Death on the Sapphire

by R. J. Koreto

  One person could help her with the next step, but it was going to cost something.

  Angus McDonald had been with her brother Charles through one posting or another and was now his chief clerk in the Foreign Office. He gave Frances a warm welcome.

  “Lady Frances, his lordship didn’t tell me you were visiting today, but you’re most welcome. May I get you some tea?”

  “Thank you, Mr. McDonald, but I’m just making a flying visit to my brother if he’s available. Also, if there are any openings, I’d like to apply—yet again—for the job of clerk in the Foreign Office.”

  McDonald was not a man given to humor. He actually nodded, as if he were considering it. “With your university degree, I daresay you’d do as well as any of the lads,” he said.

  A darn sight better, thought Frances.

  “But you take a seat here, Lady Frances. His lordship doesn’t have a meeting for another hour, so I’ll see if he can see you now.” And a few minutes later, she was ushered into her brother’s office, large and elegantly appointed, as befitted an undersecretary in an important department.

  “Franny, what a pleasant surprise. Nothing wrong, I hope?”

  She sat down on one of the comfortable visitors’ chairs.

  “Not at all. I was making calls and thought I’d stop to visit.”

  That was a mistake. Charles’s eyes narrowed. “What calls are you making in this neighborhood?” Among these blocks were government offices and other businesses—not fashionable residences.

  “Oh, just helping a friend organize a dinner party—looking up some people for her in the War Office.”

  “Liar. This is about your radical politics, isn’t it?” he said, referring to her women’s suffrage work. “Although I can’t figure out why you’d be calling in at the War Office. Angling for a commission in the Blues? Come to think of it, you’d look awfully fetching in one of those uniforms.”

  “Very funny, dear brother. You can take your act on the music hall stage. But we’re off subject. I heard a phrase that seemed rather odd to me, and you know how I don’t like not knowing something. When you were in the army, did you come across a unit called the Reconnaissance Battalion?”

  The smile vanished quickly, and he leaned over his desk.

  “Frances,” he spoke slowly and deliberately, as their father had done when she was up to something she shouldn’t be, “what are you up to? I can’t think of any reason for you to meet someone from that unit.”

  “Oh, it was casually mentioned in the hall in the War Office suites.” Frances was a much better liar than Major Raleigh, but Charles had known her too long and too well to be taken in. However, no point in challenging her now.

  “Very well, don’t tell me. You have a name. But don’t do . . . whatever it is you’re doing. These aren’t officers you should be mixing with.” Frances knew what her brother meant but didn’t openly say. If Frances were to associate with officers, it should be with those from certain distinguished regiments that everyone in Society knew about. “I’ll explain it to you if you promise not to follow up on . . . whatever you’re doing.”

  “Don’t talk to me as if I were still a child. I am capable of discretion and prudent behavior.”

  Charles, ever the diplomat, just smiled. “I stand rebuked. I just need to impress upon you the seriousness of this. And I will extract your promise not to use this phrase in discussion?” Frances nodded. “Very well. Do you know what the Secret Service is?”

  “I’ve heard the term. They’re spies, right?”

  “Yes. But there’s been a change in how they’re organized recently. Out of the Boer War, what had been a casually organized network of agents gathering intelligence was turned into a formal government department designed to protect the security of the realm by uncovering foreign designs against Britain and preventing other nations from doing the same within Britain. Many of the men had been recruited from the ranks of officers in the army and navy. To hide their real purpose, they were given the obscure name of Reconnaissance Battalion. Within the army, because they work in the dark, they’re called the Shadow Boys. But that’s just used quietly in certain government bureaus. It’s not for drawing room gossip. I’m trusting you, Franny. I’m giving you this information in return for which you won’t get involved in something you shouldn’t. Now does that satisfy your curiosity?”

  It did, actually, for the most part. But Frances had more questions.

  “You said they protect our security. Doesn’t that overlap with Scotland Yard’s Special Branch?”

  “In God’s name, what do you know about Special Branch?”

