by R. J. Koreto
“Franny, I’m sorry, but I wanted to show you this.” She looked stricken—and when Frances saw she was holding a piece of paper, she knew what was in it.
“A note—it was slipped under my door sometime after I left for breakfast.”
It was cheap notepaper, and the penmanship was poor.
“Dear Miss Calvin,
You wer warned not to come here. You have an unatural friendship with Miss Kestrel and you are not wanted here. We no you are a killer. You shuld leave now.”
It was written in awkward block letters, not in script, and there was no signature.
“There are several spelling mistakes,” said Frances “This was written by someone ignorant—or someone who wants to appear ignorant. Now the man who threatened you seemed a gentleman. That’s odd. And it’s someone in this house—although I suppose a servant could’ve been bribed—I’ll have to think about that.” She looked up at her friend. “Are you frightened?”
“I am angry,” said Tommie. She was almost shaking. Anger was not an emotion one associated with Tommie.
“One thing we know for sure. Whoever is threatening you is a coward. The man in the cathedral was just an agent and this note is anonymous. A bully and coward.”
“I’m not leaving,” said Tommie.
“Of course not. We’re staying in this together.”
They slowly began walking back to the house. “I can cope with this,” said Tommie. “But can you imagine what this would do to Gwen? She’s missed it twice now.”
Frances frowned. “That’s interesting. It would terrify her, destroy her. If someone wanted to ruin your friendship, Gwen would be the best person to attack. And yet, they attack you. Someone wants Gwen left whole.”
“I see what you’re saying, but why?”
“I don’t know,” said Frances. “Not yet, anyway.”
CHAPTER 9
Mr. Pennington, the butler, announced to the staff that the police would be speaking privately with each servant. He sounded very aggrieved about this—he could not see the necessity. It was impossible that a servant had seen anything and not spoken, and inconceivable that one had been involved. “Naturally, it is Mrs. Blake’s and Miss Kestrel’s wish that you cooperate fully. Of course, that does not mean you share any gossip.”
He paused and looked around. “Those of you who work for guests of the family—I’m sure the same instructions apply to you as well.”
Lady Frances had already told Mallow they might be questioned, so Mallow was not surprised when a young, uniformed constable called for her. He was given permission to use the butler’s pantry for privacy.
Despite being prepared, Mallow was deeply affronted from the beginning—never mind that her ladyship knew senior officers in Scotland Yard, and now was so proud of having actually worked for the police as a translator. In the neighborhood where Mallow was born and raised, people didn’t want to be involved with the police. At least in London her ladyship met with high-ranking London constables, not a common village bobby. This one was tall and strong-looking—Mallow would’ve taken him for a farm worker if it weren’t for his uniform.
She sat straight up in her chair. The constable produced a pad of paper and pencil, licked the tip, and began. He surprised her by being well-spoken.
“I am Constable Arthur Dill, of the Greater Morchester Regional Constabulary. I understand you’re June Mallow, maid to Lady Frances Ffolkes, of Miss Plimsoll’s Hotel, City of Westminster, London. You arrived yesterday. Is that all correct, Miss Mallow?”
“Yes. Your particulars are all correct.”
The constable looked up, startled. She was a young maid but spoke like a duchess.
“Yes, well. I will ask you a few questions, then.” They were very simple questions: When exactly had they arrived? Had they been here before? Mallow answered them briefly.
Then came another question. “Why did you come? Does her ladyship know the family?”
“You would have to ask her ladyship,” she said. “It’s not my place to comment on her ladyship’s social circle.”
Constable Dill smiled. “Oh come, Miss Mallow. It’s hardly a secret. I can find that out elsewhere, but my guvnor will be very pleased with me if I can get it from you.”
Mallow thought. He was right—it was hardly a secret, and Lady Frances had told her to see if she could uncover any hints from the police questions. She should be cooperative.
“Very well, Constable Dill. Miss Kestrel, Miss Calvin, and Lady Frances are all friends from London. They belong to a . . . club for ladies. We all traveled down together.”
