by R. J. Koreto
“May fifteenth, my lady.”
“How can you be so sure of the date?”
“The solicitors were very formal, my lady. They needed Mrs. Colcombe to sign papers acknowledging that they were done with Major Daniel’s room. Two witnesses were needed, and Mrs. Habbers—our cook—and I served in that capacity.”
Poor Kat. It hadn’t occurred to her to ask Bellman, who could’ve reassured her that neither the police nor solicitors had removed it. The advantages of a college education—Frances hadn’t been allowed to say, “I don’t know.” She was sent to the college library until she did know.
Bellman had made sure the manuscript was still in the personal section when the solicitors had left. He had locked the door and told both Mrs. Colcombe and Miss Katherine he had the key should they ever want access to the room. The key was kept in his pantry, but no one asked for it until earlier in the week, when Miss Katherine requested it and, as he found later, the manuscript was missing.
“What did you think happened to it?”
“I couldn’t say, my lady. A professional thief, perhaps, though nothing of value was removed from this house at any time.”
“Could one of the servants have taken it?”
Bellman seemed a little ruffled at that, thought a moment, and said, “They have all been with us some years and have good characters. Besides, my lady, the manuscript had no financial value. Its loss only disturbs the family.” He paused. “We are all very fond of them, my lady.”
It was a matter of reasoning. Danny’s writings disappeared between May 15 and June 20, when Kat walked into the room. It was possible someone from the outside had broken into the house and then into the study, but breaking into an occupied house was no easy feat. And Frances had noticed that the study windows were well bolted. She always saw things like that. The way her eyes would dart around had driven her nannies and governesses mad, but for Frances, it had just been a way to relieve boredom. Her mother had once cheerfully asked her father, “Dear, you’re in the Foreign Office, and as Frances seems to notice everything, couldn’t you get her a job as a spy?”
So if servants and burglars were ruled out, that meant the manuscript was taken by someone who had been admitted to the house. Frances had no illusions about that study door lock. It was a worn, old-fashioned piece of hardware, like one she remembered in her grandfather’s house. At age fifteen, her cousin Stephen had managed to pick it and sample the good brandy. For the boy’s sake, Frances had hoped it had been worth the beating grandfather had administered. No, a lock like that would keep out someone casual, but not someone determined.
“Just one more thing, Bellman. Would it be possible to assemble a list of people who visited the house during this period? That is, after the master’s death but before Miss Katherine noted it missing?”
Bellman sighed. “I’m afraid, my lady, that that the house was in something of a turmoil in the days and weeks following the master’s death. Large numbers of people came and went, often to pay their respects to Miss Katherine or the mistress, and it was hard to keep track of everyone. At times, things were a little more . . . informal than expected.” He thought for a minute. “Major Daniel led a somewhat unceremonious life, my lady, and we adjusted accordingly. Indeed, it was the master’s practice to receive late-night visitors by opening the door himself, and I’m afraid that set a certain tone.” He sounded a little aggrieved that things should be so. No doubt when Danny’s father had been alive, it had not been so.
Frances saw her nice system crumbling. There was no telling who came and went. Frances had long known Danny Colcombe—this casual life was not all that surprising and no doubt had put its stamp on the way the house was run. She imagined a steady stream of people coming in and out of the house, with Kat letting people in herself, or more likely guests themselves letting other guests come and go, with the aged Bellman unable to keep up or even keep track. It would be easy for someone to sneak away, pick the lock quickly, and grab the manuscript.
She stood, and Bellman creakily stood too. “Thank you, Bellman. You have been very helpful.”
“I am glad to be of service, my lady. And if I may be so bold, thank you, on behalf of the staff, for helping Miss Katherine in these difficult times.”
Bellman went about his duties elsewhere in the house, and Frances stayed a while longer in the room. Very well, a little setback, but not a fatal one. She closed her eyes and found herself back in her old dormitory room. It could be anyone, couldn’t it? No, it would have to be someone who knew the house and where to find the manuscript, not a casual thief. Someone who knew the family, a friend, or at least an acquaintance. Someone who had been there before . . .
Upstairs, Kat and Mallow had made great progress in the brief time. Mallow had identified three outfits that, while not actually passing a test for “mourning,” were somber enough for wearing around the house. And her ladyship’s dressmaker would be coming around tomorrow. God knows what ancient and unfashionable establishment Mrs. Colcombe patronized for herself and her daughter. Kat seemed at peace.
“Your butler was of great help, and now I just need a few more things from you.”
“Do you think you can find it?”
“I will have to do a little research.” She saw pen and paper on a small desk in the bedroom. “Kat, you and I are going to make a list of everyone who came to the funeral.”
It took about an hour, recalling names. It became a sort of game, because Frances’s sharp eyes had taken in faces, which she described to Kat, who often could put a name to them, such as brother officers, old school friends, more Bohemian types, and so on. It wasn’t absolutely complete, of course, but very good. Kat had fully cooperated but seemed rather mystified. No matter, thought Frances.
