by R. J. Koreto
“Did he really?” she asked. “Did he really talk about me?”
And Frances saw Tommie was crying too, to see Gwen so pitifully grateful for a hint that her father cared for her.
Eventually, the crowd thinned out and the servants began clearing.
“Do you think I could lie down now?” said Gwen. “Aunt Phoebe said the solicitor needs to see us later, but an hour or two would be awfully nice.”
“Of course,” said Tommie.
Frances suggested Tommie see Gwen upstairs—she had some people to speak with and set off briskly out of the hall.
Indeed, she was in time to catch Charles standing by his motorcar, again talking to Inspector Eastley. Except for her brother’s valet standing a few paces away, they were alone.
“Gentlemen,” she said. “I am so glad to catch both of you together.”
“Inspector, I know that you have been . . . involved with my dear sister in the past. Has she been pestering you again?” Charles asked with a wry smile.
“Not at all, my lord. She has been of great use. And may I say, she has an organized and disciplined mind. If she were a man, my lord, I’d be happy to welcome her into Special Branch—and I don’t say that in jest, but in all seriousness.”
“Thank you, inspector. Maybe you’ll be a good influence on my brother. I know you would find me an excellent addition to your department. But to the subject at hand, I answered some questions from Inspector Bedlow, and he indicated that you would not be continuing your investigation here. Is that true?”
The inspector glanced quickly at Charles, then spoke. “Yes it is, Lady Frances. Scotland Yard only comes in at the request of the local chief constable. That hasn’t happened—not yet anyway. And even then, it would not be my unit.” Special Branch involved itself in matters concerning the safety of the realm, not a mere murder.
“My understanding was that you came to take charge of certain papers. But I doubt someone of your rank was needed to do that. And you were questioning witnesses, as I well know. May I ask why you really did come?” she asked.
“You may not,” said the inspector.
“I don’t mind,” said Charles. “Franny, Special Branch is here at my request because of Sir Calleford’s work, which is highly classified. Only highly ranked personnel could handle them. The questions for the witnesses were routine for Whitehall records. That’s all you need to know.”
“Indeed,” said Frances with a skeptical look. Why were they making such a secret fuss about everything? There was something more to this.
Charles sighed. “Franny, help Gwen get settled and then come home. You’ve been running around a lot, and Mary misses you. Now, I’m due back in London, and I believe Inspector Eastley is as well.”
But Frances was not giving up yet. “Will you at least tell me, perhaps in a general way, what you were discussing with Mr. Mehmet? He was a guest here, and it would help Gwen if she understood the relationship.”
Inspector Eastley just grinned and shook his head, but Charles became stormy.
“Franny, that’s one of your more transparent attempts to insert yourself into a situation where you don’t belong. I told you before—stay away from Mr. Mehmet.”
“Besides, my lady, I was talking with Inspector Bedlow, and it seems very clear this was simply some outside intruder, likely trying to commit robbery. He knows the local lay of the land, so to speak, and will no doubt track down the murderer. It’s nothing very complicated, just a lot of leg work, that’s all.”
Frances looked doubtful again.
“Both of you have a good trip back to London. Tell Mary we’ll speak soon.” And with that, she turned sharply and headed back to the house. She didn’t believe that robbery story for a minute, and there was indeed something important about Mr. Mehmet.
Back inside, Frances was going to see how Gwen was faring, but ran into Mme. Aubert, who greeted her warmly. It made sense: she spoke almost no English and her husband was probably busy speaking with others in the diplomatic community who remained.
“Lady Frances, we are leaving on a train later today for London, and will then be heading back to France in a few days. I wanted to see you again and tell you how I enjoyed meeting you, even in such terrible circumstances. When you next visit Paris, please come stay with us.”
“Thank you—I’d like to see Paris again. For now, do you have a few moments to talk?”
“The pleasure is mine.”
They found a seat outside.
