was a marquess and was very important in government. He even knew the King! But that didn’t mean she couldn’t do it.

“Thank you, my lord. I frequently meet her ladyship there to escort her home.”

“Commendable. I just came by to give you a piece of news before you heard it elsewhere—and started drawing wrong conclusions. General Audendale died earlier today. Franny—” he said, forestalling her protests, “he was an old man and went peacefully in his sleep, tended by the local doctor and loyal servants. I know how busy you’ve been, looking for the Colcombe manuscript, but don’t start reading anything into this. Now, it’s late. I’ll just grab a hansom at the corner.” He gave his sister a kiss on her cheek, then turned to Mallow.

“I trust you will take good care of my sister?” he said.

“Of course, my lord,” said Mallow.

“Excellent,” he said and quickly headed for the door. But not quickly enough.

“Charles, just a few questions.”

He turned back and sighed. “I knew I wouldn’t get out of here without your making an issue out of this. What?”

Frances felt sad about the general but also a surge of excitement. This was too much to be a coincidence, no matter what Charles said. And it was an opportunity. “Who is settling the general’s estate? He has that large house and must have a vast accumulation of papers and other items from his long life and career to sort through.”

“His only close family is a married daughter in India. The local solicitor will be settling everything, probably selling the house,
putting anything his daughter wants into storage, and paying off the remaining servants. Why do you ask?”

“I thought I could help. There’s no one to oversee the servants properly. A village solicitor is not going to know how to supervise them.”

“Franny, did you become a solicitor all of a sudden?” He smiled.

“Of course not. I can’t do that work. But I can make sure valuable items are handled properly and everything else is sold, donated, or thrown out. I can box up confidential family papers. You will admit that I learned from our mother how a great house should be run. Servants will give me respect as the daughter of a marquess that they will not give to some local solicitor. And I’ll have Mallow with me as well.”

Charles gave that some thought. “Franny, is this some sort of trick?”

“What trick? You always tell me to do something useful and not poke my nose where it doesn’t belong. What is more respectable than helping sort through the effects of a late family friend—a brother officer?”

Charles pursed his lips. “You make a lot of sense. I have to agree with you.” Then he grinned. “And you won’t be making trouble in London for a few days. Good idea. We’ll have to run it by the solicitor, but I’m sure he’ll be thrilled not to have to take on that work. I’ll send a telegram in the morning. Good night again.”

He saw himself out, and upstairs Mallow made some tea while Frances put biscuits on a plate.

“A very long evening, Mallow. And I should say, you handled yourself with remarkable grace.”

“Thank you, my lady.” She poured tea for both of them. “I wouldn’t want you to think that I was used to such establishments, however. Except as part of your work, my lady, I would never enter a place like that.”

“Of course not, Mallow. I never thought you would. Oh—tomorrow night, Mr. Wheaton will be dining here.”

“We must think of your outfit then, my lady.”

“It’s just the dining room downstairs, Mallow. We don’t have to do anything fancy.”

“As I’ve said before, gentlemen like to see ladies well turned out.”

Frances raised an eyebrow. “Who told you that?”

“Your late mother, the marchioness, God rest her soul, my lady. More tea? Or are you ready for bed?”

Relaxed and comfortable in her favorite nightgown and tucked in nicely in bed, Frances toyed with her unopened letter. Fear and excitement went through her in equal parts. She slit it open to read the note in Gareth’s elegant hand.

Frances read it several times but couldn’t make up her mind what to do. Why did he have to bring up that kiss? She had so wanted to forget it but knew she never would.

Finally, irritated at herself, she decided to think about it tomorrow. She folded the letter carefully and put it on her night table before turning off the light. Frances then tried to think about General Audendale. Yes, he had been sick, but it was quite a coincidence. Soon, however, she was thinking of nothing, fast asleep in her bed.

The next morning, Frances had a good breakfast and then reviewed her list of meetings planned and calls to make. She had been giving some thought on whom she should approach next about the manuscript, but now, on further reflection, that didn’t seem necessary. She recalled the past days: violence seemed to trail her in the mews, in Mr. Bramwell’s carriage, outside the Red Kangaroo. But oddly, it didn’t touch her directly. And she thought she knew why.

