Death at the Emerald Page 17

“Yes, I do. She was an unconventional woman, a daring woman. I don’t know why or how she did what she did, Inspector, but I think I know her. I can imagine her having the presence of mind to plan something like this. Faking her death. Also, I thought of one more thing that may be of interest to you. We were only concerned with the grave, but we didn’t talk about how Helen came to be at the Hallidays. I don’t suppose you’ve spoken with the Hallidays’ son, the Reverend Samuel Halliday?”

  “Not yet. And it is possible I may never. You need to understand, Lady Frances, my writ extends to the possible desecration of a grave under the authority of the Church of England. The sexton, I believe, has been cleared. I know nothing about the vicar, except Lambeth Palace told me he was dead, and while alive there was no blemish on his record. Burying a mislabeled coffin may be bizarre but is not a crime in itself. And there’s no evidence the child was a murder victim.”

  “But aren’t you concerned that Helen’s body is . . . somewhere? Desecrated?”

  “Ah, but you have convinced me, my lady, that Helen planned this and is out somewhere happily leading her life. Maybe the child was just the offspring of an impoverished family and Helen and Hallidays gave this child a well-appointed grave. At any rate, that’s what my report will conclude.” He smiled.

  Frances shook her head. “So you’re going to use my own words against me? Can you stop just like that? How can you just let a mystery like that go?”

  “My lady, look at my desk. Look at these files. Real cases, real crimes. I am a public servant. We can’t all be independently wealthy aristocrats spending time doing whatever we want.”

  Frances turned a little red at that. Why did he start having to bring class and money into their discussion? “That was needlessly insulting.”

  Eastley raised an eyebrow. “I don’t see how. It’s true. And for the record, my lady, I would’ve said the same thing to an independently wealthy male aristocrat sitting in that chair.”

  Yes, you would’ve, thought Frances. Inspector Eastley may not like working with members of the nobility, but he will work with women. Give him his due. “Point taken, Inspector. Very well, an agreement. I know you well enough to say in confidence that you don’t want this investigation to end, even if you plan to issue a report saying that, whatever happened, there was no crime—”

  “And I know you well enough to say that you’re going to pursue this to a conclusion. Very well. As long as you don’t wade into police matters, I wish you luck. So if that’s all . . . ?”

  “It is certainly not all, Inspector. I need something from you. Yes, I have time and money. But you have access and resources. We will share. I am going to tell you something that I forgot in the shock of our discovery last night. I spoke with Reverend Halliday, and he said that his parents told him Helen was a widow. Her husband had been murdered.”

  Eastley frowned, and Frances watched him think. “You want me to solve a thirty-year-old murder? Even if I wanted to, that’s not my department.”

  “He was stabbed, Inspector. That’s what the Reverend Halliday told me. And just days ago, another man who had courted Helen, a member of the Green Players, was stabbed to death outside the Emerald Theatre. What do you say to that?”

  Eastley sighed and spread out his hands. “What do you want me to do, Lady Frances? Draw a line between stabbings thirty years apart?”

  “I want you to go through records. There must be records. I need the details of the murder of Helen’s husband. We can narrow down the dates. You and Constable Smith can surely find them. Then we can compare the two murders. It can’t be that difficult, and I know you want to solve the mystery as much as I do.”

  Eastley thought some more as Frances watched him. She suddenly realized that she had half jumped out of her seat. Her mother would not have approved of her getting so excited—in a police inspector’s office, no less.

  “I could arrange for you and Miss Mallow to wander through the stacks of records. But records that old would be found in a dusty basement storeroom. Your maid would only be upset at how dirty your hands and dress got. Oh, very well. I make no promises, but I’ll see what we can find.”

  “Thank you,” said Frances, forcing herself to calm down. “I appreciate that.”

  “I’m glad that’s settled,” he said. “Just one more thing. As you swept passed the front desk, the duty sergeant called to inform—or should I say, warn me—that you were on your way. He also asked me to advise you not to leave your bicycle in the lobby.”

