Death on the Sapphire

by R. J. Koreto

  Hal now looked very uncomfortable. He finished his tea and looked away. “This is a hard story to tell to anyone. Especially to a lady. Especially to a lady who is my friend. You see, Franny, Daniel Colcombe came to me to help him set up some financial arrangements, take care of the complex paperwork under the required laws . . .”

  He’s spinning this out, trying to avoid getting to the point, Frances realized.

  “In short, Franny . . . in short, Nurse Dot was carrying Daniel Colcombe’s child.”

  And then Hal quickly poured himself another cup of tea to cover up his embarrassment while Frances tried to sort out her emotions. Handsome, outgoing, and flirtatious, Danny had been linked with any number of women over the years. But it had never occurred to Frances things would’ve gone that far with any of them. He must’ve been . . . broken. There was no other explanation for Danny doing something so brazen. She badly wanted to think this wasn’t really Danny, that something had unhinged his mind in South Africa . . .

  “It must be upsetting to hear something like this about a close friend,” Hal said softly, and Frances nodded.

  He continued the story. Colcombe said he had offered the young woman marriage, but she had refused. Now he wanted to make sure financial provisions were made for Dorothy and their child. Hal told him he would draw up papers, but he had to bring her as well. He returned a week later with Dorothy. She seemed to be a smart, sensible woman—but you’d have to be to have been a military nurse, Hal said. Colcombe pressed her to marry him again, in Hal’s presence, but she wouldn’t discuss it.

  “That would’ve been the easiest solution. Certainly the most common one,” said Hal.

  “And Lord knows that wouldn’t be the first time a marriage started this way,” said Frances. Hal looked up, and she was afraid she had embarrassed him by mentioning that. But he looked at her quizzically for just a moment and then relaxed. You did not talk about such things with a typical lady. But Frances, he had realized, was not a typical lady.

  “Would it shock and appall you if I said a substantial part of my practice is handling problems like that? Mostly wretched servant girls in households with persistent young lords, but a fair number of well-born women too.”

  “I am not shocked, Hal. Merely saddened.”

  “At any rate, I helped them make the necessary arrangements. Nurse Dorothy didn’t much care about herself but didn’t want the shame of illegitimacy to touch her child, so she changed her name to her mother’s maiden name, Tregallis, in order to start a new life.”

  “That’s a Cornish name. But Kat Colcombe said she knew no one from Cornwall.”

  “Good detective work,” said Hal. “Her father was from the Lake District, and that’s where she was raised, so no one would’ve known her Cornish ancestry from her accent.”

  “She had no family left in Cornwall? Or among her father’s people?”

  “She told me she had no close family left. So Colcombe bought her a cottage by the sea in the south and arranged for a regular income as well as help for the birth and support afterward. She told everyone she was the widow of an officer on a merchant ship.”

  She gave birth to a healthy boy, and Colcombe came down regularly to see his son, saying he was a cousin looking out for her. He always stayed in the inn and never visited with her after dark, so no one suspected anything odd.

  “And here’s the point. Mrs. Tregallis, as she now called herself, and Colcombe got on rather well. My understanding was that there was no romance anymore but a comfortable friendship and a mutual delight in their child. Colcombe shared many things with Mrs. Tregallis. He found her easy to talk to, probably one of the things that made her such a good nurse. And apparently, he hoped one day to be able to openly claim parentage of the child.”

  Frances wanted to cry at that, the thought that Danny could have a family and his mother a grandchild to remember him by.

  Hal was put in a terrible position when he found out Colcombe had died. Dorothy wrote to him saying she didn’t believe he had had an accident and suicide was unthinkable for him—he had been happy. She wrote that she thought he must’ve been murdered based on things he had told her, but it was just supposition. Hal had nothing to take to the police. But then he had heard about Frances’s interest and suggested to Dorothy that the two meet and that Dorothy share her suspicions based on her talks with Colcombe. Dorothy was very enthusiastic—especially as she already knew Lord Seaforth.

