by R. J. Koreto
“I have no use for your impertinence,” said Mountjoy. “I heard about this the same way you did. What I couldn’t believe is that you dragged Lady Frances down here. Her brother is a marquess—a crown minister and a member of several prestigious clubs. Have you completely lost your senses?”
“Lady Frances is here voluntarily. We uncovered a connection between her ladyship and the victim. I wanted to discuss it with her as soon as possible.” His voice was crisp and level but in no way apologetic.
The colonel turned to Frances. “Were you able to help, Lady Frances? Or was your unfortunate trip here a waste of your time?”
“Thank you for your concern. Only the inspector knows if it was worthwhile, but I don’t think we have anything further to discuss.”
Inspector Eastley sighed. “No, Lady Frances, I think not. I was hoping for a name . . .” He glanced at the colonel. “But we will proceed without it.”
A uniformed constable approached and saluted. “We spoke to the customers at the Red Kangaroo, sir. Except for the man who found the body, no one saw or heard anything.”
“Thank you, Constable. No one in this neighborhood ever has anything to tell the police, it seems.”
“If you’re done, Inspector, I’d like to take Lady Frances home,” said the colonel. “With your permission, my lady.”
“Or I can send you back with one of my constables,” said Inspector Eastley.
Frances considered the two offers. Both were acceptable, but she wanted to talk to the colonel. She thanked Inspector Eastley but said she didn’t want to take any of the constables away from their duties and would accept the colonel’s offer. The colonel looked triumphant.
“Just one favor, Inspector,” said Frances. Eastley raised an eyebrow. “I do not know what happens with such men who die so far from home with little money and no family. I would be in your debt if you would tell whatever authorities are responsible that the Seaforths will see Mr. Barnstable gets a proper Christian burial.”
The colonel and the inspector both were temporarily rendered speechless by Frances’s observation that Barnstable was more than a police case—he had been a person.
“Thank you, Lady Frances,” said Eastley eventually. “I give you my solemn promise the body will be released to you.”
And with that, Frances let Colonel Mountjoy lead her away.
“That was a very kind gesture,” he said as he helped her into the cab. “If I may say, typical of the very best women. Men don’t think along those lines, and I mean that as a compliment.”
“I take it as such,” said Frances. She had the ride back to Miss Plimsoll’s to see what she could get out of the colonel and was determined to get off on the right foot. “I am grateful for your arrival, but I can’t imagine how you knew.”
Mountjoy stroked his mustache. “Well, I do have contacts in the Home Office,” he said. “And we’ll leave it at that.”
“What a coincidence. Lord Gareth Blaine, whom you met earlier at the theater, has a position in the Home Office.”
At that mention, Mountjoy frowned. “It would be most bold for me to tell you how to choose your friends, Lady Frances, but I think it only fair to warn you that the Heathcotes—and their circle—can be a rather dangerous lot. Involved in things that are, well, not quite nice.” He made it sound as if nothing could be worse than “not quite nice.”
“Thank you for your warning,” she said, fighting the urge to tell him to mind his own business.
“My, ah, contacts at the Home Office mentioned you were brought there because the deceased had your calling card. Is that correct?”
“Yes,” said Frances, planning her response carefully. “The man had heard my name in the soup kitchen when he was looking for a friend down on his luck. He asked if I was related to an officer he knew in South Africa, Major Charles Ffolkes. I told him he was my brother and gave him my card so he could find me again and perhaps even meet my brother before going back to Australia.”
The story seemed plausible to the colonel.
“Did he mention anything about the manuscript, Lady Frances?” He looked at her closely. “If he knew your brother, he might well have known Major Colcombe too.”
“Very likely. But it didn’t come up. I think he was homesick and was tickled to find someone he knew—or the member of a family he knew.”
“So nothing about the manuscript came up when you spoke with Barnstable? Don’t be alarmed if you didn’t tell the inspector. He can be rather—official. But with me, since I’m not official, it might be easier to talk.” He looked closely at her.
