Death Among Rubies Read online

  “That was Madame—I did not add anything, as you instructed,” said Frances, a little affronted that she was accused of disobeying orders. But she had to add: “Nevertheless, I do agree. Her tone was not one of criticism.”

  Frances was dying to ask Mme. Aubert if Sir Calleford had said anything about his daughter—or if she had formed any opinion of Gwen herself. But there would be a chance for that later; she’d get her alone at some point before they returned to France.

  “There is one more thing, Monsieur le Inspector,” said Mme. Aubert. “One doesn’t like to tell tales, but as you probably already heard, people were stepping outside from time to time for fresh air. Indeed, I stepped out once myself.” She smiled. “Between following my husband’s and Sir Calleford’s intellectual discussion in French and forcing myself to speak my limited English with the other guests, I had developed a headache and wanted some quiet outside alone. It was a fine evening. I saw one of the other guests—Mrs. Bellinger—just along the walk.” She paused. “I don’t think she saw me. She was in a discussion with someone. I wouldn’t say it was an argument. But it was—animé.”

  Frances translated it as “animated.”

  “I didn’t want to pry, you understand, but I wanted to make sure she was all right. So I stayed in the shadows until I saw whom she was talking to.” She paused again, clearly struggling with her desire not be seen as an eavesdropper. “It was the Turkish visitor, Mr. Mehmet. But they were speaking in English, so I couldn’t understand them.”

  Inspector Eastley leaned back and looked thoughtful. Frances was poised for more questions, but he just said, “Thank you for being so frank. I will be discreet with what you have told me.”

  Mme. Aubert responded by saying that she and her husband mourned the loss of their friend and hoped the famed English police would spare no effort in finding the murderer. She thanked the inspector and Frances again, and on her way out, she said that if there was a Catholic church nearby, she would say prayers for his soul.

  Eastley remained lost in thought for a moment, and Constable Smith quietly wrote in his notebook, the pen moving neatly in his huge hand. Frances had a dozen questions—but reminded herself to be patient. She would be able to ask them later.

  “Lady Frances, thank you very much,” said Eastley. “You saved us a great deal of time and bother. I will remind you, however, that your part in this investigation is over.” Without waiting for a response, he turned to Constable Smith. “I have to place a call to London. Then we’ll proceed with the next witnesses.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Smith, and without a look back, Inspector Eastley left.

  “I have something for you, m’lady,” said Smith. He handed her a piece of paper. “This is a voucher. Submit it to Metropolitan Police Headquarters to be paid for your services.”

  “Constable—” said an astonished Frances. “I did this to help, not for money.”

  If Constable Smith saw anything odd in paying the wealthy daughter of a powerful aristocratic family, he kept it to himself.

  “I have to give it to you, m’lady. It’s the rules,” he said, and Frances took the paper authorizing His Majesty’s Exchequer to pay Frances Ffolkes for providing translation services to the Metropolitan Police Service. Imagine that—getting paid! She had no intention of submitting it, but as soon as she got back to London she’d have it framed.

  “Thank you, constable. And good day.” She stepped into the hallway. First things first. That French maid was lying, but Frances had no illusions about being able to get her to admit it. She was far too self-possessed for that, and as Frances was not her mistress, there was no leverage. But footmen were another story.

  Jean, the valet, said he was playing cards with three footmen. A house of this size would need at least four. At least one was not at the card game. And Frances knew how to find out without raising anyone’s suspicions.

  With a few false starts, she found the dining room, and as she suspected, maids were already setting the table in preparation for dinner.

  “Excuse me, but I was wondering if you could help me?”

  “Of course, my lady,” said one of the maids, young and wide-eyed. Good—she looked naïve and wouldn’t think too much about Frances’s questions.

  “The footmen were very helpful with our luggage today. I wanted to make sure I gave them all the proper thanks.” Tipping servants in a country house, especially when they had been helpful, was common.

  “Of course, my lady. There are four, Mark, Adam, David . . . and Owen.” She blushed at that last name. “He’s still new, my lady.” Another maid snickered, but quickly covered up. Well, that made it all clear.

