Death at the Emerald Read online

  No one breathed for a moment. There was a body in the coffin—but it certainly wasn’t Louisa/Helen. It was quite obviously the skeleton of an infant, wrapped in a blanket that probably had been new and fresh thirty years ago but was now falling apart. The skeleton was on its side, curled up, as if for a nap. Mallow noticed a tight smile on her mistress’s face: her ladyship had hoped for a surprise, and she certainly had got one.

  Alongside the skeleton were three bags of coarse hessian cloth. Eastley lifted one up and reached into it. He pulled out a handful of what looked like soil and then put it back. “Dirt. Common dirt. No doubt placed inside to add weight, to make it seem as if the coffin contained an adult. Doctor, what can you tell us about the child?”

  Dr. Grayson carefully unwrapped the infant and began his brief examination. The inspector focused intently, and the archdeacon paused from his prayer book to also listen.

  “Nothing to indicate a violent death,” said the doctor, carefully examining the bones.

  “So he died a natural death,” said the inspector.

  “I think the doctor means that the skeleton’s condition is not inconsistent with a natural death,” said Frances.

  The inspector sighed, and the doctor cleared his throat. “Yes, actually. That is correct, Lady Frances.”

  “From the time she was eight, my cousin never missed a chance to show how clever she was. How reassuring it is to see she hasn’t changed,” said the archdeacon. Frances gave him a dirty look.

  The doctor continued. “You asked about the condition of the skeleton, Lady Frances. I don’t know what you learned about anatomy, but bones in our infancy fuse as we age. And the skull doesn’t completely close until later in infancy.” Frances looked closely at the skull as the doctor continued. “So aside from the size of this skeleton, it’s clear from the skull this was a very young infant. As you quite rightly put it, it’s consistent with a child who died shortly after birth.” He looked at the inspector. “I think that’s all I can tell you.”

  “Can you tell the child’s sex?” asked Frances.

  “Unfortunately, no, Lady Frances. The changes that, ah, differentiate the sexes don’t appear until close to adulthood.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” said the inspector. Frances realized she was still smiling, understandable in her hope for something unusual but inappropriate under the circumstances, and she quickly modified her expression. She looked up. Her cousin had raised an eyebrow in surprise, and Mallow seemed quietly pleased that there was something unusual, as her ladyship had hoped for.

  And Inspector Eastley? He seems . . . angry. He’s angry at me. He thinks I knew something. He’s going to want to have a talk with me, thought Frances.

  “So, Lady Frances, can you enlighten us?” asked the inspector.

  “What makes you think I know anything?” asked Frances.

  “Call it a hunch. We have a history, my lady, and I saw the expression on your face when you looked into the open coffin. We will talk about this.”

  If I’m going to be a consulting detective, I must learn to better mask my feelings, Frances realized.

  The archdeacon spoke before Frances could respond to Eastley. “Inspector, this is a mystery for you to solve, as a representative of the lords temporal. But as a representative of the lords spiritual, I must make a report of this to Lambeth Palace,” he said, referring to the London seat of the Archbishop of Canterbury, the head of the Church of England.

  “Of course, Archdeacon,” said the inspector, his mind somewhere else.

  “And naturally you are blessed to have my cousin assisting you,” the archdeacon continued. The inspector looked up sharply, but the archdeacon appeared absolutely serious, as befitted the occasion and his senior position in the church. Again, only Frances could detect a hint of a smile.

  Eastley snapped out of his brief fog and began issuing orders. “We have no idea who this infant is or the reasons for hiding him—or her—in Helen’s grave. But I don’t see any reason to assume he is a relation to the lady who requested this exhumation. Lady Frances, as representative of the next of kin, and Archdeacon, on behalf of the church, shall we place the deceased into the ground again? That is my recommendation.”

  France thought on this. “I agree, Inspector. I see no other useful course at this time.” The archdeacon concurred.