  CHAPTER 18

  It had been a busy day, and Frances was looking forward to putting her feet up—but her hopes were dashed when she returned to Miss Plimsoll’s. Mrs. Beasley, the manageress, intercepted her the moment she walked into the hotel. “There is a guest waiting for you in the lounge, my lady.”

  Frances had become an expert in judging the type of guest visiting her by Mrs. Beasley’s voice. When it was one of Frances’s own class, the tone was warm and sweet. An actress? The words were frozen. This time, her voice was neutral. So not a member of the nobility, but someone respectable—more acceptable than the police.

  “Thank you,” said Frances. When she entered the lounge, sitting straight-backed in a chair was Mrs. Lockton. She was looking around the room curiously. Frances saw she had changed out of the businesslike dress she had worn as proprietress of Lockton’s into a more elaborate outfit. It might be her best dress, thought Frances, saved for special occasions. Like visiting the nobility.

  “Mrs. Lockton? You wanted to see me? Is it about the box I purchased today?”

  Mrs. Lockton stood. “No, my lady. That is being properly packed and will be delivered tomorrow. If I may, I wanted to speak with you again about the Halliday family. You may think it’s none of my business, and I daresay you’re right, but they were very close to me. They treated me like family when I had no family. I wanted to talk to you about them, if I may, my lady. There are some things I think you should understand before you proceed.”

  She was forthright, a mix of bravery and anxiety. She had a shop, a life, and a livelihood that depended on the goodwill of the best families in London. And yet she was showing up here to talk with, and possibly upbraid, the daughter of a marquess.

  “Of course, Mrs. Lockton. But we can talk in more privacy in my rooms. Please come upstairs with me. My maid, Mallow, will make some tea for us.”

  “If you’re sure it’s not inconvenient, my lady . . .”

  “Not at all. It’s just upstairs.” Frances watched Mrs. Lockton look around wide-eyed as they walked up the stairs at the elegant furnishings and the oil portraits of lords and ladies from the middle of the last century, going back to the days of the prince Regent.

  Mallow was catching up on her sewing in their little sitting room.

  “You remember Mrs. Lockton from earlier today, Mallow. Put on some tea for the three of us, will you?”

  “Very good, my lady.”

  Frances told her guest to make herself comfortable while Mallow boiled the water.

  “It must be difficult to run such a fine establishment as a woman alone,” said Frances. “May I ask if you have trouble with male employees and suppliers taking you seriously?”

  “They didn’t take me seriously when I took over from my late husband, my lady. Sometimes they still don’t. But I have money, and they take that seriously.”

  Frances nodded. “That is very telling. You are a philosopher, Mrs. Lockton.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know about that, my lady. I am a woman of business, and that is enough.”

  “So it is. And you have allies, such as the Reverend Halliday. I was very impressed when I met him at his vicarage and spoke to him about his family.” She looked closely at Mrs. Lockton. Perhaps sensing that Frances was digging for more information, she now looked a little tense at the mention of the vicar’s name.

  “He’s a good friend. As I said, almost family.”

  Frances continued. “And it seemed your daughter was espec
ially delighted at his visit. As her father is deceased, I’m sure it’s good for a girl to have an older male relation—you said the Hallidays were practically family—interested in her welfare.”

  Mrs. Lockton darkened at that and struggled for words. “He is the most charitable and kindest of men, but Susan, despite other fine qualities, is a little willful. Young girls often are.” She smiled wryly. “I was at that age, my lady. Willful and foolish. I am sure the reverend looks upon her as a daughter or younger sister, as you say. But she may think . . . otherwise. I tell you this so that if you meet again, my lady, you don’t inadvertently encourage her in those feelings. I don’t think being a vicar’s wife is the right path for Susan.”

  She was firm in her talk, and Frances realized she had gone as far as she could. There could be no probing of Mrs. Lockton’s own feelings. Frances had told Mallow those feelings were a side issue to the case—but it was odd for a woman as sensible as Mrs. Lockton to apparently harbor romantic feelings for a man so much younger, to the point where she’d prevent what could be an excellent marriage for her daughter. And Frances had seen too many oddities in this case.

