Death on the Sapphire (4 page)

Then she turned to her maid. “Come, Mallow. Time for more research.” She was full of energy. Yes, she’d need help, but she knew the right direction.

Bellman had found them a hansom cab and helped the women into it.

“Please take us to Scotland Yard,” she said to the driver.

“I beg your pardon, miss?”

“Scotland Yard, the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police Service,” she said. “Surely you know where that is?”

“Yes, of course, Miss. Straightaway.” Fancy that, this young woman, a real lady, he could tell, asking to go to Scotland Yard. Wait till he told the missus tonight . . .

As the cab started up, Lady Frances leaned back and smiled at Mallow. “We did a good morning’s work. And won’t Superintendent Maples be delighted to see me again.”

U
naware that Lady Frances was about to descend on him, Superintendent Maples was feeling rather satisfied. A sharp-eyed constable had stopped a burglary in progress overnight, leading to the arrest of a gang of thieves that had been plaguing small shopkeepers. The assistant commissioner had gone more than twenty-four hours without sending him one of his vague, rambling memorandums. And he was drinking a very nice cup of tea and eating a fresh bun.

Sergeant Cardiff knocked and entered. “Those statistics that you wanted, sir.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.”

“Also, sir, Lady Frances Ffolkes is in the outer office. She would like a word with you, if it is convenient.”

The superintendent choked on his bun. He looked up at Cardiff—was that a smile? No, Cardiff had no sense of humor, at least none Maples could detect. But the morning had collapsed now, his tea-and-bun break in ruins.

“And her maid, sir.”

“What about her maid?”

“She’s accompanied by her maid, sir.”

“That’s a new one. Did she favor you with the reason she’s come here?”

“She told me it was to report a crime, sir.”

“Really? Does she seem upset?”

“No, sir.”

Further questioning revealed that Sergeant Cardiff had advised Lady Frances to report any alleged crime to the appropriate station. Indeed, he had promised to look up the address for her, even see her into a hansom so she could go there herself. But nothing would do except a conversation with the superintendent in person. Maples sighed. He could say he was busy, but she was patient and persistent. She’d wait. She’d come back. She’d go to the assistant commissioner, the commissioner himself—even the home secretary, the cabinet minister who oversaw all police functions.

Might as well get it over with. “Here—get rid of this damn tea and bun.” He shoved them at his sergeant. He stood up, brushed the crumbs off his uniform, and straightened his jacket and tie. “And show her in.”

In the outer office, Frances and Mallow sat on unpadded wooden chairs. Frances didn’t mind waiting; it was interesting being in a bustling office, men running around, the clacking sound of typewriting machines. They were most interesting devices; Frances considered buying one and seeing if she could engage a professional typist to teach her how to use it. Telephones would ring, and men would shout into them. A few glanced her way; she was not the typical Scotland Yard visitor.

Mallow, on the other hand, was deeply unhappy. Where she came from, no good ever came from police involvement. Respectable people never had anything to do with the police, except maybe a brief greeting to the “bobby” on the corner. She’d done and seen a lot of things with her ladyship, but to be in a police station . . . She was sure his lordship, her ladyship’s brother, would be very displeased with this.

But then again, trying to enter into Lady Frances’s enthusiasm, she did reason that this wasn’t a common police station.
This was the headquarters of all the police, her ladyship had explained. And they were seeing someone very important—a superintendent, her ladyship had said, not a common bobby. He might even be a gentleman. Less a policeman, in fact, than “someone in government.” Mallow had only a vague idea of what it meant to be “in government,” except that Lord Seaforth was in government, and he was a marquess—perfectly respectable. So this might be acceptable. But she still hoped to leave as soon as possible.

The sergeant with the pleasant face came back to tell Frances that Superintendent Maples would see her now. He asked if he could get her a cup of tea, but she graciously declined. He turned to Mallow. “And you, miss? Would you like a cuppa while you wait?” Mallow was surprised and flattered that she was noticed and said yes, thank you, that would be very nice.

Maples forced a smile on his face and greeted Lady Frances as Cardiff showed her to a chair and then left, quietly closing the door behind him.

