Death on the Sapphire (7 page)

“That is a fair question, Lady Frances. Mr. Colcombe died from a gunshot wound to the chest, apparently while cleaning or otherwise servicing his revolver.”

Frances now saw the full reason for police silence on the matter. Some might conclude that the death had been a suicide—it was easier to simply say it was an accident. A suicide was a horrible scandal.

“I find it hard to believe that such an experienced soldier made a fatal mistake with a firearm.” But then again, suicide seemed even less likely.

“You know about firearms?” asked Eastley, looking amused.

“I know something, Inspector.”

“I wasn’t involved in the original accident investigation, so I’m afraid I have nothing I can add. I must go now, but as I said, I will keep you informed. Thank you again, Lady Frances, for your time and cooperation.”

Frances followed him out the door, where Eastley met up with his huge constable-assistant, and they headed down the street together.

It was supposedly just a manuscript
, thought Frances,
written by a man who died in an accident. So why is an elite Scotland Yard unit investigating it?

T
he next morning started as usual, with Mallow pulling open the curtains and asking, “What shall I lay out for you this morning, my lady?”

“I have a morning meeting, and then I’m going to the National Gallery with friends.”

“I see, my lady. May I inquire which friends?”

A lot of meaning in that question, thought Frances. If these friends were other young women from the suffragist club, Mallow would suggest something simple. But if they were family friends of the Seaforths—lords and ladies with distinguished titles—she’d lay out something more elaborate.

“Mr. Wheaton, the family solicitor, and his widowed mother. You’ve seen Mr. Wheaton, when he dined at my brother’s house.”

“Very good, my lady,” said Mallow as she chose and smoothed out a dress. Frances’s sharp ears detected a tone in Mallow’s voice—or maybe it was just her imagination.

“Nothing wrong, is there, Mallow?”

“Not at all, my lady,” responded the maid, all wide-eyed innocence. But they both knew what the other was thinking. It was one thing for a lord to invite a trusted family solicitor to his table and quite another for his sister to socialize with him and his family out in public.

A few years working for the House of Seaforth had taught Mallow a thing or two about class distinctions. It was true Mr. Wheaton could chat with Lord and Lady Seaforth, and she had heard he had a fine house himself, wore well-tailored clothes, and employed servants. But Mr. Wheaton worked for his money, and Lord Seaforth did not—he just had it. And that made all the difference: Mr. Henry Wheaton was middle class and Lady Frances was of the aristocracy.

Mallow again thought back to her first days as a housemaid at the Seaforth house, when these important class distinctions had been drummed into her. Agnes, the Seaforth head housemaid, had explained it all to Mallow. She had been curious about the important and wealthy people who dined at his lordship’s table and one evening asked the more knowledgeable Agnes about Mr. Wheaton.

“Oh, Mr. Wheaton, who’s dining here tonight? He’s just a solicitor, probably here because they needed an extra man to round out the table. Very nice of his lordship to invite him at all,” said Agnes. The emphasis was on “just.” The tone was dismissive. “But tomorrow night, you’ll see a real gentleman. Lord Bassington. Owns half of Kent, I hear.” She looked around to make sure Mr. Cumberland, who tolerated no gossip, was not nearby. “They say he’s very interested in Lady Frances. That’s why he’s here so often. I expect he’ll ask for her hand.” Agnes got a dreamy look, thinking about how lovely it would be to be married to Lord Bassington.

Mallow brought her down to earth. “But I understand from Cook that Mr. Wheaton also visits frequently, even when there’s not a large party. Is he also interested in Lady Frances?”

Agnes threw up her hands in exasperation. “I just told you, Lady Frances is the daughter of a marquess. She has to marry a lord. That’s the way it works. Ladies don’t marry solicitors. You have to know these things when you work in a great house.”

“But Mr. Wheaton was so kind to me. When he arrived this evening, he asked me my name and said he hoped I would be happy here. No other guest ever did that.”

Agnes just shook her head.

The next night, Lord Bassington certainly didn’t speak to her. And according to downstairs gossip, it became clear that he wouldn’t be speaking again with Lady Frances either. Thanks to the young footman who served at the table, Mallow found out exactly what did happen when Lord Bassington tried to court Lady Frances over dinner: she spoke about women’s suffrage, reformation of the poor laws, Irish independence, and some art exhibition that Lord Seaforth had pronounced “disgraceful”—a whole host of topics unsuitable for a young lady. Lord Bassington never came back, and it was a minor scandal among the family and the servants.

And now, some years later, here they were again, socializing with Mr. Wheaton, a man who was not of Lady Frances’s class but who had bothered to talk to a new servant girl.

As Mallow helped Frances into her dress, Frances decided to address the matter with her maid openly.

“I realize that Mr. Wheaton is not of the nobility, Mallow, but in my dealings with him, he has shown no prejudices against well-educated, independent women. Or do you think, like my brother, I should only associate with others in the nobility?”

Frances smiled, but Mallow was too sharp to get caught in that.

“It’s not my place to comment on your ladyship’s friends,” she said, a little stiffly.

Most other ladies in London would’ve dropped the subject right then, but Frances persisted. “But I’m asking your opinion, as I would for a dress or hat.” The tone was teasing, but Mallow could see that Lady Frances wanted an answer.

“I believe Mr. Wheaton is kind, my lady,” said Mallow.

Frances nodded. “That’s a very insightful comment, Mallow.”

“Yes, my lady,” said Mallow.

Frances was still smiling about the exchange as she headed downstairs to breakfast. Then she called Mary to tell her that the police were investigating the manuscript theft. She held back the information that Special Branch was involved—no need to overexcite anyone, she reasoned. Mary said she’d be visiting Kat and Mrs. Colcombe that afternoon and would pass along the good news.