  “I’m taking an interest in government. It is the family profession, after all.”

  “Oh, very well. Again, for your ears only, Special Branch and the Secret Service are supposed to work together, with one supplying intelligence information and the other providing security and policing functions. In practice, there is considerable rivalry. The Secret Service has political ties because of the nature of the men who run it. Special Branch comes out of Scotland Yard, which is more civil service—men who have come up from the ranks, so to speak. And that’s enough information for you, dear sister.”

  Frances nodded, and Charles watched her. Then everything started to come together.

  “Wait—this isn’t a suffrage issue. This is about the Colcombe manuscript, isn’t it?”

  She had told Charles about reporting the loss to Superintendent Maples, but Charles had assumed Maples would indulge her and then forget all about it. Then, a month or so from now, the manuscript would turn up in a forgotten drawer somewhere. That an inspector was looking into it, someone from Special Branch no less, was beyond belief. What exactly had Danny been writing about?

  As children, Frances and Charles could read each other’s minds. And so it was no surprise when Frances leaned over, put her hand on Charles’s, and said, “Yes, that’s what it’s about. And so I need to know, what happened in South Africa?”

  She knew the basics. The Boers were farmers of Dutch descent, tough and strong, who chaffed under increasing British influence. The professional British army had fought a bitter war against something they were not used to: a citizen army where every able-bodied man could take to the field with a rifle in a strange landscape the enemy troops knew far better than their opponents from Britain.

  “South Africa was nothing like the war we were used to, lines of men in uniform across an open field. Battles were sudden and chaotic, with attacks coming out of nowhere, and nothing we had been trained for prepared us. But the British can learn quickly.” He smiled grimly.

  General Audendale, their commanding officer, had an idea for a different kind of company. As an extraordinary horseman, Danny was selected as one of the leaders for a new independent unit comprising the best English riders and hard-bitten Australians from the colonial force, men who had grown up in a land as unforgiving as the African veldt. The Empire Light Horse, they called themselves.

  Danny took to it well. They were effective, brutally so, copying their enemy’s tactics while armed with the very latest European firearms, and they gave the Boer many a surprise. The war was already winding down, with the Boers mostly in retreat, when disaster struck.

  They were ordered into a battle along the Sapphire River. Danny wanted to wait until night, but a day raid was ordered. The company was split up as night fell, and the casualties were terrific. Danny had been wounded, and after the battle of Sapphire River, the Empire Light Horse was disbanded.

  “You say you can be discreet,” said Charles, “so I’ll tell you that although Danny never spoke about it, there were rumors that the mission had been badly planned—not by Danny, but by someone above him. They took a unit that was lightly armed for fast travel and set them up for a traditional battle with a line of men. Some imbecile somewhere wanted to show that the English could still win in a traditional formation.

  “It was foolish—no, beyond that. It was criminally stupid. But there w
as no stomach for an investigation. Everyone was sick of the war by that point. The men were pensioned off, and soon it was over. Perhaps Danny was writing about that—I could see how that could ruffle a few feathers.”

  “But after all this time? The war ended several years ago. And we won—that should’ve settled everything.”

  But Charles shook his head. “There had been too much embarrassment, too many ill-planned ventures, too much confusion in learning a new kind of warfare. Even years later, the Sapphire River debacle remains a sensitive point. That whole wretched war. Know this, dear sister, and never forget: we didn’t win that war. The Boers lost, but we didn’t win.” He gave his sister a look. “I know you want to help the Colcombe family. For their sake, for Danny’s memory. But do be careful, Franny.”

  She prepared a smart response to tell him to stop being so overprotective, but then she saw real concern and bit back her remark.

  “I promise to be careful. But surely there’s no danger in speaking with some old government hands, those who were in power back then. Someone with stories to tell.”

  Charles laughed. “And they’re just going to admit to you that they were authors of a military disaster.”

  “It’s been some years. Someone may give up some information, let something slip, give up another name. As you know, I can be very persuasive.”