“One of the housemaids told me Miss Calvin was up half the night taking care of Miss Kestrel. It sounds, then, like Miss Calvin and Miss Kestrel are especially close friends.” It was half a statement, half a question. Mallow looked closely at him. He didn’t seem to have that arrogant look so many other constables had. He appeared to be . . . sympathetic.
Mallow mulled over his question. Her ladyship had said there were some wicked stories about Miss Kestrel and Miss Calvin. Maybe this kind constable knew something. Her ladyship would be very pleased if she could uncover something.
“My lady has said that Miss Kestrel and Miss Calvin are particularly close, like sisters.”
“‘Like sisters,’” said Constable Dill, quoting her. “Really?”
“Are you doubting me?” asked Mallow, coloring. The constable was embarrassed.
“Oh, no, not at all, Miss Mallow. It’s just that someone else said the two ladies were like sisters, and Inspector Bedlow laughed and said, ‘Oh sure. That’s not what I heard.’” The constable shook his head at the oddness of his superior. Mallow filed the information away for later.
“Just one more question, Miss Mallow, for our records. I assume your address at Miss Plimsoll’s is temporary, that you live with your mistress with a father or brother normally.”
“We do not,” said Mallow stiffly. “It is our permanent residence. It’s only for ladies from the best families and their personal servants.”
He raised an eyebrow. “That’s very unusual, isn’t it?”
“Lady Frances is very unusual. She went to university, in America.”
“Did she indeed? It sounds like you have a very interesting position. How did you get it?”
“Is it necessary for your investigations to know that?” asked Mallow. The constable smiled. A little cheekily, she thought.
“No, not really. But my mother was in service you see, in a great house, until she married my father, a local farmer. So I have an interest in, and admiration for, young women like yourself who are in service.”
Well that sounded reasonable. And respectful. “I was housemaid to her ladyship’s parents, the late marquess and marchioness. When she went on her own, Lady Frances promoted me as her lady’s maid.” She preened.
The constable closed his notebook. “It was thought I’d follow in my father’s footsteps. But I took the police exam and passed. And I took the exam to become a sergeant and passed it, too. When there’s an opening I’ll get my sergeant’s stripes.” He stood and smiled again. Mallow thought it was a very pleasant smile. “I think we have something in common, Miss Mallow, rising through the ranks as we have.”
Mallow hadn’t considered that, but the constable had a point. She hadn’t really thought of constables as, well, as people, growing their careers just as maids and footmen in great houses did.
“I suppose you’re right,” she said softly.
Constable Dill stood. “Thank you for your cooperation, Miss Mallow.”
“You’re most welcome.” She paused. “And I wish you luck on your promotion.”
Upstairs, things were not going nearly as smoothly for Lady Frances and Inspector Bedlow, the local man from Morchester she had seen outside earlier.
The inspector had expected to get just the basics from Lady Frances for the record. Nothing much else there—she hadn’t even come down to the Eyrie until the night of the murder. She wa
s the sister of that Whitehall lord who had come down from London, but no surprise in that. All the nobility were connected, even related to each other.
But Lady Frances was determined to give her opinion, he found. Bedlow blamed that secretive Special Branch man, Inspector Eastley; he had used her as a translator and that had given her airs. Eastley had even seen fit to snap at him for not noting that there were foreign nationals in the house. It never did to argue with the Scotland Yard boys, but he had wanted to tell him off. Ah well, he’d be gone tomorrow.
After giving her name and address and confirming how she knew the family, Lady Frances said, “Now, inspector, I was wondering if you had considered—”
“Thank you, Lady Frances. We’re considering several lines of inquiry.”
Frances colored. She hated to be interrupted like that, but realized she should’ve expected it from the police.
“I was only saying that there are some issues that I have been made aware of that might have bearing on the case.”
“That’s quite all right, my lady. I assure you we have everything in hand.” He smiled indulgently. Worse than being interrupted, Frances hated being patronized.