Frances met Henry Wheaton and his mother at the museum’s entrance, as agreed. Henry surprised her. Instead of the dated black suit he used for the office, he wore a modern cut in a light shade—something her brother might be seen in. His sandy hair was a little ruffled by the breeze, and he looked no different from a dozen other young gentlemen on the street.

He smiled when he saw her and ushered the women into the gallery. As they walked, Frances received another surprise. She had expected Mrs. Wheaton to appreciate the pictures and Mr. Wheaton to hover in the background, indulging the ladies with their pastime while he wondered about what was happening at the office in his absence.

But that’s not what happened. As they started viewing the pictures, Henry Wheaton started talking: “Do you see the brushwork here, Lady Frances? . . . The shadowing here is typical of the early Renaissance. . . . Only the Dutch masters could achieve perspective like this. . . . Aren’t those flesh tones astonishing, Lady Frances?” He said he couldn’t stop contemplating the coloring. Mrs. Wheaton smiled and nodded, proud of her son’s knowledge.

Frances tried to keep up. She had learned a bit about art in college, but nowhere near as much as Mr. Wheaton seemed to know. After about an hour, he suddenly turned to her and said, “Lady Frances, I’m afraid I’ve spent the last hour being the
world’s most frightful bore. I am sorry if my enthusiasm got away from me.”

She smiled. “Not at all, Mr. Wheaton. I have been honored to have my own private expert guide.”

Mrs. Wheaton jumped in. “Perhaps Lady Frances would like to see some of your own paintings. I know I am prejudiced, but I think some of them are good enough to hang here.”

Mr. Wheaton blushed. “Mother, really . . .”

“I didn’t know you painted in your spare time, Mr. Wheaton.”

“It’s just a hobby, to relax after a busy week, that’s all. I don’t exhibit or have any aspirations.” His tone was defensive.

“I think it’s a fine hobby,” said Lady Frances. “A more intellectual and worthwhile one than my brother’s obsession with knocking a little ball into a hole in a lawn.”

“Thank you,” he said, and seemed very grateful.

When they were done, Mr. Wheaton took the ladies out to tea at Claridge’s, a hotel where the best people stayed. It was quite lovely; since moving into Miss Plimsoll’s, she had rather gotten out of the habit of elaborate teas, just grabbing the occasional cup in between visits and meetings. They spoke about their favorite paintings, but now Mr. Wheaton did more listening than talking. Over his cup, he looked intently at Frances with those attractive green eyes.

Talk of art gave way to talk of books and music too. Mr. Wheaton listened very carefully to what Frances said and seemed to think deeply before making a thoughtful response. Mrs. Wheaton said little, content to listen to the young people.

During a pause, while the waitress served the little cakes that Mrs. Wheaton delighted in, Frances changed the subject.

“I hope you don’t mind talking business during such a lovely lunch, but as you’re a solicitor, I was hoping that you could throw some light on a particular issue. I was wondering what you knew about the Scotland Yard division called Special Branch.”

He laughed. “My goodness, Lady Frances. Don’t tell me you’ve run into them. I’ve occasionally had to arrange for a barrister to represent one of my clients in a court of law, but never involving Special Branch.”

“Not me at all. A friend of mine was the victim of a crime, and it turns out the inspector in charge of the case is with Special Branch. Perhaps because my brother is in government, she thought I might know about it, but he’s Foreign Office, of course.”

Mr. Wheaton frowned. “Lady Frances, you can tell your friend this is very serious. Special Branch involves itself in the security of the realm. If she was a victim—well, without the details, I can’t really give advice. But if you’d like, you can tell your friend to visit me, and I will treat the matter in strictest confidence and without obligation. If Special Branch is involved, there may be serious implications.”

“I had no idea,” said Lady Frances. She knew Special Branch was serious, but his words almost made her shudder. “That is very kind of you, Mr. Wheaton. I will tell my friend.”

“For my part,” said Mrs. Wheaton, “I don’t think your friend came to you because of your brother. It’s probably because she knew you were so well educated. You took a college degree—in America, I believe?”

Some approved, some disapproved, but everyone was curious about Frances’s novel education. It was a school founded expressly for the education of women, with a very progressive agenda. After much begging and pleading, and the not inconsiderable support of her mother, her father agreed to send her there. It was a splendid four years.

“My father finally was convinced because the founder was an Englishman who had moved to America. His name was Matthew Vassar, and the school carries his name.”

“How exciting for you, Lady Frances,” said Mrs. Wheaton. “Henry, don’t you think such an educational experience for women is a wonderful thing?”

He put down his cup and spoke slowly and deliberately. “I am not an authority on education, for men or women, but I can say that it would have been a great shame if someone with your aptitude, Lady Frances, had not received an education commensurate with your intelligence.”

And Frances was touched.

Mr. Wheaton saw her to her home. She felt good about the afternoon. A professor had once instructed her to turn surprises into lessons, and she had been surprised that a man seemingly as dry as Henry Wheaton could speak of artwork with such knowledge. No, not just with knowledge—with passion. And he spent his free time painting, a hobby usually associated with young women sent to finishing schools in Italy. Perhaps, she thought ruefully, she needed to be less quick about jumping to conclusions about people.

There were no visitors waiting for her, but there was a note. Mrs. Beasley’s manner indicated that this was a message from an acceptable person.

The name was completely unfamiliar to Frances, but the club was not. Only well-born army and navy officers belonged, such as her brother. However, Charles didn’t attend much, preferring more political clubs, so he probably wouldn’t know this Colonel Mountjoy. But Frances knew who would.