by R. J. Koreto
“You two stay here. Smith, come with me.”
The two men stepped out of the coach into the rain, and although Frances remained inside, she leaned out of the window. The man at the top of the steps had used the door knocker, and now the door was opening. Colonel Mountjoy was standing there, and then the man pulled something out of his coat.
“Police! Drop your weapon and put up your hands,” shouted Eastley. Everything actually happened fast, but to Frances, at the time, it seemed very slow. The man turned to Eastley, then back to Mountjoy. His arm went up slowly; his hand held a gun, and then Frances heard a crack.
It was Smith. He had pulled the colonel’s gun from his belt and fired. The man tumbled down the steps, with Mountjoy staring stupidly after him. Frances thrust the box with the manuscript into Mallow’s arms and raced into the pouring rain. With Mountjoy, Eastley, and Smith, she stood over the dead body of Sergeant Tredwell.
But there was little time to ponder that. The two constables on the corner came running, and Eastley had one of them remove Frances and Mallow in the police coach immediately. This was not an East End murder; it was a crime in a fashionable and expensive neighborhood. It would get a lot of attention quickly, and the daughter of a marquess could not be found at the scene.
The coach stopped at a hansom stand a few blocks away, where Frances and Mallow caught a cab: one couldn’t pull up at a respectable residence in a police vehicle. Mallow started to give the order to go to Miss Plimsoll’s, but Frances said no, they’d be going to the Seaforth house, the safest place for the manuscript.
She felt a little numb. The nerves, excitement, and that final bit of deadly violence had overwhelmed her. But better he should die with a bullet than with a rope. He had killed Danny and Private Barnstable, but Frances couldn’t find it in her to hate him.
Leaning against the side of the hansom, she closed her eyes and listened to the rain. It felt as if her body was crashing.
“Inspector Eastley said you were quite impressive at Scotland Yard,” said Frances.
“It wasn’t that difficult, my lady. If I may be so bold, the inspector may have exaggerated in what he told you.”
“I see. Well, you will tell me the whole story someday. I had of course hoped you would fetch Inspector Eastley, the one man we could trust. What made you decide to get him and not the nearest bobby?”
“You had spoken well of him in the past, my lady. And besides, I could not fetch a mere constable. It wouldn’t be proper for the daughter of a marquess to have dealings with anyone ranked lower than an inspector.”
Frances just stared at her. There was no trace of a smile on her maid’s face. Did Mallow really believe what she had said? Or was she making a joke? She leaned back in her seat.
“One more thing, my lady,” said Mallow a little tentatively, because her ladyship seemed so tired.
“Hmm?”
“I know it’s not my place to say so—but oh, you were magnificent. You were just . . . magnificent.”
Frances worked up a smile. “Thank you. But it would’ve been for nothing if you hadn’t brought the inspector back so quickly. In a few days, we’re going shopping, and I’ll buy you as many skeins of wool as we both can carry. But right now, I do need you to tell the driver to stop.”
“But my lady, we’re not yet at the Seaforth house.”
“I know, Mallow, I know. But the magnificent Lady Frances Ffolkes is about to be sick, and better in the street than the cab.”
CHAPTER 18
“It was two crimes revolving around the same manuscript. That was the confusion. Once I sorted that out, everything fell into place,” said Frances.
It was two weeks later, and Frances’s appetite had returned. She was back in the cozy library at Hal’s house, and Hal was looking admiringly at her over the remains of their dinner. She had started to tell it to Hal in bits and pieces, the story of how she had tracked down the manuscript and revealed a murderer, until he advised her to think like a lawyer and order her thoughts.
“You sound just like one of my college professors, and you’re absolutely right. With multiple motives and unrelated culprits, it’s still hard to make sense of it. But everything goes back to Danny Colcombe’s manuscript.
“The rumors of the manuscript permeated London’s military community thanks to comments Danny had made both to other officers and to enlisted men who had served under him.” Colonel Mountjoy, she explained, wanted to use the manuscript, and the rumors surrounding it, for political ends, to blackmail for power. Even before he had his hands on the manuscript, Mountjoy visited the general to see if maybe Colcombe had shared portions of it with him.