“Gwen Kestrel is a good friend of mine, and is feeling rather desolate after her father’s death. Like many busy and important men, he was not very close to his daughter. I was hoping to uncover whether he spoke to you about her—something I can pass on to her.”
Mme. Aubert thought about this for a while—so long, Frances thought she might not answer at all.
“I have three brothers. My father was also in government and had extensive business interests as well. I hardly knew him. When I came of age, men were paraded past me, and when one I formed a bond with asked my father for permission to marry me, I did. Fathers and daughters, Lady Frances. I did what I was supposed to do, and that was the extent of my father’s interest.” She spoke lightly, without bitterness. “I didn’t meet Sir Calleford until after his wife had died. His daughter was in the hands of a nanny and then a governess. I wouldn’t have even known about her if my husband hadn’t told me of her existence.”
Frances nodded. “And in later years, he never spoke of Gwen?”
“No. I only met her briefly, once or twice.”
“What about Mrs. Blake? Was she interested in her niece?”
“I don’t think so. She didn’t talk about her much either. She was very . . . solicitous of her son, Christopher. I think Miss Kestrel spent so much time in London, she wasn’t well known up here. I am glad she has good friends in London—she wasn’t close to her family, I imagine.”
“But was there any indication that he wanted Gwen to leave London and return to the Eyrie?” Had he found out about the rumors and wanted to separate Gwen and Tommie?
Mme. Aubert shrugged. “I saw no sign of that, and had my husband known, he would’ve told me. Sir Calleford mentioned in passing that Gwen was happy in London, and that was fine with him. I think he would’ve found her . . . oh, what is that English expression . . . ‘under his feet.’ I wondered if he thought she’d have a better chance of finding a suitable husband in London, under the supervision of her London relations.”
They sat in silence for a while, lost in thought. Then Mme. Aubert smiled, and said, “But you, Lady Frances. You are in no rush to get married?”
“I am unconventional. That’s how my father put the best face on it.”
“Your brother spoke earlier today with my husband. I got a sense he is worried about you.”
Frances laughed. “He is like my father.”
“Men. Busy and important men,” said Mme. Aubert. “They just want us to be safe—and married. You choose not to marry, not because you have no suitors, but because you value your independence too much.”
Frances tried to control her reaction, to keep Mme. Aubert from seeing just how close to the truth she was.
“But, Lady Frances, despite the annoyance you no doubt feel about your brother fussing over you, at least you have the satisfaction of knowing that although your brother’s French is as good as yours, your accent is better.”
And Frances laughed again. “Thank you, Madame. And may I ask, do you have children?”
“Three sons. They are wonderful boys.” She smiled wryly. “And my husband is very interested in them. And now, I should find my husband. Again, Lady Frances, it has been a pleasure.”
With Mme. Aubert’s comments flowing through her mind, Frances sought out Gwen to see how she was doing. She came across Tommie quietly leaving Gwen’s bedroom and putting her finger to her lips.
“I just got her down. She was making an awful fuss, but eventually fell off—let’s find s
omewhere to talk.”
They headed toward the solar, which was empty, and she continued after they sat down. “The funeral took a lot out of her. And now she’s saying she doesn’t want to see the solicitor for the reading of the will, that she can’t face it.”
“Then we will face it with her,” said Frances.
“But that’s quite against the rules. Only those who are named in the will can be present for the reading.”
“Oh, but as the saying goes, ‘There’s more than one way to skin a cat.’” Frances struck a histrionic pose. “Dear Mr. Solicitor, my great friend Gwendolyn, with no father, brother, or husband to support her, begs your indulgence and hopes you will stretch the rule to let her two good friends sit with her at this solemn legal reading.”
Tommie laughed. “You’re terrible,” she said. “And yet, I’m sure it will work.”
And so it did. When Gwen awoke, Frances was there to instantly soothe her and promise that she and Tommie would accompany her in her meeting.
“Really?” she asked.
