Death Among Rubies Page 8

  Mallow finished her sewing and then headed upstairs to help Frances get dressed for dinner. It would naturally be a subdued affair, Mr. Pennington had said, but he expected it to be done right. Mallow was going to make sure her ladyship was a credit to the House of Seaforth.

  “Getting on with the other servants?” asked Frances.

  “Yes, my lady, although Miss Jenkins was a bit standoffish, I must say. They say downstairs she’s a good lady’s maid, very devoted to Mrs. Blake. She knew Mrs. Blake even before her marriage—in fact, she’s from these parts. But still, she keeps herself to herself.”

  “Any talk about Sir Calleford?”

  “Not much, my lady. No one said he was ever unkind, rather reserved. But they had some things to say about Mrs. Blake. Runs a very tight ship, she does.”

  “Cruel or unfair?”

  “Not exactly, my lady. But heaven help the maid who forgets to dust a vase or a footman with unshined shoes. You get a dressing down. And a speech. She lectures the servants on the history of the house, and how you’re letting the family down if you’re less than perfect.”

  Not just strict, but odd, thought Frances.

  “But she can be nice, too. She told Sir Calleford’s valet he could stay on until he found a new position, and has already written him an excellent reference.”

  Kind and wise, thought Frances. It was important to keep up the servants’ morale. A house like this would fall to pieces without proper staffing, and a murder was terrible enough without servants worrying about getting dismissed.

  And then Mallow proudly launched into her real discoveries, her conversations with Nellie and Amy. Frances listened carefully without interrupting.

  “Well done, Mallow! That’s a lot of excellent information. So there was some thought or hope that Gwen would marry Mr. Blake, her second cousin.” Was it just rumor, or had there ever been a real plan? “And speaking of young women getting married, we have Miss Hardiman looking to become a countess or even duchess. Where were they staying in London?”

  “At Claridge’s, my lady.” Of course. The most elegant and prominent hotel in London. The perfect place to start meeting the “right people.” Miss Hardiman would not be the first young American woman to trade a huge dowry for a match with an aristocratic but impoverished English family. This was no doubt engineered by Mr. Hardiman. An alliance with one of the great English families would be good for his career as well—especially if it was his goal to ingratiate himself with London’s diplomatic elite. Were there disagreements with Sir Calleford? Something to embarrass Miss Hardiman?

  “If I may say, my lady,” said Mallow with a little hesitation. “Miss Hopp, although pleasant and respectable, would not pass muster in England. She would not be more than a simple housemaid or scullery maid in Lady Seaforth’s house.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, Mallow. My guess is that the Hardimans are what are called nouveau riche. That means the new rich—people, usually Americans, who had very little money but then suddenly became rich. Now they want to mix with other rich people, those who may have been rich for generations.” Frances’s family had been aristocrats since Kestrel’s Eyrie was new.

  Mallow nodded. There were “new rich” people in London, people who had money but no ties to the aristocracy or even the landed gentry—the well-off landholders who had owned large tracks of farmland for generations. The servants knew who these new rich were. Lady Frances numbered some of them among her friends in charitable circles in particular and in the suffragist group. She didn’t care where the money came from, as long as it was honestly made, but her late mother wouldn’t have them at her dinner parties.

  And the new rich often didn’t make the wisest decisions in hiring servants.

  “And one more thing, my lady. I don’t really understand, but it may be important.” She told how someone said that Miss Kestrel liked some poet too much, and seemed to think this was very funny. “Nellie remembered it, as it was an odd name, my lady, and I wrote it down as best I could, although we don’t know if I got the spelling right.” She produced a piece of paper from her sleeve, and showed it to Frances.

  “Saffo.” A close approximation for “Sappho.” Oh my.

  “Sappho was a Greek poetess who lived a long time ago. From what little we know about her, she lived a very . . . unconventional life.” That was one way to put it.

  “Oh. Like you, my lady,” said Mallow.