  “My brother knows about this? But of course Danny wouldn’t have kept it from him. I wish he had told me.”

  Hal smiled. “Of course. In fact, with Colcombe’s death, he became the trustee of the inheritance for Mrs. Tregallis and her son. But the secret was never his to tell. Indeed, Franny, it isn’t yours either.”

  She nodded. “But may I tell my brother I know?”

  “Yes. But it wouldn’t make him happy. He’d be embarrassed you knew. Annoyed at Mrs. Tregallis for dragging you into this. He might even be upset I told you, even though I had Mrs. Tregallis’s permission.”

  “Then I won’t, of course. Charles doesn’t like my involvement in the manuscript search anyway. He’s very worried about my safety.”

  “An older brother’s prerogative,” said Hal.

  “I am surprised you have suggested this. Aren’t you worried about me?” She said it teasingly, but Hal frowned.

  “Of course I’m worried. I almost didn’t tell you or communicate with Dorothy Tregallis. But you are . . . you are my friend, Franny. A woman of intelligence and good sense. It would’ve been unfair, even disloyal, of me to assume I know what is good for you better than you do yourself.”

  Hal was surprisingly good at giving very sincere compliments. “Thank you,” she said.

  “I have the particulars here for you. You can take an early morning train and leave that evening. Mrs. Tregallis said she is always available and eager to speak with you. If you wish to stay overnight, she has a spare room and is happy to put you up.”

  Frances had one more question: could she assume that Danny’s mother and sister knew nothing of this?

  “Nothing at all. Apparently, they don’t have a very suspicious nature.”

  “It didn’t excite any comment when the nurse departed? I imagine she left rather quickly.”

  “She did, but I don’t believe it caused undue commotion.” He paused. “It was clear Major Colcombe was back to perfect health.”

  Frances looked at Hal closely—was that a thin smile? Was that last comment a bit of dry lawyerly humor? She wouldn’t have thought it of Hal, but he was full of surprises . . .

  “I will wire Mrs. Tregallis and arrange to visit as soon as possible.” She reached over and put her hand on Hal’s. “I owe you many thanks for this. I will be off now, but we’ll speak soon. Meanwhile, please give my regards to Mrs. Wheaton.”

  “I will—when I next speak with her. My sister and brother-in-law have invited her for a stay, and she will be leaving in the morning. She and Edwina—my sister—have always been especially close, and both are looking forward to it.”

  “I am glad for them, but you’ll be all alone in that big house.”

  “Yes. It will seem odd dining by myself at the dining room table. Perhaps . . . might you be free to join me one evening?”

  And Frances said she would.

  She had time to go home before her next meeting but instead went directly to Mrs. Elkhorn’s house. She’d be early for the league meeting, but she wanted to request Mrs. Elkhorn’s help.

  “Frances, happy to help, of course. You can help me arrange the chairs while we talk.”

  She briefly outlined the search for the Colcombe manuscript and its background with the Boer War. It had become a bigger problem than she expected, and she needed allies, especially those with connections.

  “My brother gave me a name, but I think it was just to tease me. This man could potentially help me, but Charles said he’d never let me over his threshold. However, you know everyone, even mem
bers of the Conservative Party.”

  “Even them,” she said with a wry smile. “I’ve tried to build bridges everywhere. And if that wasn’t possible, there was at least some advantage in knowing one’s enemies. But whom do you want to meet?”

  “Lord Ashton Crossley.”

  “Oh my. Your brother did set you a challenge. He’s a man of great power, although largely retired now. He’s . . . he hasn’t been well. But we do know each other. And I will write you a letter of introduction.”

  “So you’re friends?” asked Frances.

  “Oh no. We loathe each other. But there’s a mutual respect. And he may see you, if for no other reason than he’ll be curious as to why I am recommending you. But I warn you, Frances. Even sick, he’s a very cunning man. Give him your respect but not your trust.”

  Frances nodded.