“But I thought the general was an innocent party here?” said Hal.
“Oh, he was. But he felt very guilty that he had been forced to yield to his superiors in London and send the Empire Light Horse into a battle they couldn’t win. He knew some of the rank and file hated him for that. He saw the publication of Colcombe’s book as an act of atonement, so he supported it. Mountjoy probably told him he’d like to help the book get published, as a fellow officer.”
“And that’s when Tredwell entered the picture?” asked Hal.
“Yes. Tredwell had spent his entire life serving the general. Mountjoy’s visit, plus rumors he had heard from other soldiers he had served with, made him obsessed with the idea of quashing the manuscript and protecting the general’s reputation.
“Mountjoy hadn’t counted on Tredwell visiting Danny to see if he could stop its publication. And Danny probably kept odd hours and invited anyone in. Tredwell showed up, an argument ensued, and no one heard the gunshot in that part of the house. Tredwell staged it to look like a suicide or accident. But he was illiterate. Danny had dozens of manuscripts, and Tredwell couldn’t tell which one to take. He had to leave without it. Then the adaptable Mountjoy took advantage of the chaos following his death by paying a call, picking the lock, and stealing it, free to proceed with his blackmail plans.”
Franny continued. “But for the short term, at least, Mountjoy didn’t want any attention focused on him. He was a member of the Secret Service. He dropped a quiet word to Mr. Bramwell and the Heathcote circle that he heard I had the manuscript. It was rather clever, actually. I was known to be in the Colcombe house, and the families were friends. It wasn’t too hard to believe.”
“While Tredwell was still looking for it.”
“Yes. He hadn’t given up. He heard Barnstable was making a fuss about the manuscript, so he killed him, too. It was easy. No one would expect a retired, crippled soldier to commit two murders, no matter how upset he seemed. Enter Inspector Eastley of Special Branch, called in to solve a possible murder with political repercussions, thanks to the missing manuscript. The inspector knew that because of my place in Society, my connections, I could uncover things and ask questions the police could not. But he was watching over me.”
“I don’t know if I approve of him using you that way,” said Hal, frowning. Frances should’ve bristled at his protectiveness, but it came out rather endearing.
“But don’t you see? He trusted me; he depended on me. He had few people he could trust. Colonel Mountjoy was in the Secret Service, also under the authority of the Home Office, and was privy to certain Home Office information. Eastley didn’t know who else in the Home Office might be loyal to Mountjoy rather than to the Metropolitan Police.”
“He chose well,” said Hal gallantly. “But how on earth did you discover Mountjoy was with the Secret Service?”
“Men can be very careless around women. It can be advantageous to be thought silly and stupid.” That had been another clue. Colcombe had joked about the men who rode by night, a similar image to the Shadow Boys—a nickname Colcombe would’ve known. At some point, he told Barnstable to beware of men who worked in the dark. The Secret Service and the Boers both worked in the dark.
“And Mountjoy made another mistake. He assumed I’d trust him because he was one of us, because he belonged t
o my brother’s club. But I fancy myself a judge of character, and Eastley seemed to be an honest man, working class or not.”
“And Lord Gareth Blaine? What was his role?” He pretended to be casual, but she saw him watch her closely.
“What makes you think he was involved?”
“You know I act for his family as I do for yours. I know whom he associates with. The Heathcotes thought you had the manuscript, thanks to the colonel. Lord Gareth was assigned to make a deal with you.”
“Yes. They truly believed I had the manuscript. It was worth the effort they put into it if they thought there was a chance to obtain it.”
She tried not to show the hurt. But she still felt Hal’s eyes on her. He was an amiable man, but he hadn’t become one of the most respected solicitors in London without being able to read people.
She was lost in thought for a moment, and Hal used the break to reach for a copy of the Times from the sideboard.
