Death Among Rubies Read online

  The conversation ended with the arrival of the vicar, a young, scholarly looking man with somewhat unruly hair. He probably absently combs his fingers through it when he’s anxious, thought Frances, and he proved her right by doing it then and there.

  “Miss Kestrel? I am pleased to see you again, although I am sorry for the circumstances, of course. Your Aunt Phoebe told me I’d find you here. She and I have settled most of the issues regarding the funeral, but I was hoping we could go over some hymns—a chance for you to add your personal insights, so to speak.” He smiled and pushed his spectacles back up his nose.

  Gwen did her duty and introduced her friends to the Rev. Jellicoe, who praised the young women for supporting their friend. Frances suggested Gwen and the vicar make themselves comfortable at the small table by the far window, and that gave Frances a chance to bring Tommie to the other end of the room to talk quietly.

  “Gwen seems to be coping,” said Frances. “But how are you? I haven’t forgotten how you were threatened yet you came here anyway.”

  “I am not like you, Franny. I’m petrified at the thought of making speeches in the park, or making calls on government officials. But I should hope that I can find enough courage to stand by my closest friend in her hour of need.” She half smiled, and Frances reached out and squeezed her hand. The two women looked out the window, across the expanse of lawn. She saw a party of workmen cross the grounds on their way to the village road and could just hear their talk.

  “I wonder what those workmen are doing. Something with the funeral?”

  “I imagine the gardens. Gwen told me a while ago that her father was having some major improvements made. That’s the one thing Gwen said she really missed in London, having a very nice garden.”

  Frances nodded. Tommie would remember something like that about Gwen. She remembered what Mrs. Elkhorn said: Tommie was there to take care of Gwen. Frances had other duties. She wondered if Mallow was picking up anything in the servants’ hall and started considering when it would be best to tackle the local police inspector.

  Despite the tragedy, Mallow was enjoying being in the servants’ hall of a great house. It was so much larger and more formal than Miss Plimsoll’s. What if her ladyship married a duke or earl, and moved to a manor house like this? But no . . . not Lady Frances.

  When the servants’ breakfast was over, she saw one of the footmen hanging back to speak with the butler, Mr. Pennington. She walked from the table slowly so she could hear what they were saying.

  “I checked as you asked, Mr. Pennington, and the constables are still walking around the grounds.”

  “Tramping on the flowers and leaving holes in the lawn, no doubt,” he said.

  “And the visitors from London have arrived. I set them up in the blue parlor, as you instructed earlier.”

  Pennington sighed. “Very good. You saw they were served tea, as Mrs. Blake asked?”

  “Yes, sir. With the second-best china, as you said.” The footman flashed a cheeky smile.

  “I daresay they’d have preferred beer, Mr. Pennington.”

  Mr. Pennington was not amused. “I daresay you’re right. But they’re not going to get it.”

  That was curious. Lady Frances would be interested. Mallow quickly headed up to the solar, and found her ladyship with her friends. She pulled her ladyship away into a quiet corner.

  “I heard something that may be important, my lady,” Mallow said before recounting what she had overheard.

  “Visitors from London,” Frances said at last. “But not important ones. The butler seems unhappy with them. They’re only getting the second-best china and it’s assumed they’d want beer rather than tea.” Only servants drank beer. And only on their own time. “I think our visitors are London police. Guests, but not quite gentlemen. Scotland Yard detectives, for sure. The blue parlor?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Frances told Tommie where she was going and left with Mallow.

  Not being from these parts, Frances knew she’d have little influence with the local constabulary, unlike in London. They might not like her in London, but they certainly knew her, knew her persistence, knew her willingness to use connections to push her way into the offices of the most senior Scotland Yard officials. She knew chief inspectors and superintendents—even the commissioner.

  The blue parlor was on the ground floor, a small and cozy room suitable for half a dozen people to have a quiet talk during a party. The door was open, which probably meant the police were not yet meeting with anyone. Frances stuck her head in—and her heart leapt. This was better than she had dared hope. The two men in the room had their backs to her as they reviewed the chamber’s elegant appointments.

  One was enormous, both tall and broad, in a loud check suit. The other was slightly built, in a quiet but rumpled suit that she remembered from previous meetings.

  “Inspector Eastley?”

  The man turned sharply. Then he closed his eyes and sighed dramatically. “Lady Frances. What are you doing here?”

  “I’m a guest here—I arrived two nights ago. It seems we’ll be working together again, inspector. Isn’t that exciting?”

  CHAPTER 5

  “I had hoped after our last meeting, you were done inserting yourself into crime and involving yourself with the police,” Inspector Eastley said. “I hate to think you’ve taken to following me. You weren’t here at the dinner party, were you?”

  The officer standing next to him, Constable Smith, consulted a sheaf of papers, and in his heavy cockney accent said, “She’s not on the list, sir.”

  “I wasn’t at the dinner party myself. Miss Kestrel, another friend, Miss Thomasina Calvin, and I came late that night.”

  Inspector Eastley turned to his constable. “Smith? Isn’t Lady Frances somewhere among the interview notes that the local inspector, Bedlow, gave to you?”