  Eastley told Smith to supervise the reburial and told Dr. Grayson he could go home.

  “I’ll write up a report on the infant and send it off to you in a few days. If there are any questions meanwhile, you can reach me at the Home Office laboratories at University College,” said the doctor. After saying his good-byes, he left.

  “It’s up to you, Archdeacon, but you can go home too, I believe,” said the inspector.

  “Thank you, but I think I’ll say a quick prayer in the church. You may join me.”

  Frances looked at Mallow. “I think my maid would like that,” said Frances.

  “You are most welcome, my child. And your mistress may attend as soon as she’s available.”

  “Thank you, cousin. But first, to the lords temporal.” A few moments later, Eastley and Lady Frances were alone in the vestry.

  CHAPTER 14

  “You knew, my lady. I read you from the moment you came into my office, again when you came this evening, and finally from your face when we opened Helen’s coffin. This is now a police matter, so we need to have a more complete conversation,” said Eastley.

  “I don’t see how this is a police matter,” said Frances.

  “Think on it, my lady. It’s sacred ground. The archdeacon was right—Lambeth Palace will be calling my superiors tomorrow. They are going to wonder how this happened under the supervision of the vicar here thirty years ago. Was this graveyard profaned? What happened to the body that was supposed to be here? Helen was supposed to be destined for Christian burial. Instead some unknown baby was put into her coffin, an adult coffin. They are going to want me to find answers, starting tonight with you, my lady. I want the truth this time.”

  “I gave you the truth,” said Frances. “But perhaps, out of concern for your busy schedule, I omitted some details.” She could see that she wasn’t making him happy. He’d want everything now, and she quickly went through all the details in her head. She couldn’t give everything away. He’d want to know how she found out about the Oath of Tyndareus, which involved theft, and she didn’t want him to warn her off if he knew she was being stalked. True, he might eventually connect Helen with the recent murder at the Emerald, but London was a violent city, and it might take him a while to make the connection.

  “Oh, very well. There are a few more details. Helen’s life and death were a little more complicated than I first indicated. Helen had many suitors and appealed to the Hallidays as a widow. That’s the story she told the Hallidays. She was trying to hide from her family. Maybe someone else was after her as well. I don’t need to tell you that a beautiful actress had many suitors, and some of them may have been aggressive, so maybe she wanted to disappear. Or if she was killed, it was elsewhere.”

  “That is very possible,” he said, “but what I don’t understand is how you knew Helen wouldn’t be in that grave and why you didn’t tell me beforehand.”

  Frances sighed. “Inspector, I’m a consulting detective, not a wizard. I had no idea she wasn’t there, and that some unknown child would be, but I knew something was wrong and, I admit, I hoped that the exhumation would reveal further clues. There were too many coincidences. I found that the records for this period were destroyed by accident. I spoke with the sexton and learned that the burial was handled with unusual haste. And yet, the Hallidays spent a princely sum to give Helen one of the finest headstones in this churchyard. There was something wrong here, but I couldn’t be sure anyone with the police would agree with me. But now I see I was right.” She felt very proud of herself, and even the inspector nodded in agreement. “I don’t know if Helen is alive or dead. But I will keep working until I find out
.”

  “I compliment you on your reasoning. For now, we are working toward the same ends, Lady Frances. I will also have to put in my report a finding, or at least a reasonable supposition, of what happened to Louisa Torrence, who was presumably also the actress named Helen.”

  “Will you share with me what you find?” she asked.

  “If I can,” he said with a wry smile.

  “Likewise,” said Frances. “I think I will join Mallow and my cousin now. And perhaps you’d like to pray for guidance?”

  “Perhaps you’d like to pray that your cousin doesn’t tell your brother what you’re up to.”

  Frances said good-bye to the inspector and joined Mallow and Archdeacon Ffolkes in the church. When they were done with their prayers, Frances spoke with her cousin.

  “Thank you for attending this evening,” she said.