  “Not exactly. You see, Sappho didn’t like the company of men. She had . . .” Frances struggled to find the words to explain it to Mallow. The poor girl would be shocked. “She had romantic feelings for other women, rather than men.”

  “I see, my lady.” She cast a critical eye on Frances’s evening dress, to make sure it was smooth. Mallow was reacting coolly to the whole thing, and Frances realized she had misjudged her maid. There was no telling what Mallow had seen growing up in one of London’s poorest neighborhoods. Behavior was much the same everywhere, Frances had observed, but some things were easier to hide in the large houses of the rich than in tightly packed tenements.

  “So I’m afraid that visiting gentleman was suggesting Miss Kestrel was like Sappho,” concluded Frances.

  “If I may say, it’s very wicked, my lady.”

  Frances turned. “What is wicked, Mallow? The behavior or the telling of tales?”

  “Oh, my lady, the telling of tales! What people do is none of my concern. Now if you could hand me one more hairpin, my lady, we’ll be all ready.”

  Frances smiled at her remarkable maid. “Thank you. Again, you did very well today.”

  And Mallow flushed with pride, while Frances reflected: So at least one other person wondered about Gwen. Who was spreading these tales?

  “So, do you like being in a great house in the country, with a big servants’ hall?” asked Frances. “Should I marry a great lord and settle in a grand estate like this?”

  “It’s a very nice house, I’m sure, my lady, but since you ask, I think I would miss London.”

  “You would miss the cinema, certainly,” teased Frances. “I don’t think the little village here shows moving pictures yet.”

  Mallow’s eyes lit up. “Oh, my lady, I would miss them. Miss Hopp sounded so disappointed she lived in a town with no moving pictures yet. I went with Mabel last week, and the stories, and what they can put on the screen—you can’t imagine, my lady. The music hall stage is wonderful too, my lady, but the moving pictures are something special.” She lost herself for a moment. “It’s a very grand house, my lady, but I would miss city life.”

  “I would too, Mallow.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Frances allowed herself plenty of time to walk from her bedroom to the dining room for the first formal meal since Sir Calleford’s death. She was early, but found a man was already waiting in the hallway outside, studying some miniature oil paintings. As she got closer, the man heard her and looked up. Frances judged him to be in his thirties, and he was handsome in an exotic way. His clothes were English, but somehow seemed incongruous with his looks.

  He bowed.

  “A pleasure to meet you,” he said, in lightly accented English. “Do I have the honor of meeting Lady Frances Ffolkes? My name is Mr. Mehmet.”

  “You’re correct. I heard there was a representative from the sultan. That must be you?”

  “I am from Istanbul, but have been residing in London,” he said, not quite answering her question.

  “And how did you know who I was?”

  “It could be because I heard you had arrived, and I know the other guests. But in fact, you look very much like your brother. I compliment you on having such a distinguished relation. His work has brought honor to your king and your house.”

  “Thank you for your kind words. I take it then that you have had meetings with my brother in his role as a Foreign Office undersecretary?”

  “I have many interests, and move in diplomatic and business circles, so I number many prominent Englishmen, like
your brother, among my acquaintances,” he said. That wasn’t odd. Anyone important in the diplomatic community in London would’ve met Charles at one point. “Indeed, although I rent a house in London, I am fortunate enough to have friends with country houses like this. May I take it you are here as a friend to Miss Kestrel, to support her in this difficult time?”

  “Yes, two of us, Miss Thomasina Calvin and I, came down here with her for a visit, but will be staying indefinitely.” She paused. “I know Miss Kestrel finds it upsetting to see so many police officers around, a reminder of how her father died. They seem very busy investigating the death, but so far have not made any arrests. As you have been here some days, perhaps you were able to assist the police in their investigations? Have you seen or heard anything that throws suspicions on anyone here?”

  Mr. Mehmet smiled again. “You are direct and curious, also like your brother. Do you have an official position with the police?”

  “You’re teasing me, Mr. Mehmet. The authorities haven’t seen fit yet to employ female officers in London any more than they do in Istanbul. I act on behalf of my friend, Miss Kestrel. Given that this was a political meeting and that Sir Calleford had a long Foreign Office career, I was wondering if you thought the killing was politically motivated.”