“I very much appreciate the distinction. But at your advice, I have not been seeking the manuscript actively and did not discuss it with Barnstable.”
The colonel frowned again. “I don’t want to seem forward, but this could well have to do with the manuscript, even though you didn’t discuss it with him. Please be careful. Don’t even mention it. There are people in government—but I don’t want to say too much or scare you. Again, it may eventually surface, but meanwhile, you don’t want to upset people.”
“Of course not.”
“For now, we’ll keep this among ourselves, but let’s be a little more circumspect in the future, shall we?”
“An excellent suggestion. But just one question. Can you tell me why Inspector Eastley has been so unpleasant? I’ve known so many men in government, and all of them have been polite.”
The colonel gave her a condescending look, which made her blood boil, but she had asked for it, and it was for a purpose.
“Policemen are not gentlemen. Oh, in the very senior ranks, yes, but a mere inspector—certainly not. Did you know that many hadn’t even wanted England to have a professional police force, and they have only been around for less than a century? There was a feeling that it was giving too much power to the wrong sort—men who had different allegiances from the aristocrats and military elite who had run the country for centuries—like your family, Lady Frances. They could easily become tools of grasping men, would-be despots who needed a force to bring them to power. In France, Napoleon had used a secret, national police force to stay in power—what more proof do you need?”
The neighborhoods got better until they were on familiar streets and pulling up to Miss Plimsoll’s.
“Thank you so much, Colonel, for both your rescue and your information.”
She made her way upstairs to a very relieved Mallow, who helped her change into her nightgown. She gratefully slipped into bed—but not before saying a prayer for a soldier who had died far from home.
CHAPTER 11
It had been a while since Frances had been to the shore. She had always liked what the waterfront did for her senses—the slap of water against wooden boats and the rattle of anchor chains, the smell of the salt air and the taste of fresh fish. As Frances alighted from the train, she turned her face to the sea and closed her eyes, feeling the damp breeze on her cheek.
Mallow was very skeptical, however. She liked the train trip, but the smells and sights were unfamiliar, and there was nothing like a London hansom cab in sight.
“I’ll see what I can do about some sort of transportation, my lady.” At an inn by the station, a serving girl told her that for a modest fee, a local deliveryman would take Mallow and her mistress to wherever they needed to go in the village.
“I’m sorry, my lady. It’s the best I could arrange.”
“Quite all right, Mallow. When we were young, Charles and I would grab rides from farmers and fishmongers all the time near our country estate. It’ll be fun.”
“If you say so, my lady.”
The driver was polite and welcoming and helped the ladies onto the seat beside him. Then, whipping his team, he headed to Bluefin Cottage on the Rye Road, where Mrs. Tregallis lived. They passed through the village proper, where almost every house sported nets in various states of repair and the smell of fish was so pervasive, the residents probably didn’t notice it anymore.
&nbs
p; Bluefin Cottage was small and neat. Frances thought it looked like an oversized dollhouse. It was well lined with flowers and the house itself had been painted recently, white with blue trim. The whimsical brass door knocker was shaped like a clam.
“Charming, isn’t it, Mallow?”
“Yes, my lady.” Charm was well and good, thought Mallow, but she couldn’t imagine living in a town so small that it lacked a music hall.
As they watched the door, a little boy in a sailor suit ran out and stopped, looking at the women curiously.
“Hello. My name is Lady Frances. This is Miss Mallow. What is your name?”
“Crispin. Crispin Tregallis, ma’am.”
“Good day to you, Master Tregallis. Is your mother at home?”
Frances looked up and saw the answer to her question—Dorothy Tregallis was standing in the doorway.
Danny Colcombe favored a certain type of woman, as Franny knew, because she would quietly listen to the men talk when they didn’t know she was around, laughing about the women they fancied. His type was a dark-haired woman who had a generous mouth and full figure and who viewed the world with what Franny’s mother had disparagingly called “a bold eye.”