  “If you’re looking for them, they might be in the drawing room. Mrs. Blake likes the furniture set up special for after dinner.” Frances thanked them, but didn’t say it was unlikely anyone would feel like gathering after dinner tonight.

  As Mrs. Blake had said, it was larger than the solar. Few houses boasted a drawing room like this, which served as the main social room for all gatherings smaller than a full-fledged ball. Indeed, you could even set up a small orchestra right in this room.

  Two footmen were working on the furniture.

  “Excuse me, is one of you Owen?”

  “Yes, my lady.” His accent, like his name, showed him to be Welsh. His handsome features showed why the maid blushed at his name. He stepped over to Frances.

  “I understand that all of you, and you in particular, were both helpful and careful with my luggage, and I want you to know that I will remember that when I depart.”

  “Thank you, my lady.”

  “Also, since you’re here, I have a quick question. I know you have been keeping company with Leonie, Madame Aubert’s personal maid, and while I have no interest in your personal life, I would like to know if you saw anything during your evening tryst.” She smiled.

  Frances rather admired him for not buckling immediately.

  “I, ah, my lady . . . I am not quite sure I understand what you mean.” Unlike Leonie, he was a very bad liar.

  “Now, Owen, I have no intention of reporting anything to Mrs. Blake, Miss Kestrel, or to Mme. Aubert. Or the police, for that matter. But I do have a need to find out what you saw that evening. It may have to do with your master’s death, and as a friend of Miss Kestrel’s, I am asking a few questions. This is a family matter, Owen.” She was counting on his loyalty to the Kestrels for cooperation, and his respect for authority to not inquire why a lady was asking these questions.

  Owen nervously slid his finger around his collar. “Well, if you put it like that, my lady, I will admit that I did take an evening walk with Leonie.”

  I bet it was a lot more than a walk, thought Frances.

  “However, we didn’t see anyone that night. We, ah, paused, by the gardener’s shed near the formal gardens, my lady, but we had the place to ourselves.”

  “Are you absolutely sure?”

  “Yes, my lady.” She studied him—he wasn’t lying outright, but there was something he was nervous about. She wasn’t going to give up. Frances just kept looking up at him, and eventually he spoke again. “But the night previous, my lady—the night before the dinner party that ended in the master’s death—that evening, Leonie and I did see two people in the gardens.” He took a deep breath. “It was the master, my lady.”

  “I take it this was unusual?”

  “Unheard of, my lady. The master was very regular in his habits. He’d have a last cigar and brandy in his study and then straight to bed. He never went out after dark. His schedule was so regular you could set your watch by him, my lady.”

  “And who was he with?”

  “Mrs. Sweet, my lady. She’s a widow who rents a cottage on the estate and was also a guest at the dinner party the following night. She’s been here for dinner before, with all what we called the local worthies, my lady—squires, the vicar, solicitor, doctor and so forth. But they’ve never been out walking.”

  “Did you hear
them say anything?” At that, Owen became uncomfortable. This time, she was asking a servant about eavesdropping—and repeating a master’s conversation was a major sin below stairs. But of course, the master was dead.

  “Just one thing, my lady. I was distracted.” As he realized what he said, his cheeks flamed. Leonie’s sultry face and supple body—of course Owen was distracted. “I beg your pardon, my lady. But I heard Sir Calleford say one thing to Mrs. Sweet. He said, ‘It won’t always be like this.’ Or something very close to that. But if she said anything, I didn’t hear it.”

  Frances nodded. “Thank you, Owen. You’ve been very helpful—you may go back to your duties.”

  “Very good, my lady.”

  “One piece of advice—do be careful. You’ve begun what could be an excellent career in service in a great house—you don’t want to complicate it. And thank you again for being careful with my luggage.”

  Frances turned and left. Owen might’ve stood there the rest of the afternoon gaping after Lady Frances, but the other footman said, “Hey! I could use a little help here.” And so he shook his head and went back to work.

