Death Among Rubies

by R. J. Koreto

  “Very good, my lady,” said Mallow. She gathered a few final personal items and frowned as she did what she could with the “walking clothes” before folding and packing them as well.

  “I hope you’re not too tired, my lady. You were just traveling this morning and we’re leaving again tonight.”

  “But it was a most relaxing trip, Mallow. I feel very invigorated.” She gave her maid a sly smile. “Mr. Wheaton was also a guest.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it, my lady,” said Mallow, scarcely looking up from her tasks. “I trust he is well.”

  “Quite well. It’s just that . . . I know you are concerned, and I want you to know he treats me very well.” Mallow gave Frances the barest hint of a smile.

  “I would be deeply disturbed and surprised if he did not, my lady.”

  “What do you think of him, Mallow?”

  “I’m sure it’s not my place to comment on your ladyship’s friends . . . or suitors,” said Mallow.

  “But I’m asking your opinion, Mallow, as I would for a hat or dress.”

  Mallow saw the mischief in Lady Frances’s eyes. “I could say then, my lady, that I think that Mr. Wheaton is almost good enough for you.”

  Frances laughed. “You really are a diplomat!”

  “Thank you, my lady. Now, I packed your green dress. It’s suitable formal for dinners at a great house, and sets off your hair nicely.”

  Mallow summoned two hotel maids to help her bring the bags to the lobby, then turned the bags over to a pair of porters to take them directly to the station, making sure they had the correct train.

  “Be careful with them. They belong to Lady Frances Ffolkes, the sister of the Marquess of Seaforth. I will be very displeased if these bags are lost or damaged. Very displeased.” The porters were over thirty and Mallow not quite twenty, but her tone and the seriousness of her face wiped away any thoughts they had of merely humoring her. They just touched their caps, said, “Yes, miss,” and moved along.

  “And I’ll be checking with the conductor,” she called after them. Then she went back upstairs to get Lady Frances dressed for travel.

  Within the hour they were on their way to Gwen Kestrel’s London residence. Some years before, Sir Calleford, caring little for London society, had put Gwen in the charge of an aunt of his late wife’s to sponsor her debut during the “Season”—the spring and early summer in London, where the cream of English society came together for one house party after another. A key goal was arranging marriages for the young people. In that respect, the Season had not been a success for Gwen. But she found London much more to her liking than her father’s country mansion and stayed on with her great-aunt, making only occasional visits home.

  On arrival, a maid showed Frances and Mallow into Gwen’s bedroom, where she was dithering over her packing. Although wealthy, it never occurred to her to engage a lady’s maid, and Tommie was trying, gently, to organize Gwen. Too gently, because little progress was being made.

  Frances smiled fondly at the seemingly mismatched pair. Gwen wasn’t much taller than Frances, with a pretty but rather vacant face surrounded by golden curls. Tommie, on the other hand, was taller than average, and although a more confident woman would’ve used that to her advantage, Tommie tended to stoop so as not to stand out. She came from a family of much more modest means than either Gwen or Frances. Her widowed mother was a martyr to her health, and with their few servants run ragged to meet the difficult woman’s demands, no one in the household took time to care for Tommie. She was not anyone’s idea of pretty, but as Frances observed when she looked at Gwen, there was a Madonna-like beauty in her face.

  “So glad you’re here, Franny,” said Tommie. “I’m ready, but Gwen is a little behind.”

  “Mallow, I think Miss Kestrel could use your help.”

  Yes, she could, thought Mallow. If Miss Kestrel were left to her own devices, they’d never leave.

  Mallow picked appropriate dresses out of Gwen’s closet, as Gwen looked on wide-eyed.

  “Now, let’s get you out of your current dress, miss, and into something more suitable.”

  “But I like this dress so much,” said Gwen.

  “And I will pack it for you. It’s too elaborate for train travel. You will have trouble making yourself comfortable and the wrinkles will be almost impossible to get out.” Ignoring further protests, she began undressing Gwen.

  “I already have a hat picked out,” said Gwen tentatively, looking at a magnificent confection well-accented with feathers.