  “A political meeting? You were misinformed. It was merely a meeting of friends, old and new. The discussion did center on foreign affairs—that is Sir Calleford’s great interest. But he does not have an official position in the Foreign Office, I understand.”

  “Really?” said Frances. “That is interesting. Because I was thinking that a murder with a dagger—he was killed with a dagger, if you hadn’t heard—is a very personal sort of murder.”

  That seemed to get Mr. Mehmet’s attention. The slightly amused look on his face disappeared. “I had not heard. But yes, it does sound like a personal murder.”

  “And you may be interested to know the murder weapon was Turkish.”

  “Not the ruby dagger? Sir Calleford showed it to me. He was very proud of it. Aside from his tragic death, the crime is compounded by the . . . desecration of a work of art. I suppose because of Sir Calleford’s importance, and the dramatic manner of the murder, even more English police from London headquarters will swarm all over the house.”

  He now looked positively gloomy. Frances decided to push further. “I imagine you’re right. And it’s not a very, how should I say, English method of murder. I was told that the dagger once belonged to a noble Turkish family. Yours, by any chance, Mr. Mehmet?”

  Mr. Mehmet just stared for a moment—then laughed. “No, my lady. Not at all. You overreached, but that was an excellent theory. You have far more imagination than the local inspector, Mr. Bedlow, who questioned me earlier today. He seems convinced it’s an outside gang—kept asking if I had seen any strangers. I wouldn’t have thought a band of violent robbers would operate in such a peaceful county, but I can’t imagine any other solution. I have confidence the police will discover them soon enough. But others are coming—perhaps we should change the subject.”

  Joining them were a handsome young man dressed in a fashionable suit, a large older man in clothes that didn’t fit perfectly, and a tall young woman whose dress, Frances quickly noticed, was the wrong cut for her figure and wrong color for her complexion.

  The gentlemen bowed and the woman looked at her with a mix of curiosity and welcome.

  “You must be Lady Frances,” said the young man. “I am sorry we haven’t met earlier today, but with the tragedy . . . I’m Christopher Blake, Miss Kestrel’s cousin, and Mrs. Blake’s son. May I present some guests—Mr. Ezra Hardiman, and Miss Effie Hardiman, his daughter, from America. This is Lady Frances Ffolkes, a close friend of my cousin Gwen. And I see, Lady Frances, you have already met Mr. Mehmet, a guest from London.”

  Mr. Hardiman gave her a strong welcome, with a formal speech. “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Frances, although I wish it were in better circumstances. Normally, we would leave to give the family some privacy, but your police have asked the guests to stay while they make their investigations.”

  Frances said that was perfectly understandable.

  Miss Hardiman reminded Frances of some of the American girls she had known in college: robust and healthy-looking, with a friendly voice just a little bit too loud.

  “A pleasure, Lady Frances. I understand you come from London? Father and I were staying in Claridge’s. London quite took my breath away. But oh, I do apologize, Mr. Blake; no offense was intended to this house. I have never seen anything like this—words fail me. Nothing like this near Buffalo.”

  “Buffalo?” asked Lady Frances. “I was educated in New York, but never managed to make it to Buffalo.”

  “Really? May I ask where?” asked Mr. Hardiman.

  “Vassar College, a school for women, in Poughkeepsie.”

  “I’ve heard of it. And it’s a fine town, Poughkeepsie, right on the Hudson. Important for river shipping and rail. I hope you get a chance to see Buffalo someday, Lady Frances. We’d be happy to play host—we live just outside it. A wonderful city, isn’t it, Effie?”

  “Yes, Father,” she said, but with very little enthusiasm.

  Pennington stepped out of the dining room to ring the gong, as was typically done in large houses to summon everyone to dinner. Even as he did so, the rest of the party arrived: Mrs. Blake, Gwen, and Tommie. They all had been dressed and groomed nicely for dinner, and Frances was pleased to see Gwen looked rested and composed.