“I assume you’ve seen this article? The commissioner of the Metropolitan Police has issued letters of commendation for Inspector Eastley and Constable Smith for stopping a ‘dangerous madman’ from assassinating Colonel Mountjoy. They left out your role, dear Franny.”
She suppressed a shudder. “Can you imagine if Charles had found out about my involvement with that? Or what would’ve happened to Eastley if his superiors learned he had formed a partnership with the daughter of a marquess? I’m delighted he and Smith were honored and pleased I didn’t come into it.”
“Ah, but you left out the key part. How did you get Mountjoy to give up the manuscript?”
Yes, that was the tricky part. Charles had asked her the same thing—how exactly had the manuscript come into her possession? She had been deliberately vague with him—and was now vague with Hal.
“I used my strong persuasive skills to convince him of the error of his ways,” she said.
“Franny, I’m trained in the law. Do you really think you can get a lie by me?”
“Oh, very well. If you want the truth—I seized the manuscript at gunpoint.” She looked him full in the eye, and Hal turned serious.
“Others would think that was a joke. But I actually believe you,” he said.
“You flatter me,” said Frances—and changed the subject. “The Times had one thing right—Tredwell was a dangerous madman by that point, obsessed with protecting the general’s honor and killing everyone with a connection to the manuscript. It was no coincidence he was there that day—I think he followed me hoping I’d lead him to Mountjoy, who didn’t give out his home address readily, only his club address. I think Tredwell had concluded by that point that Mountjoy had the manuscript, perhaps because I was clearly still looking for it.”
“And at some point, General Audendale realized what his old sergeant was doing, didn’t he?”
“Yes. They had been together a long time, and eventually, Audendale realized just how disturbed the man had become, trying to protect his master’s reputation without any sense of reason. Tredwell may have been very vocal in his defense—some of the Empire Light horsemen blamed Audendale, which would’ve enraged Tredwell. He probably began by suspecting Tredwell in Colcombe’s death. And with Barnstable’s death, he became certain. That’s what broke him—murders committed by a man he had trusted above all others and on his behalf.”
“Men with the highest motives. And the lowest.”
“It was honor run amok, Hal. Tredwell, who should’ve been enjoying a quiet retirement in the local pub, was out murdering for the general’s reputation, which Audendale himself didn’t even care about. Private Barnstable, who should’ve been tending to flocks of sheep in Australia, died trying to honor the wishes of an officer he served under. And Danny Colcombe died trying to restore honor to the Empire Light Horse. The whole thing was revolting.”
All of them should be alive instead of trying to settle a past, trying to bring some sort of end to a pointless war that everyone just wanted to forget. Dear Danny—it hit her in the heart—Danny, finally hopeful again for the future.
“You miss him terribly, don’t you?” asked Hal. She saw sympathy and understanding in his eyes, not the sort of amused condescension most men used for women’s outbursts.
She started to cry, but Hal was there for her, and he knew not to say anything for a while.
“I’m a fool,” she said. “A sentimental fool.” Frances dried her eyes and looked at Hal. Was that amusement in his eyes? No, just sympathy.
“What you felt, you felt deeply, and that was the source of your courage and strength. The only foolish thing would be to feel shame for those feelings.”
Hal really did always know the right thing to say.
Frances gave one last sniff. “That was kind of you. But nothing can excuse dragging my poor maid Mallow through this.”
“I daresay the girl enjoyed the adventure,” said Hal with a wry smile.
“You may be right. She has some hidden depths. The next day, I apologized and thanked her profusely. And do you know what she said? ‘That’s quite all right, my lady. Working for you has its compensations.’”
Hal laughed. “Quite a pair of adventuresses you two are! However, I don’t think your brother will be so easy to soothe.”
At that, Frances frowned. “No, he said he knew I was more involved than I was willing to admit and was going to ask around until he found the truth. Meanwhile, he told me he had showed some portions of the manuscript around Whitehall, and there has already been talk of change and modernization. He said he had Mrs. Colcombe’s permission to arrange for full publication, and Danny was going to get a posthumous Victoria Cross for heroism. That’s all good, but I was wondering what happened to those involved. I can hardly ask Charles.”