  “Never a dull moment with you, cousin. What are you going to tell your friend?”

  Frances realized she would have to give a report to Lady Torrence. After just accepting that her daughter was dead, she would now learn that Louisa might be alive—and that the police were involved. “I suppose I’ll tell her about the virtue of hope. Good evening, dear cousin. Come, Mallow. Let’s collect his lordship’s chauffeur and go home. It is past our bedtime.”

  Frances and Mallow were too excited to rest as they drove through silent streets in the small hours. Fortunately, in the back seat of the large motorcar, they could talk quietly without the driver overhearing.

  “Mallow, we have to proceed in the belief that Louisa Torrence may be alive. I don’t see how, or why, something like this could’ve been done without her cooperation. A very cool hand planned this, Mallow, destroying records and arranging for the burial of this unknown child. But there are so many unanswered questions here. No matter who that child is, why wasn’t he given his own burial? What has this to do with the soldier who has been following us? Why did her theatre friends think she was safely in the colonies when the Reverend Halliday told us she was buried in Maidstone?”

  “You don’t think that the Reverend Halliday was telling an untruth, my lady?” Mallow could barely utter the words.

  “No, Mallow,” Frances reassured. “He may not know the whole story, but I think he told us the story as he knew it. There’s a lot we don’t know here, but there are two things we are going to do. We are going to find out more about Louisa Torrence, after she became the actress Helen. If she helped engineer her own disappearance, as I believe, she’s a woman of great intelligence. But what happened to her later? Second, we are going to have to watch out for the soldier and continue to find ways to thwart him.”

  “Do you know yet why he is following us, my lady?”

  “No, although I’m once again thinking of that Sherlock Holmes story, ‘The Crooked Man.’ If this stalker is Alexander Braceley, formerly of the Green Players, he’s an experienced actor, well-versed in disguises. We will take the offensive at some point. For now, however, we need to visit Genevieve D’Arcy, the mistress of the late Sir Arnold Torrence.”

  “Very good, my lady,” said Mallow without much enthusiasm. Visiting actresses was bad enough, but an actress who was a mistress . . . it was for her ladyship’s work, but still.

  Frances’s amused look was hidden in the dark. “But Mallow, remember we will be seeing her at the motion picture studio. We will see how the motion pictures are made. I should think that would be very exciting.”

  “Oh, yes, my lady,” said Mallow, this time with great enthusiasm, seeing the bright side after all.

  CHAPTER 15

  Frances and Mallow did indeed sleep late the next morning, right past breakfast.

  “We’ll have some tea and rolls in a tearoom on our way. And after, I’ll need to visit Lady Torrence to give her a report,” said Lady Frances.

  Quickly fortified, they found a hansom cab and made their way to the Emerald Studios. It might’ve been an old warehouse, but onto it the builders had added what looked like a large greenhouse.

  “I believe, Mallow, that it requires lots of light to make a motion picture, and it’s simplest to use natural light. I suppose we’ll learn more inside.” And they walked up the steps and entered the building.

  Frances expected a reception desk or at least a porter, like at the Emerald. There was a desk up front, heaped with papers, but lacking an attendant. Some sort of caretaker was sweeping up.

  “Do you know where we can find someone in charge?” asked Frances.

  He looked them over. He apparently decided Frances and Mallow looked respectable and said, “Couldn’t say, miss, but you can look around.” Mallow was about to give him a dressing down for his casual attitude, but she saw that her ladyship was eager to find whoever managed this place and so followed her past the desk.

  All seemed to be chaos inside. Actors and stagehands roamed over the large space, which ran from the “inside” portion to the glasshouse area. They saw motion picture cameras on tripods, and as no one seemed to care, they stepped up to one. It looked similar to a typical camera with a lens and a viewfinder and also contained what Frances understood was a reel of film.

  “Do you know how it works, my lady?” asked Mallow. She loved motion pictures but hadn’t given a lot of thought to how they were created.