  “That’s an enormous help. Thank you so much,” she said. Ha, she thought. Charles challenged me and I beat him. Thoughts chased themselves around her mind as she helped Mrs. Elkhorn set up.

  “There’s more, isn’t there?” asked Mrs. Elkhorn. “You’re not just interested in your late friend?”

  “It may sound foolish, but I keep thinking of those men who died on the South African veldt, sacrificed for the stupidity and selfishness of the men in power.”

  “Is that all?” asked Mrs. Elkhorn. “No wonder you do so well here. Nothing seems to daunt you.”

  Frances glowed with the praise. “You’re the one who keeps telling us that this will be our century.”

  “And it will be.”

  The other women showed up, and the meeting began. Through Mrs. Elkhorn’s introduction and the committee sessions that followed, Frances felt strong and optimistic thanks to her mentor’s help and enthusiasm. Afterward, she went home and caught up on correspondences and other club and committee commitments. She wired Dorothy Tregallis, asking which day would be good to visit.

  And before she knew it, it was time to for her and Mallow to head to the Seaforth home. One generally didn’t take a maid for just a dinner visit, but Mallow enjoyed a chance to visit her old friends from her days as a housemaid.

  As Frances expected, Charles questioned her about the Colcombe manuscript over dinner, concerned that she was involving herself in something dangerous, or at least unwise. Frances had to deflect him with half-truths about mild inquiries among old civil servants to see if anyone knew anything. Charles felt that the manuscript was still in some drawer somewhere, or perhaps Danny had destroyed it before he died, and his sister Kat had just become confused.

  Over port in the drawing room after dinner, Charles moved to another topic.

  “I hope you two ladies can help me. I ran into Aubrey Laverton today. He’s member of Parliament for some district down in Suffolk and asked me if I could help get his niece involved in various activities, political teas, volunteer committees, and so forth.”

  “Of course,” said Mary. “Who is his niece?”

  “I think you know her—I saw you talking to her the other night at the Moores’. The Honorable Miss Claire Chillingford . . .”

  Both Mary and Frances giggled.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry,” said Mary. “Of course we’ll help. It’s just that Miss Chillingford, well she isn’t—we know her somewhat, and I didn’t think that she would find such activities to her taste.”

  “You mean she’s rather dim?” asked Charles ruefully. “That’s what Laverton indicated. But perhaps there is something that she could do?”

  Mary said she would certainly extend an invitation to next week’s luncheon—several other political wives would be coming, and even if Miss Chillingford could not contribute much, she’d learn something by listening. Charles thought that a splendid idea.

  Meanwhile, Frances offered a place in the London Children’s Improvement Society. “We arrange wholesome trips for poor children into the country. Healthful meals and country air. I think helping pick sites for day trips from London should be well within Miss Chillingford’s ability.”

  And Charles said if Frances could arrange that—without the sarcastic comments—he would be most grateful.

  “Why the sudden interest in improving Miss Chillingford?” asked Mary.

  Charles looked very self-satisfied. “It seems I have a piece of society gossip that even my wife has failed to pick up. It’s not official and still very secret, but according to Laverton, it seems Miss Chillingford is to be married and so will enter political circles. And this will entertain you particularly, Franny. Remember at the Moores’, you spent most of the evening with Lord Gareth Blaine? I’ve always found him too outrageous, but he seemed to amuse you.”

  Mary closed her eyes, but Frances didn’t get it right away.

  “What does Lord Gareth have to do with Miss Chillingford’s future husband?”

  “That’s whom she’s marrying—Lord Gareth. I wonder if she’ll be as sympathetic a listener as you were, Franny.”

  Frances felt herself getting dizzy and thought she’d faint. It couldn’t possibly . . . it was too ridiculous. All she knew right then was that she had to be alone. “Will you excuse me? I overindulged in the venison. Aunt Felicity always said game meats were unwholesome for young women. Just let me lie down for a few moments.”

  As Charles looked on with concern, Mary practically carried Frances to the room that was still kept as her bedroom for when she stayed over. Frances managed to make it to the bed and wait until the door was closed before bursting into tears.