“Absolutely. Just follow my lead.” And arm in arm, the three women headed to the drawing room, where servants were arranging the chairs. The solicitor was already there, arranging papers on a table. Frances delivered her lines perfectly, and was aware that Tommie was struggling not to laugh again.
Not that the solicitor, who introduced himself as Neville Small, seemed to notice. He was old and old-fashioned, in a well-made but out-of-date suit. He was no proof against ladies appealing to his sense of strength and chivalry.
“Well, my ladies, it’s not quite proper—” he smiled indulgently. “But in this case, I think it will be quite all right if your friends accompany you. But please, no talking,” he said, speaking to them as if they were children. In London, political men and men of business knew the value of sophisticated women, even if they weren’t open about admitting it. But in the country, it was different. No one would be less likely to work with young women than a rural solicitor. Indeed, Frances wanted to strike him. But this was not the time or place to make a stand for women’s rights.
They took three seats up front, and gradually others who had been summoned showed up: Mrs. Blake and her son Christopher—who asked Gwen how she was doing—and some senior and long-term servants. Everyone quietly took their seats.
Mr. Small cleared his throat.
“Thank you all for coming. Sir Calleford left a fairly simple will, so this shouldn’t take very long.” He started by announcing some legacies for the servants, which Frances thought were very generous. The butler and cook, among others, could retire on their legacies, and seemed suitably grateful.
“If there are no questions,” said Mr. Small, “the staff may leave, so I can continue just with the family.” And a moment later, the room was almost empty.
“Very well,” said Mr. Small. “The rest is also very simple.” He read directly from the will: “To my cousin-by-marriage and dear friend, Phoebe Blake, I leave one thousand pounds in gratitude for years of selfless help, as well as the Gainsborough portrait of my ancestor, Lady Caroline Marchand, which she has always admired.” The financial gift was also generous, Frances knew, and a Gainsborough was extremely valuable.
At that, the cool Mrs. Blake broke down and cried into her hands. Christopher gently soothed his mother, while Mr. Small diplomatically paused.
“To my nephew, Christopher Blake, in grateful recognition of his excellent job in running the farmlands, I also leave one thousand pounds, plus the remaining bottles of my best port, which he has always enjoyed with me.”
Christopher smiled, and just shook his head. “Good show, uncle. I’ll drink to your memory every time I have some.”
“The rest of the estate is left to you, Miss Kestrel. That is, this house, all the lands, and the invested monies.” He explained patiently. “It is in trust. It’s yours, but I am a trustee. That means I will supervise everything on your behalf, until you get married. I manage the estate and pay you an allowance for your personal needs, as your father did. You have nothing to worry about,” he added with a paternal smile.
Gwen just nodded. Frances doubted she understood what was going on. But one thing Frances had had her fill of was Mr. Small’s patronizing tone. And knowing that she shouldn’t, Frances spoke anyway.
“I think Miss Kestrel would benefit from knowing the size of the estate and its financial position,” said Frances.
Mr. Small glared at her. Indeed, everyone took notice: Gwen’s eyes grew wide, and Tommie gave a small smile. Mrs. Blake raised an eyebrow and Christopher Blake openly grinned.
“Thank you, Lady Frances, for explaining how my job should be done.” His voice was full of sarcasm, which she ignored. He picked up his pen, and there was silence in the room except for the scratching.
“This, Miss Kestrel, is the current valuation of the house and grounds, and your father’s investments, minus the recent legacies. The next line is the income, and the final line the expenses. It should be clear the estate is in a sound financial position.” Gwen took the paper and murmured a thanks.
However, Frances wasn’t finished. “And I know Miss Kestrel would appreciate knowing when she can review the books.”
This time, there were gasps all around.
“Excuse me?” asked Mr. Small. “You are here as a favor. You shouldn’t even be speaking.”
“It’s just as well I am here, Mr. Small. I know something of the law, and I know Miss Kestrel’s rights.” Rights that would be easily granted if Gwen had a brother or husband.
She felt her heart beating. Everyone’s eyes were on her, and Mr. Small looked at her with pure contempt.