  “Good evening, Mother. I’ve made introductions,” said Christopher.

  “Very good,” she said with a wan smile. “Shall we go in?”

  Dinner was quiet. No one felt they could really talk about Sir Calleford, given the tragic way he died. Mrs. Blake mentioned the work on the gardens, and that led to a brief discussion of flowers. Frances let her eyes dart around the room. Effie Hardiman seemed eager to discuss the gardens, and commented extensively on the house and grounds. Mr. Hardiman said little, but seemed to enjoy his food. Gwen also joined the discussion of gardens, but Tommie was quiet. Mr. Mehmet spoke little but watched carefully.

  Christopher supported his mother in her conversational gambits, and was also solicitous of his cousin Gwen, reminding her it was a good idea to eat, and noting no one would think less of her if she wanted to retire early.

  Frances studied him. Here was a man not made for mourning, thought Frances. He was made for laughing, not because he was disrespectful, but because it was his nature to be cheerful, Frances concluded. Indeed, he was very handsome, and he couldn’t help the charm coming through, even now. Frances saw it. Miss Hardiman had many questions about the house and grounds, and Christopher responded pleasantly to all of them.

  The dinner broke up early, as expected. Mrs. Blake led Gwen away for a few moments of conversation, probably about the funeral plans.

  “How is she faring?” Frances asked Tommie.

  “Surprisingly well. I don’t know if it has fully hit her yet. Our bedrooms are next to each other, so I’m near her if she needs company in the night.”

  Frances said goodnight to everyone, and was about to head to bed herself, when she felt a hand on her arm.

  It was Mr. Mehmet.

  “I do not wish to be offensive,” he said, “but I have heard that in London society you are now referred to as ‘Mad Lady Frances.’”

  “Your information is correct,” said Frances. She kept her tone even. “I earned it by being unconventional.”

  “Does that mean you don’t believe everything you hear?” he asked.

  “Absolutely, Mr. Mehmet. And I ask many, many questions before I decide what I believe.”

  “Many questions?”

  “How else will I find out who killed Sir Calleford?” And, she thought, who is threatening Tommie.

  “Would you mind some advice, Lady Frances?”

  “I hope I’m not closed-minded.”

  “Think of your own life.
Which I’m sure is blameless.” Frances laughed. “But aren’t there . . . aspects of your life you would rather not be widely known? People may resent your questions, not because they are guilty of a crime, but because . . .” and he just waved his hand.

  “Very good advice, Mr. Mehmet. There is much talk of the wisdom of the East, and I see it is well deserved.”

  Now Mr. Mehmet laughed.

  “Nevertheless, sir, I may have questions for you in the future. Good night, Mr. Mehmet.” And she headed up to her room, happy that she had had the last word.

  CHAPTER 8

  Frances didn’t expect to accomplish much the next day. Life would be held in suspension until after the funeral. But she could still observe and give instructions to Mallow. The police would be speaking to everyone, no doubt—even those who had arrived after the murder, and Frances would see that she and her maid were prepared.

  Almost everyone made it down for breakfast, and Mrs. Blake was presiding over the table. “Miss Calvin said Gwen hardly slept—I think the horror of it all finally reached her. Miss Calvin was up with her much of the night, I found out, when I called on Gwen this morning. I ordered Gwen a tray in her room and I offered Miss Calvin a tray as well, but she firmly declined.” Of course. Tommie wouldn’t give in to that kind of coddling just because she hadn’t slept. “And Mr. Mehmet rose early and took an early walk, as is his custom.”

  Tommie was at one end of the table talking to Miss Hardiman, while at the other end, Mr. Blake and Mr. Hardiman were in deep conversation. Mr. Blake had apparently stayed the night, perhaps to help his mother and cousin, even though his own house wasn’t far away. After greeting Frances, Mrs. Blake rejoined her son and Mr. Hardiman.

  Frances helped herself to breakfast from the platters on the sideboard and then sat with Effie Hardiman and Tommie.