But Dorothy didn’t fit that at all. She was a tall, spare woman with soft, brown hair. She wasn’t what men would call a pretty girl, but her face was welcoming and full of good humor. It seemed a surprise, but on second thought, the recuperating Danny hadn’t wanted a beautiful or charming woman; he had wanted a sympathetic one.
“You must be Lady Frances Ffolkes. Please come in.”
“Yes,” said the boy. And he reached up to take her hand in his and bring her inside, with Mallow following.
“Your son is quite the gentleman.” Frances looked at him to see if she could find anything of Danny in him, but no, at least not yet.
“Thank you. I can’t help but be proud of him.”
Inside, the cottage was simple, and its cleanliness was a testament to Dorothy’s profession.
“Please, both of you sit. You must be weary from your long train journey.”
“We are weary—weary of sitting. Anyway, the sea air is invigorating. I suppose that’s why you nurses are always telling us to recuperate by the sea.” Dorothy laughed as Frances began slicing bread and Mallow filled a kettle.
“There’s no need to do that—you’re my guests.”
“Oh, but we can’t just sit and watch and let you do all the work. When I was in college, I learned how to make and serve a very nice English tea for my American friends, and very impressed they were.”
Dorothy laughed again. “You are just as Danny described you. Cheerful, brisk, and kind—Danny said no one would guess you were the daughter of a marquess, and he meant that as a compliment. Now let’s all of us have some tea, and then—and then we’ll talk.”
Dorothy talked about the village over bread and jam, and young Master Crispin proudly showed his shell collection to Mallow, who wondered how clean they were.
“Mrs. Tregallis,” said Mallow, “if you would like, I will take Crispin for a walk around the harbor so you and my lady can talk in peace.”
“That would be lovely, Mallow. Thank you. Do go to the coast guard station—you can’t miss it. The district officer is an old Royal Navy hand, and when Danny came for visits—” Her voice broke for a second. “—he’d take Crispin there. The men would chat, and he’d let Danny play with his telescope.”
A quick cleanup and Mallow and Crispin were ready to go. But before they left, Frances quickly whispered in Mallow’s ear. “The coast guardsman knew Danny. See if you can draw him out.” And Mallow nodded.
The two women sat again at the table with their cups of tea. “You’re like your brother. I could see right away when you looked at me. He was so kind to me, both before and after Danny died. Most men would see me as no better than a tart. But not your brother. And I see the way you look at me—not you either. You must be a remarkable family.”
Frances was full of pride at her brother—she so wished they could talk about this together.
“We try,” she said modestly.
“I know Mr. Wheaton told you the full story at my insistence. Although you don’t judge me for what happened, do you think me a fool for not accepting his marriage offer? We could never have made each other happy, not over the years, as husband and wife.” She paused. “Danny was always seeking something. Even after the war, once he recovered, he was talking about everything from running his own theater to returning to Africa and farming to setting up a tea plantation in India. I wanted a more settled life—I am not looking for more adventures. We’d only end up with resentments. Danny was not meant to marry me. Perhaps he was not meant to marry anyone. You probably think me ridiculous, however, to turn down such a good man, so well set up.”
But Frances shook her head. “I don’t think you’re a fool. I do think you are very brave.” She thought about Gareth, and Dorothy’s eyes were so inviting. She was so full of sympathy, she could see what had attracted Danny. Dorothy would understand.
“I loved a man. And had he . . . had things been just a little different, I might’ve. But I won’t pretend that I would’ve refused a marriage proposal from a man who I now know could not have made me happy. I don’t know if I would’ve had that much courage.”
Dorothy looked at her with understanding and nodded.
“I don’t want you to think I put all the blame on Danny,” said Dorothy. “I don’t want to cast him as the evil, lecherous master and me the innocent, young girl.” She smiled wryly. “I’m a nurse. I know where babies come from.”