  “No, Franny. You’re not going to march through Whitehall making a spectacle of yourself.”

  “Oh yes I will. But Charles,” she sweetened her voice, “you know everyone, you and Father. There was someone in the government who knew. And if you give me a name, I won’t have to march all over Whitehall.”

  Charles sighed. “Oh, very well. Do you know Lord Ashton Crossley?”

  “I know the name, but nothing about him. Was he in the War Office?”

  “He had no position. But he wielded great power behind the scenes. If anyone knows, he does, and because he was unofficial, no personal embarrassment would attach to him. But I don’t even know why I tell you. He won’t see you.”

  “He will if you write me an introduction.”

  Charles laughed again. “Franny, use your head. He’s a staunch Conservative, and we’re Seaforths. An introduction from us? He’d toss it in the fire. But if anyone can get past his front door, you can. Now that’s all, Franny. Go embarrass yourself if you want, but don’t blame me.”

  Frances just gave her brother a kiss on his cheek. “Don’t worry. As the phrase goes, there’s more than one way to skin a cat.”

  Mr. McDonald knocked on the door to remind his lordship that it was time to prepare for the meeting. Charles told his sister to be good as she took her leave, and she found herself lost in thought about tight-lipped police officers, secret service agents operating in the dark, and soldiers killing and dying in the African heat.

  CHAPTER 5

  Frances made the next day fun for Mallow. That evening was the Moore dinner party, and Mallow was delighted to dress her ladyship up. Frances rarely attended formal events, so Mallow hardly ever got to help Frances get into an elaborate ball gown and choose jewelry.

  For Mallow, the day started early, choosing the right dress and thinking about her ladyship’s hair, which was enough to drive Frances to distraction.

  “It isn’t until evening, and we haven’t even had breakfast yet.” Mallow looked so disappointed, Frances took pity on her. “How about this? I have another committee meeting this morning and then—” and then a meeting with the mysterious Colonel Mountjoy, but no need to tell Mallow that. “And then I’ll be home. So go through all my clothes. Consider jewelry. And we’ll have all afternoon to choose.” And happily, Mallow agreed.

  That morning’s meeting with the Ladies’ Educational Improvement Club focused on trying to increase opportunities for education and training for poor youth in London. Frances remembered her cousin Susan had married a man “in trade,” to the family’s shock. He was a builder and had made lots of money. Perhaps he could be persuaded to lend some of his carpenters and bricklayers to teach the unfortunates? Frances reasoned he’d want to oblige his noble-born in-laws. After some discussion, of course.

  “Oh really, do you think he’d listen to you?” asked the committee chairwoman, Lady Anthea Trent.

  “Yes,” said Frances, thinking of Superintendent Maples. “In the end, people usually do.” She wrote it down in her notebook and then, with the meeting adjourned, left for the Military Club.

  The club porter gave her full deference, or as much deference as even a well-born woman would ever get at a gentleman’s club. She asked for Colonel Mountjoy. The porter said he would check if the colonel was present and then showed her into a room for visitors. It was comfortable but separate from the main rooms. Now here was something to change, thought Frances. These clubs, as much as Parliament—perhaps even more—served as seats of power. How about opening these clubs to women?

  Parliament would probably be easier. She reflected on when Charles would talk about the Crimean War, a war fought before high-powered rifles in the days of cavalry charges. But there were old officers in this club who fought in that war, and they would not change easily.

  The door opened to admit an impeccable man. His suit was beautifully cut for his large frame. He sported a neatly trimmed military-style mustache that partially covered a generous smile, and when he spoke, his voice was a warm baritone.

  “Lady Frances? I am Colonel Zachery Mountjoy. Thank you so much for coming. But first I owe you apologies for dragging you here. For propriety’s sake, I thought this would be better than your residence or mine.” The colonel knew his manners. “Your brother is also a member here, although I know his government duties spare him little time. I only know him by sight, but he enjoys a reputation here as a fine officer and a highly effective member of the government.”