  “I will pack it most carefully, miss. But it, too, is unsuitable for train travel. It is too ornate.”

  “Yes, Mallow,” said Gwen, meekly.

  “It doesn’t pay to argue with Mallow,” said Frances. “She knows these things.”

  Mallow had Gwen ready to go in a few minutes, then turned to Tommie. “Now, if you will have a seat, Miss Calvin, I’ll just touch up your hair.”

  “That’s quite all right, Mallow—”

  But Mallow was already practically pushing Tommie into a chair. The maid’s nimble fingers quickly turned Tommie’s soft brown hair into a neat and fashionable arrangement. Then Mallow replaced Tommie’s hat at an attractive angle.

  Mallow turned back to her mistress. “We are ready to go now, my lady.”

  Gwen’s great-aunt kept a coach, which took them to the train. Mallow saw the ladies settled on board, then Frances sent her to the dining car to get herself something to eat.

  “Was there a particular reason your father wanted to see you now?” Frances asked Gwen.

  “It wasn’t Father so much as Aunt Phoebe. Father writes me every week without fail, but never mentions my visiting, except maybe for Christmas. But Aunt Phoebe wrote to say at my age I should take a little more interest in the family estate.” She seemed confused by this, and Tommie laid a gentle hand on hers.

  “Your Aunt Phoebe—she’s your father’s sister?” asked Frances.

  “No, Phoebe isn’t really an aunt at all, or even a true relation, except by marriage. She was married to Father’s first cousin, Captain Jim Blake. He was great friends with my father, and after he died and mother died, Aunt Phoebe came to run things for him. Her estate was much smaller, and Christopher takes care of things there.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Oh, Christopher. He’s Aunt Phoebe’s and Captain Jim’s son. He’s delightful; everyone loves him. When we were children, he was my best friend, although a few years older. The estates aren’t far and he visited often. He was awfully kind; he let me play his games. But he also loved the Eyrie. Father always said that no one loved the Eyrie more than Christopher did. I always found it too . . . much. I liked Christopher’s house better, actually. It was . . .” she searched for a word.

  “Warmer?” suggested Frances.

  “Yes, Franny. You always know the right word.” She yawned. “Why do trains make me sleepy?”

  “I suspect it’s the rocking motion,” said Tommie. “We’ll be getting in rather late. Take a nap if you like.”

  “I think I will.”

  Tommie helped Gwen get comfortable, and by the time Mallow returned, she was peacefully sleeping.

  “I’ll keep an eye on her, my lady,” said Mallow, who produced her knitting and went to work.

  Tommie and Frances made their way to the dining car.

  “I’m not very hungry . . . perhaps just some soup,” said Tommie.

  “You are having something substantial,” said Frances. “You never eat right.” Her mother’s cook was too busy trying to get the fussy old lady to eat to prepare something for the self-effacing Tommie.

  She smiled softly. “You’re right. I’ll have the chicken cutlets and maybe even some dessert.”

  “And wine,” said Frances. “You look a little nervous.” Tommie may have been anxious about her first visit to such a great house.

  “It’s not the visit—it’s . . . Oh Franny, something so awful happened to me.” Her deep eyes looked so sa
d, Frances thought she might cry. “I don’t even know if I can talk about it.”

  But Frances pressed Tommie, and she related the story of the man in the cathedral.

  “But that’s . . . horrible. There can be no excuse for that . . . it’s appalling,” Frances said at last, watching her friend blink back tears at the memory. “Come, let’s put our heads together and figure this out. Tell me about this man.”

  With patient questioning, Frances teased the details from Tommie. It was something she had learned in college: careful exploration yielded results. The man had the clothes and manner of a gentleman and certainly looked English. Was it a London accent? At that, Tommie hesitated. She was a careful, detail-oriented woman, and even in her fear and horror she noticed small things.

  “I think so . . . but there was something odd about it, when I think now. Too exact, if it doesn’t sound strange.”

  “Perhaps like someone trying to create a London accent. Maybe to hide where he was from?” Frances frowned. That would bear thinking about. “Tommie, have you ever met Sir Calleford?”