  CHAPTER 6

  Mallow had received instructions from her mistress to keep an ear out for gossip. Servants always knew what was going on, especially in a place like the Eyrie with a large staff. Of course, one had to give gossip in order to get it, and a proper lady’s maid did not gossip about her mistress. But Lady Frances had approved areas of discussion that were fair game for Mallow to relate to other servants.

  Nothing worked with Jenkins, Mrs. Blake’s maid. As they were equals, they might’ve chatted, but Jenkins proved quiet and moody—almost sullen. She had showed Mallow her room and reminded her of when she needed to dress Lady Frances, and that was it.

  Downstairs, however, over tea in the servants’ hall, the large staff was more welcoming, and more than a little curious about Lady Frances, a member of a powerful aristocratic family. Mr. Pennington oversaw the proceedings with a strict eye, but allowed a certain latitude to talk to a visiting servant.

  The servants were subdued, but not in mourning. Again, most of them hadn’t really known the master, and for the young maids in particular, who didn’t even serve at dinner, the event was more thrilling than tragic. After all, life in the country with a semi-retired master was probably boring day-by-day.

  “It must be exciting, working in a great house in London,” ventured a housemaid named Nellie, whose ingrained cheerful nature was not appreciably dampened by the recent tragedy. “All the lords and ladies coming by.”

  “I came from the household of the marquess, but now her ladyship and I live in a private hotel for ladies.”

  That amazed everyone—even the butler seemed startled. Young ladies did not live on their own.

  “Lady Frances likes her freedom,” said Mallow loftily. “She was used to it after attending university in America.”

  “Oh, go on,” said a footman. “Ladies don’t go to college.”

  Mallow glared at him. “There are colleges for ladies in America, and Lady Frances went to one. She’s very unusual.” And everyone became wide-eyed when she told them about her political work getting the vote for women—they clearly didn’t know Miss Kestrel was also involved in the group. “Lady Frances has also been to police headquarters at Scotland Yard. I’ve even been there with her.” That astonished everyone.

  After answering questions, Mallow ventured one of her own. “I suppose Miss Kestrel will come back here from London to live, and Mrs. Blake will return to live with her son?”

  Before anyone could respond, the butler said, “It would be unseemly to speculate at this point.” And that ended the conversation.

  However, Mallow was able to pick it up later, after tea, when she sat at a small table with Nellie to catch up with their sewing. Nellie made sure Mr. Pennington was not around, then said, “To be honest, we are concerned that Miss Kestrel will not want to return. She’s lived in London for years now, and she doesn’t . . .” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’m not sure she’s well-suited to running a house of this size, even if she hired a proper housekeeper.”

  “Maybe she’ll get married,” suggested Mallow. “And you’ll have a new master.”

  “Maybe. There’s been talk that she might marry her cousin, Mr. Blake—then the two estates would be joined. He visits a lot. A very fine man.” She paused. “I suppose Lady Frances will get married someday, and you’ll move to a fine house.”

  “Yes, but right now her ladyship is too busy to get married.”

  Well, that was something. Nellie knew women who were too old to get married. Or too poor. But too busy?

  Nellie pursed her lips and looked thoughtful. “A friend of the master’s visited once. A young man, from a good family. We thought he might’ve come to possibly court Miss Kestrel and even marry her. But his valet said his master wouldn’t because of some old poet Miss Kestrel liked . . . let me think . . . a funny name . . . I don’t see why he wouldn’t marry her because she liked the poet . . . Oh, it was such a funny name . . . Oh, now I remember . . . Saffy? No, it was Saffo. That was it for sure.”

  They chatted a while more, before Mr. Pennington called Nellie away for other duties. However, Mallow was not alone long. Another woman came to join her, but the new arrival did not look like a proper servant. Her hair wasn’t as neat as it could be and Mallow thought her clothes were a little casual for a maid. She was holding a fine evening dress.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “We haven’t been introduced, but I was watching you sew and I’ve never seen such perfect stitches. Could you help me?”

  “Oh . . . yes, of course,” said Mallow. She took pride in her sewing and was flattered. “Bring a chair around into the light.”