  The words poured out smoothly. Frances thought to match them. “How kind of you, Colonel. Actually, although we haven’t met, your face is familiar. I recall that you attended Daniel’s funeral.” He had been noted as an “unidentified officer” because of his bearing—Kat hadn’t been able to remember his name.

  He seemed surprised, but only for a moment. “Very good, Lady Frances. You have a good eye for faces. Yes, I believe the military fraternity should turn out when a brother officer passes, especially when he was a hero like Colcombe. I paid a condolence call later as well to Mrs. Colcombe.” His name had probably gone in one of Mrs. Colcombe’s ears and out the other.

  “All that does you credit. Thank you for attending, on behalf of the Colcombes. But I admit I was a little surprised to get your note, and I look forward to hearing what you have to say.”

  “To start with, I just want to say, on behalf of so many soldiers, thank you for all the help you’ve given the Colcombe family. I’m afraid I knew Colcombe only by reputation, but I was aware of his exploits in South Africa. His family deserves well. I am glad they have friends like you. I understand you’ve been helping them with a manuscript Colcombe lost?”

  “Did you speak with the Colcombes? I didn’t know anyone else was aware I was helping them.”

  Mountjoy smiled, a little paternally, which irritated Frances.

  “It’s very hard to keep secrets in as tight a community as London. I’ve heard a certain Inspector Eastley has been searching for it.”

  “I hadn’t realized that. Would it be rude for me to ask what your interest is?”

  Mountjoy laughed. “A perfectly fair question. My interest is purely philanthropic. As an old soldier myself, I keep an open ear and open eye for any of the King’s men who have run into difficulties. There was much talk about poor Colcombe. I made a few inquiries, quietly, of course, to make sure he hadn’t left them in financial trouble and that they were being well advised.”

  Charles had done that, Frances knew. He went over family affairs in their solicitors’ offices. It was interesting that Mountjoy had looked into it as well. Purely out of goodness? He was in the Secret Service after all.


  “But about the manuscript. Frankly, I don’t know what happened to it. But Colcombe had been talking about war memoirs, and that doesn’t always please everyone. Many things didn’t go well in South Africa. I don’t need to tell you, Lady Frances, that by the end, the public was disgusted with the war, with its cost not only in money but in soldiers’ lives and the devastation it had wreaked in that country.”

  “The Seaforths have always been in public service. I remember the talk in our house.”

  The colonel nodded. “Men in the government saw careers damaged or ruined. And no one wanted to be reminded of what had happened. And perhaps, if Colcombe’s manuscript came out, it would cause more damage. No telling what was in it, and no telling whom it would upset.”

  “Are you warning me to stop looking for it, Colonel? To not cooperate with the police?”

  Mountjoy threw up his hands and laughed again. “Warning you? This is England, my lady, not some mythic land in a gothic novel. Of course not. It’s really just a matter of tactics. Personally, I don’t think it was destroyed—it’s too valuable. Someone may want to read it—and then return it or even publicize it. If you chase it, and they know you’re chasing it, it becomes more valuable. Someone may hold onto it longer, thinking he can make even greater use of it for political purposes, sale, or even blackmail. When I was a boy, my lady, my grandmother had a ginger tabby. When I chased him, he ran. But when I sat quietly, he’d come and crawl into my lap.”

  Frances nodded.

  “So that is my advice—and not my warning—Lady Frances. You called in Scotland Yard, and while in retrospect that might not have been the most strategic move, what’s done is done. There’s no point, however, in encouraging them, if you get my drift.”

  “So you’re saying that the sooner this calms down, the sooner the manuscript might make its way back?”

  Again, Mountjoy threw up his hands. “I couldn’t phrase it better myself, my lady. I am so pleased that we understand each other.” He stood to indicate the discussion was over. “I won’t keep you any longer. But if you or the Colcombes have any questions, here is my card. It has just my club address, since this is where I can usually be found, but I wrote my home address on the back, just in case you need to reach me urgently. And one more thing—if you do hear anything, just let me know, without acting first, of course, and I’ll have a discreet word around town.”