One man stood out in particular in Frances’s memory, a middle-aged man in a somewhat wrinkled suit that no decent valet would’ve let out of the house. Frances had assumed he was one of Danny’s friends from a less fashionable part of town, but although the man watched everyone keenly, besides a quick murmur of sympathy, he had seemingly spoken to no one. Kat remembered him too but had no idea who he was.
“We’ll put him down as Mr. Rumpled for now,” said Frances, and Kat giggled. They finished the list, then made an extra copy—Kat didn’t ask why and Frances didn’t explain.
“And now, Kat, we’re going to take our leave. But I’ll keep you informed.” Kat showered Frances with gratitude, and Frances realized it was as much for the companionship as for the help with the manuscript. She resolved to visit again soon and knew that Mary would be pleased to come as well.
“I am glad we can help, Kat. Your brother . . . well, Danny was special to all of us.” She paused. “He was special to me.”
Then she turned to her maid. “Come, Mallow. Time for more research.” She was full of energy. Yes, she’d need help, but she knew the right direction.
Bellman had found them a hansom cab and helped the women into it.
“Please take us to Scotland Yard,” she said to the driver.
“I beg your pardon, miss?”
“Scotland Yard, the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police Service,” she said. “Surely you know where that is?”
“Yes, of course, Miss. Straightaway.” Fancy that, this young woman, a real lady, he could tell, asking to go to Scotland Yard. Wait till he told the missus tonight . . .
As the cab started up, Lady Frances leaned back and smiled at Mallow. “We did a good morning’s work. And won’t Superintendent Maples be delighted to see me again.”
CHAPTER 2
Unaware that Lady Frances was about to descend on him, Superintendent Maples was feeling rather satisfied. A sharp-eyed constable had stopped a burglary in progress overnight, leading to the arrest of a gang of thieves that had been plaguing small shopkeepers. The assistant commissioner had gone more than twenty-four hours without sending him one of his vague, rambling memorandums. And he was drinking a very nice cup of tea and eating a fresh bun.
Sergeant Cardiff knocked and entered. “Those statistics that you wanted, sir.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.”
“Also, sir, Lady Frances Ffolkes is in the outer office. She would like a word with you, if it is convenient.”
The superintendent choked on his bun. He looked up at Cardiff—was that a smile? No, Cardiff had no sense of humor, at least none Maples could detect. But the morning had collapsed now, his tea-and-bun break in ruins.
“And her maid, sir.”
“What about her maid?”
“She’s accompanied by her maid, sir.”
“That’s a new one. Did she favor you with the reason she’s come here?”
“She told me it was to report a crime, sir.”
“Really? Does she seem upset?”
“No, sir.”
Further questioning revealed that Sergeant Cardiff had advised Lady Frances to report any alleged crime to the appropriate station. Indeed, he had promised to look up the address for her, even see her into a hansom so she could go there herself. But nothing would do except a conversation with the superintendent in person. Maples sighed. He could say he was busy, but she was patient and persistent. She’d wait. She’d come back. She’d go to the assistant commissioner, the commissioner himself—even the home secretary, the cabinet minister who oversaw all police functions.
Might as well get it over with. “Here—get rid of this damn tea and bun.” He shoved them at his sergeant. He stood up, brushed the crumbs off his uniform, and straightened his jacket and tie. “And show her in.”
In the outer office, Frances and Mallow sat on unpadded wooden chairs. Frances didn’t mind waiting; it was interesting being in a bustling office, men running around, the clacking sound of typewriting machines. They were most interesting devices; Frances considered buying one and seeing if she could engage a professional typist to teach her how to use it. Telephones would ring, and men would shout into them. A few glanced her way; she was not the typical Scotland Yard visitor.
Mallow, on the other hand, was deeply unhappy. Where she came from, no good ever came from police involvement. Respectable people never had anything to do with the police, except maybe a brief greeting to the “bobby” on the corner. She’d done and seen a lot of things with her ladyship, but to be in a police station . . . She was sure his lordship, her ladyship’s brother, would be very displeased with this.
But then again, trying to enter into Lady Frances’s enthusiasm, she did reason that this wasn’t a common police station. This was the headquarters of all the police, her ladyship had explained. And they were seeing someone very important—a superintendent, her ladyship had said, not a common bobby. He might even be a gentleman. Less a policeman, in fact, than “someone in government.” Mallow had only a vague idea of what it meant to be “in government,” except that Lord Seaforth was in government, and he was a marquess—perfectly respectable. So this might be acceptable. But she still hoped to leave as soon as possible.
The sergeant with the pleasant face came back to tell Frances that Superintendent Maples would see her now. He asked if he could get her a cup of tea, but she graciously declined. He turned to Mallow. “And you, miss? Would you like a cuppa while you wait?” Mallow was surprised and flattered that she was noticed and said yes, thank you, that would be very nice.
Maples forced a smile on his face and greeted Lady Frances as Cardiff showed her to a chair and then left, quietly closing the door behind him.
“A pleasure as always, Lady Frances.”