  Smith shuffled through the pages. “Here we go, sir. We had only worked our way through the actual party guests. Lady Frances is listed back here, along with anyone on the estate who was not actually at the dinner, sir.”

  “Inspector Bedlow’s organization leaves something to be desired,” said Eastley. “Anyway, the question remains, Lady Frances. What are you doing here? How do you know Miss Kestrel?”

  “Miss Kestrel, Miss Calvin, and I all know each other from the suffragist group.”

  “That figures,” said Inspector Eastley.

  “I fail to see how that ‘figures,’ inspector. But never mind. I am just here to support my friend.” His features softened somewhat, so she made her move. “Of course, if there is any information you can share, I know it would put Miss Kestrel’s mind at ease.”

  “Absolutely not, Lady Frances. You should know better than to even ask.”

  But Frances already knew something. Eastley and Smith were members of an elite Scotland Yard unit called Special Branch. They had responsibility for high-profile cases where the security of the realm might be involved. As Sir Calleford was a diplomat and several visitors were from overseas, it made sense they were present.

  “Now, inspector, you did admit that I was of help to you last time.”

  “I was desperate and you were lucky.” He held up his hand to forestall any further discussion. “We’re very busy, so if there’s nothing else—yes, constable?”

  One of the local uniformed constables had entered the room, a young man who removed his helmet and stood at attention. His tunic was neat. Frances bet he had a wife—no, he was too young, probably a mother—who cared about his appearance.

  “Begging your pardon, inspector. We just found out that several of the witnesses don’t speak English.”

  “What? Morchester station should’ve passed that on to me before I left London. Another mistake. Who doesn’t speak English?”

  “There are a Monsieur and Madame Aubert, sir, from Paris, France. They also have two servants. Madame speaks a few words of English, I ascertained, sir, but not enough for an interview. The serva
nts speak no English at all. Monsieur speaks perfect English, but of course we can’t have one witness translating for another. I am based in the village, sir, and I know our doctor speaks a little French. He said was willing to try, but it’s been some years.”

  “Thank you for your diligence,” said the inspector with a sigh. “But we’ll have to call London, and that means a day is lost. I hope the French guests were planning to stay for the funeral. I can’t hold them.”

  “Excuse me inspector—”

  “What is it, Lady Frances? You see I’m busy. Why are you still here?”

  “No need to be rude, especially as I’m about to help you. I speak perfect French.” She just had to hope Inspector Eastley wasn’t going to be stubborn. But he was too intelligent to turn away such a good solution. “I was tutored as a girl, studied in college, and have been to France multiple times.”

  She could see him thinking it over, trying to find a reason to reject her.

  “There is a problem. You’re technically a suspect.”

  Frances rolled her eyes. “Really, inspector? That’s ludicrous.”

  “Sir,” said Constable Smith. “According to the interview notes, Miss Kestrel and Miss Calvin were just with each other for most of the evening. But Lady Frances was in the estate office with a pair of chartered accountants during the relevant period. They were absolutely sure Lady Frances never left.”

  “We just have their word for it, I suppose?”

  “They are from a well-known and reputable firm, sir. Inspector Bedlow said he saw no reason to question their statements.”

  Eastley gave him a sour look, then turned back to Frances. “You’re really fluent?”

  “I can almost pass for French.”

  “And you don’t know the Auberts? I have to make sure there are no conflicts of interest.”

  She assured him she knew none of the guests; the inspector sighed again. “Very well. I’m not happy about it but I see no other solution. Smith, make a note that Lady Frances Ffolkes is being engaged as an official police interpreter. And you, constable . . .”

  “Dill, sir, Arthur Dill.”

  “Dill, we’ll start with Madame Aubert’s maid.”

  “Leonie, sir. I’ll send her up.”

  Frances was thrilled. Not only would she possibly learn something, but this would be a new experience, and new experiences tended to be both educational and entertaining. Of course, it would be a challenge, too. It was one thing to know a foreign language, and quite another to translate rapidly from one to the other.

  Inspector Eastley sat her down and gave her some strict instructions. She was only a translator. She was not to add questions or comments, or decide what was or was not relevant. And everything she heard was a secret; nothing left the room.

  “My family has been in public service for generations,” she said, feeling a little patronized. “And I’m sure you will find me satisfactory.”

  Leonie was darkly pretty, and even the rather shapeless black dress she wore, standard for a lady’s maid, didn’t completely obscure a lithe figure, much like a dancer’s. She didn’t seem nervous or excited. She took a chair when invited, and Eastley began asking questions while Smith took notes. If she thought it odd that a lady of quality was acting as translator, she said nothing.

  Frances was able to jump right in, and found the simple questions and answers easy to handle: Her name was Leonie, and she had been with Madame for four years. Madame had told her to answer all the questions of the English inspector of police. This was her third trip to Kestrel’s Eyrie. She knew nothing about Sir Calleford, had only seen him in passing. She had heard him speak French to Madame—pleasantries, nothing more.

  No, she had not heard anyone arguing at any time. Everyone seemed to be having a good visit. Madame never said anything about Sir Calleford, one way or another. Frances heard Leonie shut down at that. If Inspector Eastley thought he could get Leonie to pass along any confidences she held with her mistress, he was very much mistaken.