  “How could he have . . . the things he said and promised and told me . . .” It seemed like some great cosmic joke that she had met the only person in London who she felt could fully appreciate her, only to have that dream yanked away by Claire Chillingford.

  “What he did was unspeakable,” said Mary. “Charles said he never quite trusted Lord Gareth, and now we know why. To do that to anyone, but especially you, dear Franny . . .”

  Every conversation, every word they had exchanged, was nothing but a temporary amusement for him, and the kisses were just base lust, Frances realized. She was disgusted with herself for not seeing through the charade.

  Charles rapped on the door.

  “I’ll be fine. Tell him it’s just a woman’s problem.” She smiled through her tears. “Men never want to hear about that.”

  Mary slipped out the door and tried to keep her voice down, but Frances could still hear them. It wouldn’t take Charles long to figure out that this wasn’t about eating too much venison.

  “It’s that Lord Gareth, isn’t it? He played with Franny’s heart. As soon as I mentioned his name—”

  “Charles, Franny may have become emotionally tangled with him. The man is charming. Don’t overreact. I’m sure Franny will recover in a day or two.”

  “Did he make promises to her? Because I will publicly horsewhip him.” Then the old argument started. “If Frances lived at home, like a young woman should, I would’ve seen this coming and headed it off. There are jokes around the club about all the ladies he’s romanced. What could anyone expect? If I had been around while this developed—”

  But Mary broke in, unusually sharply for her. “Frances has made the decision to lead her own life, with the triumphs and defeats that come with such a choice. And so far, the former far outnumber the latter. And if I know Franny, she’ll turn this defeat into a victory too. The last thing a girl wants right now is a brother saying, ‘I told you so.’ Go back downstairs and have another glass of port and a cigar.”

  And with that, Mary turned away from her astonished husband and reentered the room.

  “I’m afraid you heard all that,” she said.

  “If you can give speeches like that, you should be in Parliament,” said Frances. “Thank you.”

  “You flatter me. Would you like to spend the night here?”

  “That’s sweet of you. But I have plenty to keep me busy tomorrow. It’s another soup kitchen tomorrow night.”
r />   “Can’t someone else take your place? Give you a quiet evening?”

  At that, color came into Frances’s cheeks. She felt something else pushing away the hurt, at least for now. The Seaforths didn’t wallow in emotion, she remembered. “It will do me good. Down at the hall, everyone’s heart is broken. Perhaps I need reminding there are worse things in life than being courted by a cad.”

  At that, Mary hugged Frances. “You really are the best person I know.”

  Mallow was summoned from downstairs to help her mistress rearrange herself before leaving. Seeing the remnants of tear tracks, Mallow guessed what had happened but said nothing direct.

  “I am sorry you are unwell, my lady.”

  “It’s not really that. I had some bad news about Lord Gareth Blaine.”

  “I hope he has not come to any harm, my lady.”

  “I hope he has,” said Frances with some warmth. “He was toying with me. That’s all I have to say about that.”

  Mallow was upset for Lady Frances, but she had always thought there was something a little too cocksure about him. At any rate, there was only one thing to say.

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Charles dispatched a footman to fetch a hansom after Frances refused his offer of the family car and chauffeur to take her and Mallow home. Frances just tucked herself into a corner of the cab and said nothing. Mallow considered some advice Miss Garritty had given her about taking care of one’s lady during “emotional disturbances.” The ability to soothe a mistress in trying times was what separated the merely competent lady’s maid from the superior lady’s maid.

  Mallow cleared her throat, and Frances opened her eyes. “If I may suggest, my lady, you might feel better if we didn’t go directly home.”

  “Where do you suggest we go at this hour? Tell the driver to take us round and round London?” Lady Frances had never been impatient with her like that.

  “I have an idea, my lady.”

  Frances’s eyes got wider, but she said nothing. Her ladyship was too curious to say no. Mallow stuck her head out. “Driver, I have a new address for you.” And she rattled it off.