  “I know the basics. You’ve seen regular cameras, Mallow. Well, this one takes many photos, one after the other, and when they’re run through a projector, it gives the illusion of movement.”

  “Very interesting, my lady,” said Mallow, who was looking at the camera with what approached reverence.

  “I know you said they need sunlight, my lady,” said Mallow, looking at the glass portion of the studio, “but you don’t get a lot of sunlight in London.”

  “No, and that’s why they have those lights.” Frances recognized arc lamps, which she had read about but had never seen. They created strong illumination that could be focused on a particular area, especially when there was no sunlight.

  The lights seemed to be powered by heavy electric cables that snaked along the floor. Mallow looked at them with some skepticism and gave them a wide berth as they walked around the studio.

  Everyone seemed to be giving directions or just shouting instructions, and actors began to place themselves on one of the sets, little boxes set up as various kinds of rooms: a bedroom, a parlor, and a kitchen.

  Mallow looked at it all with wonderment. “I always thought that they made the movies in a house, but instead they make the house inside here, my lady,” she said.

  “It would seem so. I guess it wouldn’t be practical for them to bring all this into a real house to film. They may have to bring the camera back to show the whole room, and they need to add the lights. There wouldn’t be enough space for that in a normal room. Again, Mallow, another illusion. Now I wonder who’s in charge? I think, as in the theatre, there is a director.”

  There didn’t seem to be anyone to ask without interrupting the organization, as men in work clothes moved sets and the cameras, and as young women with sheaves of papers marched briskly from set to set consulting with actors.

  But then a man in his shirtsleeves, his clothes a little better than what the others wore, shouted above the fray. He seemed to be in his forties and had an air of command about him, as if he was used to managing a regiment.

  “Everyone! We’ll be filming scene two in fifteen minutes. We can do the rest later today, but that one must be done first. Costumes and lights need to be ready. No excuses!” He shook his head, but the chaos gradually resolved itself around one of the little rooms.

  One of the young women with the papers strode over to him, and the moment she left, Frances was on him, with Mallow right behind her.

  “Are you the director? I have some business to discuss,” Frances said.

  The man gave her a shrewd look. He was sharp, and Frances watched him take in her clothes, voice, and bearing.

  “Abel Pyecroft, miss, chief cook and bottle washer, at y
our service.”

  “Lady Frances Ffolkes and my maid and assistant, Miss Mallow.”

  Pyecroft’s look deepened. “Ffolkes . . . I know that name. The Marquess of Seaforth, right?”

  “Very good, Mr. Pyecroft. I wouldn’t have thought that you’d keep up with the aristocracy.” She was genuinely surprised.

  “Motion pictures are a new business—a funny business, I have to say—and it pays for me to know a wide variety of people. Or at least know about them. Perhaps the Seaforths would like to rent a theatre out for a private showing? It would be easy to arrange.”

  “So your new owners are encouraging you to expand your opportunities?”

  That seemed to take him aback, as Frances knew it would. It was his turn to be surprised.

  “You know about that, do you? You’re not interested in seeing a motion picture then. You want to invest in one.”

  Frances laughed at that. “I know very little about motion pictures. Miss Mallow adores them.”

  “You do?” said Pyecroft, who seemed pleased.

  “My friends and I attend frequently, sir,” said Mallow.

  “Very good.” But he wants the quality to come, Frances realized. People with more money to spend would allow them to make more elaborate pictures. Oh, she was learning all about business.

  “I’ll speak with my brother about a showing,” Frances said. “We’ve always liked theatre, but motion pictures are new to us. For now, I’m looking for one of your actresses, Miss Genevieve D’Arcy.” She smiled. “We have some mutual friends.”

  That surprised him again. It seemed impossible that a picture actress and a daughter of the House of Seaforth had anything in common.

  He started to say something, thought again, then snapped his finger for the young woman he was just speaking with.

  “Is Jenny in the next scene?” he asked her.