  “Thank you so much. I’m Amy, Amy Hopp, although here I’m supposed to be Miss Hardiman, because it’s my mistress’s name. Dumbest thing I ever heard, but if that’s what they do, I guess I gotta go along. Anyway, my mistress is a guest here, with her father, and back home we don’t dress like this so much.”

  Mallow was a bit overwhelmed by a servant who so freely offered such sharply worded opinions, but again, she knew her ladyship was relying on her.

  “I would be Miss Ffolkes, after my mistress, but—” and she gave a welcoming smile. “My name is June Mallow.”

  “Glad to meet you, Junie.” She stuck out her hand and gave Mallow a firm shake. She was a strongly built girl, not especially tall but with broad shoulders and lots of straw-colored hair.

  Her mistress had a tear along the seam of her evening dress. For Mallow, it was an easy job, but Hopp was impressed. “I never would’ve done it like that.”

  “You have to, if you want the stitches to remain invisible. See? As good as new. You could never tell.” Mallow handed her the dress back.

  “Well, wait’ll I tell Miss Hardiman what I learned.”

  Mallow leaned over the little table and whispered. “Don’t do that. Take credit yourself. I don’t care, and don’t let your mistress think that there was something you didn’t know.”

  Hopp grinned. “Say, aren’t you the clever one! Like I said, back home we don’t dress so fancy.”

  “And that would be—America?” asked Mallow. The accent was a giveaway.

  “That’s right. Took a ship here, and wasn’t that something. We’ve been mostly in London, kinda fun, more lively than back home. You’re from London?”

  “Yes. My mistress is Lady Frances Ffolkes. She’s the daughter of a marquess. They’re a very important family, lords and ladies, bishops and members of parliament. Lady Frances knows everyone, famous writers and artists and actors. Once, the king himself came to dinner at her brother’s house. Lady Frances started talking with him about politics and almost caused a scandal.”

  Hopp’s eyes got bigger and bigger. “You sure have more fun than we have, I can tell you.”

  Mallow saw nothing but admiration in the maid’s eyes, which thrilled her.

&nbs
p; “Do you have moving pictures in your town in America?” asked Mallow.

  Hopp shook her head sadly. “No. There’s one in Buffalo, but it’s too far from our house. And we’ve been too busy in London.”

  “Well, when we get back to London, on your evening off, you’ll come with me and my friends from other good houses, and we’ll go see a moving picture. Then we’ll have a glass of cider in a respectable establishment.”

  “Well aren’t you the best!” cried Hopp.

  Now to move in. “So tell me, Miss Hopp, why did you come to England? Is Mr. Hardiman also in government?”

  “In government? I don’t really know. I do know he’s very rich. I think he just wanted to travel a bit, and well . . . I shouldn’t really say.” She lowered her eyes.

  “Oh, but you can tell me . . . Amy.”

  The girl looked around. “Oh, very well. It’s just us. The real reason . . . Miss Hardiman is looking for a husband. That’s why we were staying in London. Going to parties to meet a lord who’d marry Miss Hardiman.”

  Mallow nodded. “Your secret is safe with me.”

  Hopp looked down at the repaired dress. “I ought to go back upstairs with this. Thank you again, Junie.”

  Mallow looked up at this cheerful, sloppy American. “When we are alone together, you can be Amy and I can be . . . Junie. But among others, I will be Miss Ffolkes and you will be Miss Hardiman.”

  “It sounds like a silly rule, like I said. First name, last name, it’s all the same to me.”

  “They are not silly rules. As a lady’s maid I have earned the right to be called ‘Miss Mallow’ at home. To be called ‘Miss Ffolkes’ when we travel to great houses—it is something I’m proud of. Women must achieve and must proudly insist on recognition of their achievements, no matter what their station in life. Lady Frances says so.”

  Amy looked a little stunned at this. Mallow was young, but her words lent a gravitas to her face.

  “Are there a lot of English ladies like your Lady Frances?”

  “No. Of that I am sure.” When Mallow was just a housemaid in the household of Lady Frances’s parents, she had more than once overheard old Lady Seaforth sigh and say “There is no one like our Franny,” and old Lord Seaforth mutter, “Thank heaven.”