  She grew wide-eyed at that. “You mean maybe Sir Calleford sent a man to threaten me? I can’t believe that. We met a few times when he came up to London. He was always perfectly polite, if a bit distant.”

  “He never seemed upset at your friendship or that you brought Gwen into the suffragist group?”

  Tommie shook her head. “That was the saddest thing. He didn’t seem to care what she did, as long as she didn’t embarrass the family.” In fact, Gwen was perfectly happy with the clerical work she did for the suffrage group, and never showed any wish to do any speaking or other public work. “I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but I don’t think he had much interest in his daughter at all.”

  That wasn’t a surprise. Wealthy and prominent men like Sir Calleford rarely involved themselves much with daughters, beyond seeing that they were properly married. And Frances had to admit even if he objected to Tommie’s influence on his daughter, he would’ve brought his daughter home to the Eyrie, not sent an agent to threaten Tommie.

  “You won’t say anything to Gwen, will you?” asked Tommie.

  “Of course not.” She gave her friend a slightly embarrassed look. “Gwen looked so unhappy about her summons home that I was the one who suggested she ask her father if you and I could come for a working visit. He said yes, of course.”

  “That was very forward of you,” said Tommie with a trace of censure. And then she grinned. “But I’m glad you did. I never would’ve done it, and she’s so much happier with us joining her.”

  They talked over suffrage matters, then Tommie asked the waiter for some rolls and jam for Gwen. “It’s all she’ll want. No doubt she’ll have something more substantial when we arrive.”

  In fact, Gwen had woken up and was perfectly happy with what Tommie brought her. Meanwhile, Mallow had managed to get her a cup of tea.

  “Gwen, will there be other guests at the Eyrie this week?” Frances asked.

  “Oh yes,” she said. “We have ever so much room there. Father says only Pennington, our butler, knows how many bedrooms. Father wrote me and said the Auberts were staying. They’re French. He’s an old friend of Father’s, and they’ve visited a lot. And some Americans Father met, a father and daughter. I don’t know many Americans, but he said they were nice. And there’s a big dinner party tonight, with the usual locals. Mrs. Bellinger and Mrs. Sweet, widows who rent cottages. And the doctor and his wife, who always come. And of course Christopher.”

  That was interesting, thought Frances. Sir Calleford was a well-regarded diplomat; her brother knew him well and thought a great deal of his skills. French and Americans staying over—that spoke of international discourse and negotiations. These men were no doubt representatives from Paris and Washington.

  “Oh, and one more guest. I can’t remember his name. It was funny and foreign.” Gwen pursed her lips in concentration.

  “Do you think it was Russian?” asked Frances, trying to be patient. “German, perhaps?”

  “He had an odd-sounding name. Oh, I remember now, he’s Turkish. Father said he’s a friend from London.”

  Turkish. An envoy from the Ottoman Empire? The situation in the East was volatile. Frances wondered what they were walking into. It also explained why Gwen’s aunt had apparently encouraged them to come so late in the evening. Gwen disliked large, formal dinner parties. And it would be disturbing, thought Frances ruefully, to place noted suffragists among such august diplomats. She knew she was making a name for herself as a speaker and writer in London. Sir Calleford might welcome an outspoken progressive woman to his house, but would think twice about seating her at a dinner with international implications.

  It wasn’t much longer until they arrived in Morchester, which had once been a sleepy village, but had become large and prosperous with the coming of the trains half a century before. Handsome new redbrick buildings were replacing the old wooden ones. Mallow, however, was unimpressed. Born and raised in London, she found every other town in England second-best. Who knew what services were available in a small place like this, she wondered, especially at this late hour?

  “Are we to be met by a motorcar or carriage from the house, my lady?” she asked.

  “I imagine things are run very strictly at a great estate like the Eyrie, Mallow, so I’m sure we’ll be met. But perhaps you can find some porters?”

  Mallow was excellent with porters, and a few minutes later returned with two, leading them like a colonel with his troops. Fortunately, coming up behind them was a chauffeur.

  “Mrs. Blake sent me to meet you.” He bowed briefly to Gwen. “Welcome home, Miss Kestrel. I will have your luggage brought up by wagon shortly, but you ladies may join me now in the motorcar.”