“Maybe Inspector Eastley will be interested.”
“Inspector Eastley will be going home tomorrow.” He put a little steel into his voice. “I am in charge of this case.”
“I thought the chief constable called in the Yard.”
“You were misinformed, my lady. The Yard has not been called in. Scotland Yard came down just to take charge of Sir Calleford’s papers. But thank you for your interest. Good day.” He snapped shut his notebook and left.
This was very irritating. Inspector Eastley was also difficult, but he was intelligent and at least he listened to her—some of the time, anyway. And of course, her brother was also adding to her frustration by being prickly—although she had to admit, he had given her some clues.
But then Mallow came up, smiling.
“You look like the cat who got at the cream,” said Frances. “Let’s sit—and do tell me.”
“Well, my lady, a rather kind constable questioned me—”
“A kind constable? How wondrous!”
“Well-spoken and polite, my lady, and I answered him proper.” She related their conversation and Frances listened intently, showing great interest when Mallow repeated the information about Inspector Bedlow laughing at the thought of Miss Calvin and Miss Kestrel being something other than close friends.
Frances frowned. This was another hint that others suspected there was something odd about Gwen and Tommie. First Gwen’s brief suitor, and now the inspector. Where was this coming from? There had been no nasty rumors in London; Frances would’ve heard. She shook her head, then smiled again.
“Very good, Mallow—well played. This was important. Just continue to keep your ears open and we’ll get to the bottom of this.”
“Yes, my lady,” she said, looking very proud of herself.
“I suppose we’ll have another odd and awkward dinner tonight, but we’ll be turning in early. Tomorrow is the funeral. I think it’s going to be a very long day.”
CHAPTER 10
In the morning, Tommie and Frances worked with one of the maids to get Gwen dressed. The poor girl seemed still in shock. Aside from losing her father, she was stuck playing the role of chief mourner. Gwen had never put herself forward and was horrified at having to take the lead in the elaborate performance that was a funeral for a great and wealthy man. With no reaction, she allowed herself to be dressed, and when she was done, she turned her eyes on Tommie.
“You’ll be with me, Tommie? You and Franny—all day?”
“Of course,” said Tommie. “Your family, too.”
“You’re my family,” she said.
The village church was not large, and it was stuffed to overflowing. More would be coming to the reception; the great hall at Kestrel’s Eyrie would be used for the first time in anyone’s memory.
It wasn’t usual for nonfamily members to be seated up front, but for Gwen’s sake, they made room for her friends. Frances found herself seated next to Gwen’s cousin, Christopher Blake, who leaned over and whispered. “We owe you and your friend thanks for all your help.” She smiled and nodded.
Gwen leaned against Tommie, and Frances looked around the church. Her eyes, as usual, were restless. She saw it was a typical old church with a cool and clean design, except for some fussy Victorian memorials marking the death of worthy citizens of past generations. She saw her brother Charles, but he was deep in conversation with other gentlemen. She became aware of a ripple in the back and craned her neck; two servants were helping in a large, elderly woman.
Frances’s first thought was that Queen Victoria, dead these six years, had miraculously returned. The woman was clearly ancient and dressed in clothes that had gone out of style decades ago.
“I can’t believe it,” said Christopher. “It’s Betsy Tanner. I don’t think she’s been out of her house in more than a decade.”
“Oh, it’s dear Betsy,” said Gwen, smiling and crying at once. “She made it. Christopher, see that she’s properly seated?”
But it was not necessary. With great deference, other men gave up their seats for her.
Christopher explained it to Frances. “She was a servant here for years, then married a groom and had half a dozen children, who had half a dozen each. Practically the whole staff is related to her one way or another. Pennington is her nephew or cousin or something. She is respected as part of the ‘old school’ and even gentry in these parts defer to her because of her great age and knowledge about ‘how things are done.’” He smiled. “How’s your history, Lady Frances? Local lore has it she was born on June 18, 1815.”