  Leonie knew nothing about the murder until she heard it from her ladyship. Had she been in her room, all evening? Here, there was just a moment’s hesitation, and Eastley seized on that.

  “Ask her where she was, and what she saw. Tell her if she wasn’t supposed to leave her room but did so anyway, we will not give her secret away to her mistress.”

  Frances emphasized that the English inspector would be discreet, but Leonie wasn’t impressed or rattled. “It was stuffy in my room. I was outside for a few minutes for some fresh air. But I got cold and came back. I don’t know how long I was outside. I didn’t look at the clock.”

  “Inspector, I think I know what she was up to—” started Frances.

  “Lady Frances, you have been most helpful in the past, and I’ll be the first to admit that. But these are just simple statements right now, so let’s stick to the task at hand, shall we?”

  “Duly noted, inspector,” she said, stiffly.

  He had a few more questions, which yielded no useful information. Leonie had neither seen nor heard anything unusual. The inspector dismissed her and told her to send up Jean, Monsieur’s valet.

  Frances used the break to dab her brow with her handkerchief.

  “Difficult work, my lady?” asked the inspector, with a brief smile.

  “Intellectually challenging,” she countered. When she got back to London, perhaps she could add her name to an official list of translators at Scotland Yard. She was always looking for ways to insinuate women into the police force, and this could be one route.

  Jean was considerably older than Leonie, and had a world-weary, almost sardonic tone about him. He seemed curious at seeing Lady Frances, but said nothing.

  He had been with Monsieur for nearly twenty years and had visited the Eyrie more times than he could remember. It was his understanding that his master and Sir Calleford were friends of long standing, but when Eastley pushed for details, he shut down just like Leonie had. No gossip here. He never discussed Sir Calleford with his master. During the evening, he said he played a friendly game of cards in the servants’ hall with three of the footmen—Benjamin, Adam, and James—he knew just enough English for that.

  Jean was dismissed, and told to send the request that Mme. Aubert come, if it was convenient.

  “So far, so good, Lady Frances. Thank you. It will be a little trickier now. Madame is the wife of a diplomat, and we don’t want to offend.” Frances wanted to add that she was used to talking to diplomats and their wives, in English and French, but decided there was no point in getting the inspector’s back up, especially when things were going so well.

  “I will be very careful with my phrasing,” she assured him.

  Mme. Aubert was an elegantly dressed woman in her late fifties, with well-coifed silver hair. When she was seated, Inspector Eastley thanked her for her cooperation, and Frances translated, as Mme. Aubert briefly smiled.

  “She says she is happy to be of assistance—and also expressed surprise that the police employ ladies of quality to translate. I told her I was a friend of the family’s and volunteered to help. I assume that was satisfactory?”

  “Yes,” he said dryly.

  “Have you been to the Eyrie before?” asked Frances, on behalf of the inspector.

  “Yes, several times, and my husband has been here by himself over many years. My husband and Sir Calleford were great friends, and had known each other through diplomatic channels for many years. No, there were no arguments during the evening or at any time. Intellectual disagreements of course, but nothing serious.”

  “What happened during the course of the evening?”

  “We had all gathered in the drawing room after dinner. During our stay, it had just been ourselves and a Turkish gentleman, Mr. Mehmet. I didn’t really speak with him, as he spoke English but not French. On the last night, many other guests were invited. Everyone was chatting, stepping outside for a breath of air—it would be impossible for anyone to keep track of who w
ent where.”

  Frances had already heard the Gibbon story from Mrs. Blake, and now she got to hear it again from Mme. Aubert: “Sir Calleford and my husband were in a playful discussion about something political—I become bored and moved on. And suddenly, I heard Sir Calleford laugh and say he’d prove his point and get his Gibbon.”

  “Was it Sir Calleford’s idea to get the Gibbon? Or your husband’s?”

  Madame shrugged. “I couldn’t say. I wasn’t paying close attention. It was something that happened frequently. The two old friends enjoyed intellectual combat.”

  “Her word was ‘combat’?” asked Inspector Eastley.

  “That’s the best translation,” said Frances. And he nodded.

  The inspector next asked what she thought of Sir Calleford. And that gave her pause. When she did speak, she chose her words carefully, and Frances gave a moment’s pause herself to find the best English words.

  “You hesitate, Lady Frances,” said the inspector with a smile. “Is your vocabulary not up to the task?”

  “My vocabulary is excellent,” snapped Frances.

  “My apologies for teasing you. You are actually much more fluid than our usual man in London.” He glanced at Constable Smith, who was writing furiously. “Smith has no problem keeping up with him, but you’re much faster.”

  “Thank you,” said a mollified Frances. “Anyway, Madame is an intelligent and thoughtful woman. She was choosing her words with great care so I want to make sure I choose the English words with equal care. She said she found Sir Calleford intellectual and always exceedingly polite—courtly, in fact. But he was reserved and did not discuss feelings or thoughts on his family. Well, what could you expect from the English?”

  “Lady Frances—that last bit. Was that Madame or were you editorializing?”