“My pleasure, too, Superintendent. You have been so helpful in the past, I knew I had to see you again.” She remembered the first time she had argued her way into his office: The streets around the mission where they set up their soup kitchen were so dangerous, some people were afraid to come. Couldn’t additional officers be deployed? A few weeks later, emboldened, Frances had returned. While organizing a peaceful political meeting in the park, she and her friends had been heckled and jeered. Couldn’t the superintendent read them the Riot Act? The third time she came, it was to complain that his officers were harassing beggars who had drifted too close to well-heeled areas looking for richer handouts.
“I’m not a lawyer, Superintendent, but I do not think it is actually a crime to be poor.”
And now she was back again—regarding a crime, it seemed.
“I understand you are here about a crime. I hope your ladyship has not been a victim.”
“Not at all, but thank you for your concern.” She smiled. “I am here about a family friend, Major Daniel Colcombe, who died in an accident about two months back. It seems an important manuscript of his was stolen from his house shortly after his death.”
So that’s what this was. And next, he’d be asked to help find the Duchess of Something’s lost lap dog. He vaguely recalled the Colcombe case—not something he was directly involved with, but a minor scandal nonetheless. Colcombe was a war hero, a member of Society. But it was just some clumsiness with firearms.
“It’s probably just missing,” he said. “After his family gets around to fully cleaning out his rooms, I’m sure it will turn up.”
“And that is exactly what I thought,” said Lady Frances brightly. She knew this was going to be an uphill battle, and on the way over, she had rehearsed in her mind exactly what to say to the superintendent, who could be, she had found, a little resistant to change.
She quickly launched into a description of the search they had conducted, the security situation at the house, the unlikelihood the manuscript had casually disappeared, and her theory that the thief had been someone who had shown up at the funeral. She produced a list. She was brief and to the point. “We put marks next to names of people we didn’t know very well. I wrote out two copies, one for me to hold and one for you.”
Maples looked at the list and frowned. This was not what he expected from a civilian. Lady Frances’s account was organized and coherent, and her procedure for looking for the manuscript and conclusions made a lot of sense. He reviewed the names.
“So you see, Superintendent, I believe that the manuscript was stolen and wish to pursue the theft with the correct authorities.” There. She had made a clear, concise case, and she flattered herself that Maples had been impressed.
“Have you thought about why someone would steal such a manuscript?”
“Perhaps he discussed things that other people did not want made public? But without seeing the manuscript, it’s just a guess.”
This was a more complicated problem than it had initially appeared—Lady Frances, he had to admit, had made a very good start. Fortunately, although it was a difficult problem to solve, it was also easy to get rid of. He could simply send her to the officer who was handling that case.
“Would you like to speak with the inspector who investigated the accident? He’d be the best person.”
“Yes, that would be very helpful, thank you.” Frances felt very pleased with herself. She could see that Maples, in the course of their professional relationship, was beginning to respect her. As they had discussed in their suffragist meetings, many men would learn to respect women once they saw they could act reasonably, as opposed to the way so many men falsely assumed—merely emotional creatures, slaves of their whims.
Maples rang for Sergeant Cardiff and then told him to call the relevant station and find the inspector who had handled the Colcombe accident. When he left, Maples leaned back, feeling generous and expansive. No reason not to be complimentary and build some good feeling, especially as she deserved it.
“Your account and handling of the problem was very good, Lady Frances. Clean and organized.” Then he overdid it, to his regret. “I wish all my men were so well organized.”
“Really? How kind of you to say. I had wondered if perhaps there might be a place for women in the Metropolitan Police Service.” What an exciting concept! Imagine that—women police constables. “Can I make a formal proposal to open the police force to women?”
>
Oh God. “Actually, that’s out of my hands. Only the commissioner or even the home secretary can make such a radical change.”
“Of course, Superintendent. I will write them—and will be sure to mention your support.” Frances smiled at him—and rather enjoyed the look of horror on his face. “But then again, it might be best if I approached the officials on my own.”
Sergeant Cardiff returned again, clutching a piece of paper. If Maples didn’t know better, however, he’d have said that Cardiff was showing emotion again—he looked confused.
“Sir, I have the name of the inspector in charge.”
“Just give it to Lady Frances, then. I’m sure she’s quite busy and will want to be on her way.” This conversation had gone on long enough and was getting dangerous.
“I’d like you to look first, sir,” he said. He glanced quickly at Frances, then placed the paper in front of the superintendent. There was no missing the shock on Maples’s face. He mastered it in seconds, but too late for Frances’s quick eye.
“Are you sure about this, Cardiff?”
“Yes, sir. I called again to confirm.”
He was stunned. Could this manuscript theft be really serious? Or was there something else? Yes, Lady Frances had made a good report, but could she really have stumbled on . . .
Anyway, not his problem. Cardiff’s information made that much clear. The sergeant cleared his throat. “They did say, sir, that if Lady Frances would leave her card, they would contact her.”
Frances took in every word of the exchange and the tone. She would’ve given a lot to know what was written on the paper Cardiff had passed to the superintendent. But she knew it was time to take what she had and leave. She could always come back, and she told Maples she would, if the inspector proved unable to contact her. Maples, for his part, pretended the oddness hadn’t happened, and Frances let him pretend.
“I’m sure you’ll hear shortly. A pleasure, as always, Lady Frances. Cardiff, please see them out and help them into a hansom.”