“Let’s see—oh, that was the Battle of Waterloo. That was her birthday? That would make her well into her nineties.”
“Yes. Her nickname is Battle-Born Betsy,” said Christopher. “It was said that a messenger from the Continent interrupted her baptism in this very church with news of the victory. But that makes no sense; we’re not between any port and London—”
“Betsy is very proud of that story,” said Gwen with unusual sharpness. “She’d be hurt if you doubted it.”
“Sorry, cousin. I forgot how close you two are. No offense intended. She honors us with her presence.” He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.
An old servant. This was someone Frances wanted to talk to. Old servants knew everything.
The funeral service began, and it was no different from the funerals of other important men. A few words from colleagues, including Charles. Frances felt family pride at how smoothly he spoke, the elegant turns of phrase. It was no wonder he was the Foreign Office’s fair-haired boy.
The funeral, and the following graveside service, seemed to go on forever, but Gwen made it through without a fuss, although she occasionally leaned on Tommie. Finally, it was back to the hall, where a large buffet feast had been laid out for the crowd of mourners. Frances and Tommie saw Gwen into a comfortable chair in the corner. She said she wasn’t hungry, but Frances said she had to eat and dispatched a maid for some cold ham, potatoes, and sweet sherry.
Frances let her eyes dart around. There were two more attendees at the dinner party whom she hadn’t met—Mrs. Sweet and Mrs. Bellinger, who rented cottages on the estate. Mrs. Sweet had been seen in a nighttime conversation with Sir Calleford, and Mrs. Bellinger with Mr. Mehmet. She expected they would appear at the hall, and like everyone else, offer their condolences to Gwen.
Meanwhile, she saw Mr. Mehmet across the room, helping himself to some sliced chicken. And then she saw Charles approach him. The two men shook hands, and engaged in serious conversation in a far corner—not angry, but serious.
Then Inspector Eastley joined them. Charles made introductions and the three spoke. She would’ve given anything to know what they were saying, but knew there was no chance any of them would share it with her.
But she was kept bus
y supporting Gwen as streams of people stopped by to say what a wonderful man her father had been. Gwen just sank further and further into her chair, responding automatically to the well-wishers, most of whom were strangers to her. Mrs. Blake spent most of her time circulating and supervising the servants but stopped by several times to see how her niece was doing and quietly thank Tommie and Frances for their help.
Eventually, Frances’s patience was rewarded as two women approached. They were in their thirties, dressed in country clothes: appropriate and respectable, with none of the style one found in London.
One stood a little in front of the other. Her hair was swept back to reveal a high forehead. She had a cool eye and set mouth.
This is a proud one, thought Frances, as Gwen made introductions. Gwen was doing that rather well when she actually knew one of the mourners, falling back on training all girls from good families received when they were very young.
“Frances, Tommie—this is Mrs. Celia Bellinger. Mrs. Bellinger—Lady Frances Ffolkes and Miss Thomasina Calvin, my dearest friends.”
“You are fortunate to have such good friends to support you in this difficult time,” she said, and Frances detected a note of irony.
“I understand you were at the dinner party?” asked Frances. The question was unnecessary and even impertinent, but she was curious about Mrs. Bellinger’s attitude.
She gave a small smile. “Yes, I have also been fortunate in my friendships here.” And again, that ironic tone. That would bear follow-up.
Mrs. Bellinger slipped away, and Mrs. Sweet stepped forward. She was a different type. Her face was warm and open, and there was a comforting look about her. Another round of introductions and then she bent down and kissed Gwen on her cheek.
“Your father was a delightful man, and he spoke often to me of you. He was proud of the woman you had become.”
Frances was sure that was a lie—that Sir Calleford had never discussed his daughter with anyone. That was becoming clear. But it was a good lie, and Gwen accepted it gratefully after hearing so many meaningless lines about what a great man her father had been. She gave Mrs. Sweet a hug and teared up.