“A pleasure as always, Lady Frances.”

“My pleasure, too, Superintendent. You have been so helpful in the past, I knew I had to see you again.” She remembered the first time she had argued her way into his office: The streets around the mission where they set up their soup kitchen were so dangerous, some people were afraid to come. Couldn’t additional officers be deployed? A few weeks later, emboldened, Frances had returned. While organizing a peaceful political meeting in the park, she and her friends had been heckled and jeered. Couldn’t the superintendent read them the Riot Act? The third time she came, it was to complain that his officers were harassing beggars who had drifted too close to well-heeled areas looking for richer handouts.

“I’m not a lawyer, Superintendent, but I do not think it is actually a crime to be poor.”

And now she was back again—regarding a crime, it seemed.

“I understand you are here about a crime. I hope your ladyship has not been a victim.”

“Not at all, but thank you for your concern.” She smiled. “I am here about a family friend, Major Daniel Colcombe, who died in an accident about two months back. It seems an important manuscript of his was stolen from his house shortly after his death.”

So that’s what this was. And next, he’d be asked to help find the Duchess of Something’s lost lap dog. He vaguely recalled the Colcombe case—not something he was directly involved with, but a minor scandal nonetheless. Colcombe was a war hero, a member of Society. But it was just some clumsiness with firearms.

“It’s probably just missing,” he said. “After his family gets around to fully cleaning out his rooms, I’m sure it will turn up.”

“And that is exactly what I thought,” said Lady Frances brightly. She knew this was going to be an uphill battle, and on the way over, she had rehearsed in her mind exactly what to say to the superintendent, who could be, she had found, a little resistant to change.

She quickly launched into a description of the search they had conducted, the security situation at the house, the unlikelihood the manuscript had casually disappeared, and her theory that the thief had been someone who had shown up at the funeral. She produced a list. She was brief and to the point. “We put marks next to names of people we didn’t know very well. I wrote out two copies, one for me to hold and one for you.”

Maples looked at the list and frowned. This was not what he expected from a civilian. Lady Frances’s account was organized and coherent, and her procedure for looking for the manuscript and conclusions made a lot of sense. He reviewed the names.

“So you see, Superintendent, I believe that the manuscript was stolen and wish to pursue the theft with the correct authorities.”
There. She had made a clear, concise case, and she flattered herself that Maples had been impressed.

“Have you thought about why someone would steal such a manuscript?”

“Perhaps he discussed things that other people did not want made public? But without seeing the manuscript, it’s just a guess.”

This was a more complicated problem than it had initially appeared—Lady Frances, he had to admit, had made a very good start. Fortunately, although it was a difficult problem to solve, it was also easy to get rid of. He could simply send her to the officer who was handling that case.

“Would you like to speak with the inspector who investigated the accident? He’d be the best person.”

“Yes, that would be very helpful, thank you.” Frances felt very pleased with herself. She could see that Maples, in the course of their professional relationship, was beginning to respect her. As they had discussed in their suffragist meetings, many men would learn to respect women once they saw they could act reasonably, as opposed to the way so many men falsely assumed—merely emotional creatures, slaves of their whims.

Maples rang for Sergeant Cardiff and then told him to call the relevant station and find the inspector who had handled the Colcombe accident. When he left, Maples leaned back, feeling generous and expansive. No reason not to be complimentary and build some good feeling, especially as she deserved it.

“Your account and handling of the problem was very good, Lady Frances. Clean and organized.” Then he overdid it, to his regret. “I wish all my men were so well organized.”

“Really? How kind of you to say. I had wondered if perhaps there might be a place for women in the Metropolitan Police Service.” What an exciting concept! Imagine that—women police constables. “Can I make a formal proposal to open the police force to women?”

Oh God. “Actually, that’s out of my hands. Only the commissioner or even the home secretary can make such a radical change.”

“Of course, Superintendent. I will write them—and will be sure to mention your support.” Frances smiled at him—and rather enjoyed the look of horror on his face. “But then again, it might be best if I approached the officials on my own.”

Sergeant Cardiff returned again, clutching a piece of paper. If Maples didn’t know better, however, he’d have said that Cardiff was showing emotion again—he looked confused.