  Frances loved motorcars and was thrilled when her brother traded in the family coach for one of these new technological marvels. Mallow, however, as much as she liked train travel, distrusted motorcars. Gentlemen and ladies should be traveling by coach with a team of strong grey horses.

  Frances gave the Kestrel car an admiring look. She had heard about this—the remarkable new car from Rolls-Royce.

  “This is the Silver Ghost, isn’t it?” asked Frances.

  “Ah . . . Yes, my lady,” said the astonished chauffeur. He had driven many ladies, but none had any interest in motorcars.

  “My understanding is that it has a six-cylinder, 7036 cc engine. Is that correct? I’ve been told that it’s almost silent, hence the name ‘ghost.’”

  Frances relished the look on the chauffeur’s face, and Mallow took pleasure in watching her ladyship amaze him. Lady Frances was special.

  The chauffeur roused himself from his stupor, helped the women into the car, and started it up. Frances was pleased to discover it was indeed a quiet engine, as they drove out of town to the Kestrel estates.

  The car’s headlights lit up an elaborate iron gate that had been forged more than a century ago, and opened onto a long tree-lined drive, the entranceway to Kestrel’s Eyrie. At the first sight of the house, brightly lit, Frances and Tommie forgot their patrician upbringing, and Mallow forgot her servant’s training, and cried out. The house seemed to rise from the road in all its Tudor splendor—welcoming, but still ancient and strong in a way the later Georgian manors could never match.

  “It is something, isn’t it?” said Gwen. “Everyone is stunned the first time they see the Eyrie.” But her tone was more sad than proud.

  Mallow continued to be dumbstruck by the house, but Frances cast a practiced eye on the grounds. Even by nothing more than the lights from the car and manor house, she could tell the lawn was well-tended, and properly pruned trees dotted the parkland. Signs that someone was overseeing the estate with a sharp eye.

  The motorcar had barely stopped when two footmen emerged from the front door to greet them. Following at a more sedate pace was a tall woman dressed for a formal party. She looked to be in her fifties, and Frances saw a little gray
among the auburn of her hair. A welcoming smile softened her strong cheekbones and chin.

  Gwen was out of the car first, and greeted her aunt with a hug. “So good to see you again, dear. It’s been too long. And your friends are welcome, too.”

  “Aunt Phoebe, these are my very great friends from my suffrage club. This is Miss Thomasina Calvin. She and I work together on so many projects and she’s my dearest companion. And this is Lady Frances Ffolkes, who is absolutely the cleverest girl you ever met. This is Mrs. Phoebe Blake, my aunt.”

  “I know you have other guests. We hope we’re not imposing,” said Frances.

  “Nonsense. I’m glad you could be here to offer companionship for Gwen. And as you can see, there is no lack of room in this house.”

  Mrs. Blake led them through the spacious Elizabethan hall, with its exposed beams and high windows designed to provide light to the vast space. Frances guessed that even on a clear day, the corners of the expansive room remained lost in shadow.

  Then up the stairs and onto a long corridor. “All three of you will be here. You in this room, Lady Frances, and my maid will be along to show your maid her room in the servants’ quarters. Gwen, your usual room is available, and you, Miss Calvin, will have an adjoining room. Now, I have things to see to, but if you want, you may gather later in the solar. I’ll have some refreshments sent there.”

  “A solar? You really have a solar here?” asked Frances. It was a gathering room in homes built centuries before. The term had long gone out of fashion.

  “It seems silly, I know,” said Mrs. Blake. “But an old house has old terms. We have a large drawing room, and the hall, which we rarely use, but we still like the old solar for family events.”

  “It could take days to get used to a house like this,” said Frances.

  “It takes years, I assure you. A lifetime,” said Mrs. Blake. “Again, welcome. Now Gwen, Miss Calvin, I’ll see you to your rooms.” She floated out.

  Frances found that her room was a large space for a guest room, with a view of the back lawn and the farmlands beyond. Again, Frances noted it had been immaculately cleaned and well-appointed. Footmen followed shortly with their luggage.