  Mallow served tea and made to take hers to her room, but Frances stopped her. “Do stay, Mallow. You don’t mind, do you, Mrs. Lockton? Mallow is as discreet as I am.”

  Her eyes flickered for a moment as Mallow quietly took a chair. “No, of course not, my lady. And our recent talk about the Reverend Halliday is the reason I came—or, actually, about his parents.” She gathered her courage and continued. “I know you are busy, so I will cut to the heart of the matter. As you know, I never met Helen. She died before I joined the household. But I can tell again you that Mr. and Mrs. Halliday were the finest, most charitable, and most Christian people I ever met. When Helen came . . . it caused a problem. Not that the Hallidays did anything shameful, but there are secrets they took to their own graves, and if you continue your search for Helen, it could reveal them.”

  “Very well. But if the Hallidays are in their graves, how can the revelation of any secret hurt them? The religious foundation they started is surely so respected that even if something embarrassing came out, it wouldn’t be harmed.”

  “Perhaps not, my lady, but it might reflect on their son, the Reverend Halliday. Things happened that might . . . impede him in his calling.” Frances watched her blush. Oh, my, her love for the Reverend Halliday goes deep.

  “I have no wish to cause any embarrassment to the Reverend Halliday. I am only trying to locate this actress, Helen. I have been approached by family members who haven’t seen her in thirty years and want to know what became of her.”

  “You know what happened, my lady. Widowed, she sickened and died quickly. She’s buried in Maidstone. What else does her family need to know?”

  Frances watched Mrs. Lockton lick her lips. She’s nervous, she thought. Because she’s starting an argument with a daughter of the House of Seaforth? Or because, unlike the Reverend Halliday, she knew all was not right with that grave? Frances had a decision to make: the secret of the grave was powerful. Should she use it now to force Mrs. Lockton to reveal what had really happened? Frances suspected Mrs. Lockton would do anything to spare any hurt or humiliation for the Reverend Halliday.

  “Mrs. Lockton,” she said quietly. “I know, for a certainty, that Helen is not in that grave. And I think you do too. Is she still alive to your knowledge? Or if not, where is she buried?”

  Mrs. Lockton just stared at Frances, and she wondered if the woman would get up and leave rather than continue the conversation.

  “I won’t ask how you know that, my lady.” The words came out as a tortured whisper. “But I beg you not to tell anyone. Please. You have no idea what secrets had to be kept. What are still being kept.”

  “I have no interest in your secrets—I told you,” said Frances, letting a little impatience creep into her voice, “I want to find Helen.”

  “Helen is dead. I can tell you that much,” said Mrs. Lockton.

  “Where may her mother go to mourn her?” asked Frances. “Helen had a mother. She is very old, and she wants to lay flowers on her daughter’s grave.”

  “If I told you where she was, my lady, it would give away the secret. The reputation of the Reverend Halliday—if you could see what good work he does, the souls he cares for. And . . . I have a daughter . . .” She stood, a little uncertainly. “I beg you, my lady, to think on what you do. I assure you I give you no threat, but do understand that I’m not being melodramatic if I say that these are secrets some might kill or die for. A mother’s love is . . . but I can say no more. Thank you, my lady. Please—I will see myself out.” She left the room and closed the door firmly behind her.

  Frances and Mallow sat quietly for a few moments before speaking.

  “Why won’t she tell us, Mallow? What kind of thing could be so terrible that she can’t tell us? What would be so awful? I wanted to hold back on the secret of the child for now. We might want to use it later. But does it have to do with him or her?”

  Mallow thought on that. “I can’t explain the child, my lady. But perhaps this Helen had done something illegal and wanted it believed she had died.” In the neighborhood Mallow had grown up in, criminals often found themselves better off if they were thought dead.

  “Very possibly,” said Frances. She also remembered that Mrs. Lockton and the Hallidays were middle class, and a rigid adherence to rules was common. In their milieu, an adulterous affair was alarming—what would the neighbors say! Among the aristocracy, many men had mistresses yet everyone just shrugged as long as the parties were reasonably discreet.