“Sir, I have the name of the inspector in charge.”

“Just give it to Lady Frances, then. I’m sure she’s quite busy and will want to be on her way.” This conversation had gone on long enough and was getting dangerous.

“I’d like you to look first, sir,” he said. He glanced quickly at Frances, then placed the paper in front of the superintendent. There was no missing the shock on Maples’s face. He mastered it in seconds, but too late for Frances’s quick eye.

“Are you sure about this, Cardiff?”

“Yes, sir. I called again to confirm.”

He was stunned. Could this manuscript theft be really serious? Or was there something else? Yes, Lady Frances had made a good report, but could she really have stumbled on . . .

Anyway, not his problem. Cardiff’s information made that much clear. The sergeant cleared his throat. “They did say, sir, that if Lady Frances would leave her card, they would contact her.”

Frances took in every word of the exchange and the tone. She would’ve given a lot to know what was written on the paper Cardiff had passed to the superintendent. But she knew it was time to take what she had and leave. She could always come back, and she told Maples she would, if the inspector proved unable to contact her. Maples, for his part, pretended the oddness hadn’t happened, and Frances let him pretend.

“I’m sure you’ll hear shortly. A pleasure, as always, Lady Frances. Cardiff, please see them out and help them into a hansom.”

Fancy that, thought Maples, when the women had left. No doubt they’d contact her. That amused him to no end. The thought of Lady Frances and that bunch . . . he chuckled himself back into good humor.

When Cardiff returned from seeing the women on their way, Maples had him fetch another cup of tea and a fresh bun.

“I think we’ve made very good progress,” said Frances on the ride home. “We should hear from the inspector in charge soon. I’m sure, with the resources of Scotland Yard, he’ll be able to track down whoever took it.” Of course, whoever took it might’ve destroyed it, but she was staying positive—perhaps they took it to blackmail someone or to study it in detail.

That last exchange between Superintendent Maples and Sargent Cardiff at the end of her meeting had been awfully strange. There was an odd secretiveness and confusion surrounding a seemingly simple process—looking up the inspector in charge. But the explanation would make itself clear later, no doubt.

“Will you still be going to the soup kitchen this evening, my lady?”

“Yes. It’s been a long day, but I don’t want to let them down. I promised.”

Miss Plimsoll’s had a phone in a small private parlor for residents’ use. She called Mary to tell her what had happened. Mary agreed poor Kat could use some companionship and said she would visit. Then Frances called Charles at his office and told him as well. He was a little alarmed that she had descended on a senior Scotland Yard official.

“Oh, we’re old friends, the superintendent and I,” said Frances. “He has been most helpful when I’ve called on him in the past.”

“I’m sure,” said Charles dryly. “But do remember that this is now a police matter, and they don’t appreciate amateur interference.” Then he laughed. “Consider how Inspector Lestrade resents Sherlock Holmes’s interference.”

“Very funny, dear brother.”

“I thought so. Now, before this happened, I asked you to come to the party at Sir Lytton Moore’s. Lady Moore always asks after you; she’s known you since you were in short dresses. I know it’s not your favorite type of event, but do say you’ll come.”

“Very well,” she said. It would please Charles and Mary, and Lady Moore was a good soul. Also London Society was really quite small, and this would be a political event. Frances assumed she would speak with the mysterious inspector before the party and that she could convince him to share some names of those possibly involved in the Colcombe case. One or more of those “names” might be at the party. She’d reach into the back of the closet with Mallow and pick out a suitable evening dress.

But for now, she had Mallow lay out her plainest dress and a pair of solid shoes that were unfashionable but comfortable. She’d be on her feet most of the evening. They had lunch at Miss Plimsoll’s—Mallow in the servants’ hall and Frances in the dining room. Mallow had told Frances that the food was not quite as good as at the Seaforth house, but it was acceptable. And better yet, servants sat according to the rank of their mistresses, and as Lady Frances was a marquess’s daughter, that gave Mallow a perk downstairs, which pleased her immensely. As Frances’s mother had said, no one was more snobbish than a superior servant.