Frances laughed, and Dorothy joined her. “I accept your reasons for not marrying Danny, but you would’ve been very good for him. You are remarkable, Mrs. Tregallis.”
Dorothy smiled. “Thank you, but since Tregallis isn’t really my name, please just call me ‘Dorothy.’” In Society, it was a little early in their relationship to call each other by their Christian names, but with Dorothy, it seemed a genuine invitation to friendship.
“Very well. But you must call me Franny.”
Now that they knew something about each other, Dorothy felt she could come to the reason Frances was there: Although there was no more passion between them, Danny had visited frequently and seemed genuinely pleased with his son. It had been awkward at first, but they did enjoy each other’s company, and they gradually fell into the roles they had made up for themselves, friendly cousins. She looked forward to his visits . . . and when she heard he had died, under those strange circumstances, it was devastating. There was no one she could talk to about it and tell the whole story, no practical way to go up to London, nothing to tell Crispin.
“So when Mr. Wheaton told me about you, that you had made it your business to find out the truth, it seemed like a godsend. He was too careful to die by accident, and suicide was unthinkable from the Danny I knew.”
“What did he tell you about a book he was writing, war memoirs?”
“Not much more than that. I gathered from his tone there was something secret, but he didn’t discuss it much.”
“Then I have a story to tell you,” said Frances. She summarized the mystery of the manuscript, the idea that it threatened powerful figures and caught the attention of an elite Scotland Yard inspector and men like Colonel Mountjoy, a keeper of secrets. Dorothy’s eyes got wider and wider, and she almost cried when Frances told the story about Danny’s heroism.
“That explains so much,” she said.
“So you see, this is about a concealment, a conspiracy. And I will find out why and who is involved and where the manuscript is.”
“If you can—and I do think you will. As I said, it seems that you’re the remarkable one, Franny.” She leaned over the table—the sadness was gone and she seemed eager. “Now tell me how I can help.”
Dorothy provided details about Danny’s unguarded moments, when he had first become her patient. He had been moody and feverish and hadn’t slept well. The s
houlder wound wasn’t healing and gave him continual pain.
“At night, in his dreams, he’d call out for the ‘men who rode by night.’ I guess those were references to battles, to the men he commanded. From what you say, they traveled and fought at night.”
They weren’t the only ones. The Secret Service, the “Shadow Boys,” also worked at night.
“What about General Audendale, his commanding officer? Did he discuss him at all?”
“Yes, he mentioned him a couple of times, that they had visited several times after the war.” Dorothy paused to gather her thoughts. “I got the sense that Danny liked and admired him but felt sorry for him. There was a sadness when he spoke of him—but not anger.”
Frances found that interesting. “But was he angry with anyone?”
“The fools at Whitehall,” said Dorothy, referring to the warren of government offices in London. That had become a favorite expression of Danny’s, she said. He had contempt for all of them—except for Frances’s brother, Charles. And that’s why he didn’t share certain things with Charles, Frances realized yet again. He knew Charles would do what was right and didn’t want him to damage a promising political career. Charles would’ve done anything for Danny—and Danny knew it.
Frances mentioned Lord Crossley and the reference he had given her, Mr. Bramwell—but neither Crossley nor Bramwell were familiar to Dorothy. She even took out the list of funeral attendees she and Kat had drawn up—again, Dorothy recognized none of them except for a few brother officers he had mentioned.
“But I can tell you this. Danny visited us a month before he died. He was in excellent spirits and seemed hopeful. He told me he was finishing the book and eventually would see about publication.”
“Was he fearful?”
Dorothy vehemently shook her head. “Not at all. He didn’t feel threatened by anyone. He was excited. He did say his book would ‘stir the pot in Whitehall.’ That was his expression. But he wasn’t frightened. He said the War Office could be damned. He didn’t care what they did.”
Frances couldn’t think of anything else to ask, but their talk had been useful. Danny had known something about the manuscript’s importance to men of power in London—he was not naïve.