“You know something of law and finance, do you?”
“I am treasurer of the Ladies Christian Relief Guild in London, the largest ladies’ charitable agency in England. I work closely with both solicitors and chartered accountants, and my books balance to the penny. I would be happy to assist Miss Kestrel in reviewing the estate accounts under your care.”
Mr. Small wants to yell at me, she realized. The only thing stopping from him losing his temper was the thought of how foolish he’d look.
“Lady Frances, I can only assume that the recent tragedy has unhinged you, or you would not be behaving like this.” He gathered his papers with more violence than was warranted. “If there are further questions, I can always be reached in my office. Miss Kestrel, again, my deepest condolences.” And with that, he walked quickly out of the room.
CHAPTER 11
Frances looked around again. Gwen and Tommie were simply astonished. Mr. Blake was still grinning. And Mrs. Blake was unreadable. In truth, Frances wasn’t embarrassed. She was proud of what she had done, making a stand for women’s rights. Why shouldn’t Gwen have the same access to her estate’s books as a male heir would?
Still, it wouldn’t hurt to observe some proprieties.
“I apologize for any upset I caused in your house,” she said to Mrs. Blake.
A thin smile. “Not at all, Lady Frances. As you said, you just asked for Gwen’s rights.” She then turned to Gwen. “My dear, I will be happy to work with Mr. Small on your behalf in the future so you won’t have to. I worked with him alongside your father. If you will excuse me now, I will see how Cook’s preparations for dinner are proceeding.” She stood up and left as well.
Christopher stood and bowed to Frances. “For putting that pompous bore in his place, you’ve earned my deepest respect. I said I’d drink to my uncle’s memory with his best port. I will drink to your health as well.”
“I am glad you approve, Mr. Blake,” she said.
“I do. Dear Cousin Gwen, you have chosen your friends well. I do not joke when I say that if this is how suffragists behave, you have my full support. And now, I just want to look in on the Hardimans. A bit out of their element I’m afraid. I’ll see you at dinner.” And chuckling, he left the women alone.
“Well,” said Tommie. “Is it any wonder Mrs. Elkhorn and the rest of
the suffrage group admire you so much?”
Frances turned a little pink and waved away the compliment. She turned to Gwen, who was still looking a little shocked.
“I’m sorry if I embarrassed you, dear Gwen. The last thing you need is more disturbance today.” Gwen responded by hugging her.
“I didn’t understand what Mr. Small said or what you said either, but I am fortunate to have such fine friends. And that Aunt Phoebe said she would help. Would you like to see what Mr. Small gave me?” Frances took a look. If Mr. Small’s figures were accurate, the estate was indeed in a good position. It cost a fortune to run the house and grounds, but the investments were extensive.
“You have staunch allies, I promise,” said Frances. “Now, we have to decide what to do next.” She didn’t want to speak in front of Gwen, but she knew why those account books needed opening—and glancing at Tommie, she knew that her friend also knew why. Sir Calleford had been murdered, and money could be part of it.
“You mean, meet with Mr. Small again?” asked Gwen. “Or have Aunt Phoebe do it?”
“Oh no. He’s not going to be of any help at all. And we don’t want to put your aunt in the awkward position of questioning a man who has served the family for years. We have to make what is called in military circles a ‘strategic retreat.’ And then we call up reinforcements. May I use your telephone, Gwen? I need to reach London.”
“Of course. There’s no need even to ask.”
“Excellent. The only way to battle a solicitor is with a better one. And I know the best. For now, I think it would be a kindness to thank some of the locals who came today. Can I do that for you, as you’re so overwhelmed? On behalf of the family? I particularly would like to visit Betsy Tanner, as she made so much effort.”
“That would be lovely Franny, thank you. Use the car, if you want. Also, Mrs. Tanner has a bit of a sweet tooth, and loves the ginger snaps the village baker makes. If you could bring her a box on my behalf?” And Frances said she would.