  “Also, Mallow, perhaps the Hallidays were not quite as perfect as everyone says. For example, what if Helen had an affair with Mr. Halliday? Where does that take us?” Frances was just thinking out loud, but she had horrified her maid.

  “My lady! Everyone says they were the finest people. They established a Christian mission.”

  “Perhaps, Mallow, they did so out of guilt.”

  “If you say so, my lady,” said Mallow, ending the conversation as far as she was concerned. Frances smiled to herself and thought about the words. A mother’s love? Was that Mrs. Halliday for her son? Or Mrs. Lockton for her daughter? But Susan had been born long after Helen had died—or rather, before Helen was presumed to have died.

  Frances kept a small collection of books and references on a shelf in their sitting room, including a map of England. With Mallow’s help, she spread it out on the table.

  “Here, Mallow. Blackthorpe, just outside of Shrewsbury. I think it’s time we opened a second front, so to speak. Emma Lockton, née Bradley, knows too much to be a casual witness here, and I am wondering about her, the Hallidays, and her background. Let’s find out more about her.”

  Mallow knew her mistress well enough to know what was next and was fetching the train schedule before Frances had even asked for it.

  “Well done, Mallow! Let’s see, there’s an early morning train out of Euston with a connection to Blackthorpe. We shouldn’t even need to stay overnight. But this has to be secret. Our occasional stalker may be around, and I don’t want him to see us going to Euston station. Mallow, see if one of the housemaids is around.”

  Mallow went into the hallway and brought in Ethel, a sweet-tempered young maid who was obliging, if not especially bright.

  “Yes, my lady?” Ethel asked.

  “For some reason, a soldier has been following me.”

  Ethel’s eyes got wide. “That is very wicked, my lady.”

  “More annoying than wicked. But I need you to check to see if he’s still outside. Could you stick your head outside and see if he’s still there? I don’t want him to know that either Mallow or I are aware if he’s there.”

  “Of course, my lady. I’ll be right back,” said Ethel as she practically raced out of the room. She returned a few moments later. “Yes, my lady, I looked out the hall window. He’s loitering outside. Shall I ask for Mrs. Beasley to send for a
constable?” She seemed pleased at the thought of some excitement in her routine.

  “Thank you, but no. Mallow, what time is the morning train tomorrow?”

  “At seven twenty-five, my lady.”

  “Ethel, what time do you go on duty tomorrow? And Violet, the other maid for this hall?”

  “We’re on late shift this week, my lady, so not until nine.”

  “How would you like to make a little extra money tomorrow morning for almost no work at all?” Hotel rules allowed residents to pay maids for extra work in their off time. Different emotions chased themselves across Ethel’s face. Some extra coins would be most welcome, but everyone knew she was called “Mad” Lady Frances for a reason. What might she ask?

  “Thank you, my lady. I would be happy to assist before I go on duty, and I’m sure Violet would too. What, ah, would you like us to do?”

  “It’s very simple, really. I just want you to change your clothes.”

  CHAPTER 19

  A little before seven the next morning, a hansom pulled up to Miss Plimsoll’s. There was an early morning chill, and two well-bundled women stepped out of the hotel and into a cab. One was dressed plainly but neatly, as befitted the maid to a lady, and the other was dressed in a more expensive outfit, simple but well-tailored. The cab took off. A man in a soldier’s uniform stepped out of the shadows and ran quickly to another waiting cab, which took off after them.

  A minute later, Frances and Mallow left the hotel as another hansom pulled up. A crack of the whip, and they were on their way to Euston station.

  “I knew it would work,” said Frances, full of triumph. She and Mallow had watched it all from an upstairs window. That morning, Ethel and Violet had come into Frances’s suite. Ethel, the same height as Frances, changed into one of Frances’s outfits. Violet, a little taller, changed into one of Mallow’s. Then the two maids walked out of the hotel. They were about the same age as Frances and Mallow and now were dressed like them. Wide-brimmed hats half hid their faces. It had not been hard to fool their stalker.