“I can help you there,” said Hal. “I’m not without contacts myself.” True enough. A Society solicitor would have as many connections as a marquess. “First, you will be glad to hear that the Conservative Party has decided to cut ties with Mr. Bramwell. You’ll be reading in the next few days that he will be ‘resigning for reasons of health’ and leaving London. He’ll never serve in office again and will live in well-deserved obscurity in the country.”
“And Colonel Mountjoy?”
Hal sighed. “I’d like to see him prosecuted for theft, but it would be a hard case to make—he could claim Colcombe gave him the manuscript, and Mrs. and Miss Colcombe would need to testify, which they’d hate to do. But it’s not all a loss. His masters in the Home Office are furious with him, and he was exiled. He was sent to New Zealand, as far away from the seats of power as possible, with some vague military attaché title. His career is also over.”
“New Zealand is very appropriate, actually. I hope the colonel thinks of me every election day—women have the vote there, and it amuses me to imagine him watching women line up at the polls.”
Hal laughed.
“One more thing,” said Frances. “I am planning to write to Dorothy. I think it’s time she introduced her son to his family.”
“Franny—” He fixed her a look.
“What?” Frances was wide-eyed innocence. “Of course I will keep her secret. But I can use my powers of persuasion to explain how delighted the Colcombe ladies would be with a grandchild and nephew. As well-bred women, they’d happily ignore the circumstances of conception.”
“You may be right,” he said, cautiously.
“I know I am.”
Hal nodded, and Frances watched him think. The subject of romance had come up.
“Franny, I know I have no right to ask. But nevertheless, I want to know if I am wasting my time. Where do we stand? In short, may I continue to court you?”
Frances put her hand on his. “Yes, Hal. You can court me, and you’re not wasting your time. You and I will continue to be friends—special friends,” said Frances. “And we shall see how our . . . friendship grows over time. But as I said before, there are things I want to do before I get married. I am not ready yet, and I hope you can accept
that.” Frances peered at him closely and watched him think of a response. She had deep feelings for Hal, but she couldn’t get married yet, couldn’t settle down to worry about hiring scullery maids and presiding over tea with the vicar.
“If I can continue to spend time with you, then I will be satisfied, dear Franny.” And smiling like a little boy, he leaned over the table and gave her a gentle kiss. He wants to know why I chose him over Lord Gareth, Franny thought. But she wasn’t going to tell him, at least not yet. It had been a somewhat awkward meeting with Gareth yesterday. She’d told him that she forgave him but that they were not well suited to each other.
She was indeed an adventuress, she thought with a certain pride, and she would be better matched with a man who complemented her rather than one who was similar to her. Gareth had seemed upset, but he would recover, rather more quickly than he realized, she thought ruefully. The point was that Hal was kind. And kindness seemed a lot more important than it had several weeks ago.
“I do so love you, Franny.” And Hal kissed her again even more warmly—just as a maid walked in carrying a silver salver. Hal instantly pulled back, and Frances watched the maid: her face was composed, but there was amusement in her eyes.
“I do beg your pardon, sir. But you have a visitor, and he says it’s most urgent.”
Hal glared and took a card from the tray. He smiled wryly. “It seems that your brother has decided to pay me a visit.”
“At this hour?” asked Frances. No one made calls this late unless it was very urgent indeed.
“I showed him into your study, sir,” said the maid. Hal muttered a thanks and told her to tell Lord Seaforth he’d be there momentarily. When she was gone, Hal passed the card to Frances, who read the brief note on the back.
“Mr. Wheaton—may we discuss my sister?” So Charles wasn’t just teasing anymore. He was concerned about Hal’s intentions. Or maybe his researches had paid off and he really wanted to find out if Hal knew she was brandishing firearms at members of His Majesty’s Secret Service. Or partnering with Special Branch.