However, all this did indicate that others had some interest, some very serious interest, in the manuscript. Jock and Andy had some definite thoughts on the matter, and so did some of the highest in the land. She bet the protective Colonel Mountjoy of His Majesty’s Secret Service would have something to say. The keeper of secrets would no doubt visit her again. And this time, she would press him as she had pressed Inspector Eastley. Audendale’s death meant something, she was sure of it, and if nothing else, it would be a catalyst. Although Frances liked to forge ahead, she counseled herself to be patient and see if anything she had said would set others in motion first.

In deference to the hotel’s somewhat more casual atmosphere, Mallow eventually decided on something less ornate than Frances had worn when dining at the Wheaton house. Frances had explained this to Hal. Still, he showed up dressed elegantly in a new waistcoat.

“We’ll make a dandy out of you yet,” said Frances. The women gathered in the hallway to enter the dining room as the gong was rung. Tonight, Hal was the only male guest, and Frances had to make many introductions to satisfy everyone’s curiosity. It wasn’t that men were completely uncommon; for example, once a week, the son of old Lady Comstock joined her for dinner. Ideally, she should be living with him, but she and her daughter-in-law detested each other. And about once a month, the Bishop of Somerset came to town and dined with his sister, Mrs. Jasper. But to have a young man, unrelated to anyone, as a guest was a cause for excitement. Hal handled it with aplomb, Frances was pleased to see.

After they were seated, Hal said, “Your brother told me this morning that you’ll be helping settle the Audendale estate. I had told him and his local solicitors that I was prepared to step in if they needed any help at the London end. But that won’t be necessary with Franny on the job.”

Frances laughed, and Hal enjoyed the way her eyes crinkled up.

“I told Charles I was just trying to be helpful. But I sensed there was some things left unsaid. And servants always know more than they admit. With their master gone, Mallow and I might be able to get them to talk.”

“But please be careful,” said Hal. Hal’s eyes were usually a sharp green, but now they seemed softer, like the color of a new leaf.

She reached over and squeezed his hand. “I certainly will,” she said. “And now you can help me with strategy.”

“Ah, you want me to help you think like a lawyer. Actually, I could travel down to Egdon Hall with you if you’d like.”

“I would love to have you there—but as a London lawyer, you’d make the servants nervous. They won’t suspect anything from a young lady who came just to pay off the servants, make sure accounts are up to date, and see the rugs get rolled up carefully. But teach me how to be clever like a lawyer.”

And Hal did. He explained about what to look for in bank books—were there inexplicable transfers of money? That might be a signal to casually ask servants about any changes around the same time. Bills for private messenger services may indicate something important and secret being shipped. Were typists or secretaries hired at any time? There was no telling what exactly Audendale’s connection with the manuscript might have been, but his paperwork could provide clues. Perhaps there were even old diaries that could help answer the question about why the Australians—at least some of them—detested him, although Colcombe and Charles both held him in esteem.

“It seems like such a muddle. Violence is following this manuscript, but I can’t see who’s pulling the strings. People seem to think I may have it, but whatever gave them that idea?”

“Did you study Latin at Vassar?” asked Hal.

“Yes, a little. Caesar marching through Gaul and Virgil going on and on about shepherds.”

Hal laughed. “Exactly. I ask because lawyers love Latin. And there’s one phrase in particular we like:
cui bono?
”

“‘To whose benefit?’” said Frances.

“Yes. Why should someone want the manuscript published? Why should someone want it hidden?”

“But we don’t even know what’s in it. No one seems to know,” said Frances.

“Yes. I find that very interesting,” said Hal. “Don’t you?”

Frances sliced another bite of chicken. “It doesn’t seem to matter with the fear it has created. Men are dead because of it.”

“Men? I know of Daniel Colcombe. But who else?”

Of course, she hadn’t told him about Barnstable. Frances told him quickly about their meeting and how she was summoned to the site of his death.

“I didn’t realize quite how deeply you were committed to this, Franny. Multiple murders and Scotland Yard inspectors. You’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest.”

“I should be frightened, I know. But I do believe I have a guardian angel.”

“That’s a little fanciful for you,” said Hal.

She told him everything and was touched to see how concerned he was. “So you see, I was stalked in the mews—but my pursuer was knocked out before he could reach me. Then a man attacked Mr. Bramwell, and I escaped. But the attack was well planned. If they had wanted to get me, I think they could’ve. Why didn’t they? And after a man threatened me in the Red Kangaroo, he was given a thorough beating just moments later. I’m surrounded by violence—but it hasn’t really touched me.”