Death Among Rubies

by R. J. Koreto

  So Tommie took Gwen back to her room, and Frances placed a call.

  She felt full of energy, and there was still plenty of time left in the day. Frances knew tomorrow would be busy, and there were people to speak with today while everything was fresh in their minds.

  The first call would be to Betsy Tanner, the old servant. It was only half a mile to the village, but her feet were already hurting. She thought about the boots she had worn at the cottage with Hal. Solid footwear for men who worked. Why should only men have comfortable boots? Of course, women were meant to merely sit around and be decorative.

  But what would everyone think about her if she put them on now? What would Mallow say? She smiled to herself as she thought of the last time she wore the boots, and decided to seek out the Kestrel chauffeur for his services as she was making calls on behalf of the family.

  Betsy Tanner was spending her retirement years in a small cottage in what amounted to a tiny hamlet of grounds keeper and gamekeeper cottages. A sense of quiet hung over the place; most of the occupants had something to do, especially with the work for the master’s funeral, plus the ongoing work on the gardens.

  The chauffeur had pointed her to the correct door, and Frances knocked. A girl of about twelve opened it.

  “Hello, my name is Lady Frances Ffolkes. I’m here to see Mrs. Tanner.”

  “Oh! I’ll see if she is in,” said the girl, using the phrasing suitable for the very best London houses. This girl had been trained well, even at her young age.

  Frances waited in the entranceway, then was ushered into a small sitting room. Mrs. Tanner was ensconced in an old but comfortable chair. She had changed out of her good dress and was wearing something simple now. There was indeed a definite resemblance to the old queen, an imperiousness, but she had a welcoming expression nonetheless.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Tanner. I’m Lady Frances Ffolkes, a friend of Miss Kestrel’s, who asked me to extend her thanks to those who attended Sir Calleford’s funeral. She was very touched you took the effort to come.”

  “Well, isn’t that nice, my lady,” she said in a voice heavy with the local accent.

  “And Miss Kestrel asked me to bring you ginger snaps,” said Frances, holding up the box. Mrs. Tanner laughed.

  “She never forgets, does she!” she said. “But please, my lady, take a seat. And excuse me for not getting up—it’s something of an effort at my age.” Frances dismissed her concerns. Mrs. Tanner then called for Dolly, and the girl returned. Mrs. Tanner asked her to put the biscuits on a plate and to bring in some tea, which the girl did quickly and efficiently.

  “That girl has been well-trained,” said Frances.

  “She is my great-granddaughter. And she should be good—I trained her,” she said proudly. “Someday I expect she’ll get a position at the great house. But first, her mother thinks it would be best if she had more schooling.” Mrs. Tanner clearly thought that was a waste of time.

  “It’s not like the old days, I’m afraid,” said Frances. “There aren’t as many positions as there were in service. There are other opportunities for girls like Dolly, but they require some education.” Education for the poor, especially for girls, was a subject near and dear to Frances’s heart.

  Mrs. Tanner pursed her lips. It didn’t matter what your station in life was, Frances concluded. People didn’t like change. Especially the elderly.

  “I daresay you’re right, my lady. It’s not like it was.” She took a ginger snap. “It was kind of Miss Gwendolyn to remember these, and kind of you to fetch them, my lady. I’ve known her since she was born, and since leaving for London she writes me every month from the city, the goings-on, what’s happening in society. And she brings me a cake at Christmas.”

  How Mrs. Tanner must appreciate that. No longer in a servants’ hall, robbed of the gossip that servants loved, she no doubt looked forward eagerly to hearing the latest London scandals. That would be something to plumb—but first, Frances wanted some insights into Gwen from someone outside her family who knew her.

  “I’ve only known Gwen for a few years. Can you tell me what she was like as a girl, since you’ve known her for so long?”

  “Oh, that would be a pleasure, my lady. I can tell you she was always the sweetest girl, kind to everyone, even when people weren’t kind to her. She loved dogs and horses. And she always did what she was told, as best she could, my lady.”

  Frances watched Mrs. Tanner’s eyes lose their focus as she returned to the past.

  “When you said people weren’t kind to her—why would anyone be cruel to Gwen?”

  Mrs. Tanner looked thoughtful. “Ffolkes,” she finally said. Was her mind wandering? “Lady Frances Ffolkes—I have that right, don’t I, my lady? Your father is Marquess of Seaforth. In government, he is.”

  “Yes. He passed on some years ago. My brother holds the title now.” She watched the old lady closely. She had been wrong; her mind wasn’t wandering. She was at something, but wanted to find out something about Frances first.

  “Of course. So your grandmother—no, great-grandmother—was Lady Helena Norwich, who married Viscount Bellmawr.”

  Frances was astonished that Mrs. Tanner knew her family so well. But then, Mrs. Tanner probably had little to do these days other than revisit the past.

  “Very good, Mrs. Tanner! Age has not diminished your memory.” The old servant looked very proud of herself. “I remember her in particular, my lady. She was here for the celebrations at the end of the Crimean War, some fifty years ago. A fine and gracious lady she was, I am happy to tell you.”

  “So family lore has it,” said Frances. Mrs. Tanner nodded.

  “If I may be so bold, my lady, may I ask why you’re here? Why you’re really here? It’s kind for you to call on Miss Gwen’s behalf, my lady, but there’s something else, isn’t there?”

  Frances looked into the old woman’s eyes. There was a shrewdness there. Mrs. Tanner now looked at Frances as she would at a junior housemaid who had done a careless job dusting the drawing room knickknacks.

  “What makes you ask that, Mrs. Tanner?”

  “You’re one of the old families, Lady Frances. The Seaforths have been leaders for generations. I know I can talk to you, my lady.” Ah, there it was. Another snobbish servant. Frances was trustworthy because of her name. But there was more. “I wonder what a lady from a great family wants from an out-to-pasture servant such as myself?”

  “You’re not out-to-pasture. You may not work, but you have knowledge. You have memories. And so you’re of more use to me than a score of maids and footmen.” Frances saw she’d have to trust Mrs. Tanner. And hope that Mrs. Tanner would trust her. “I am Gwen’s friend, and so is Miss Calvin, who also came up with her from London. I don’t know who else is her friend. Her father was killed. And someone has been spreading wicked stories about Gwen. I’m trying to find out who. And why.”

  “Stories about Miss Gwen? It was ever so. I was just a housemaid in the house in 1837. I won’t forget that year, my lady, being the year Queen Victoria ascended to the throne. General Sir Robert Paddington owned an estate nearby, a frequent guest he was. Stories starting flying. I hope I don’t embarrass you, my lady, but your name isn’t unknown here, and I don’t think much upsets you. But Sir Robert’s name was whispered—stories of late evening parties . . . with young men.” She shook her head. “When it became too much, he shot himself. It was the talk of the county for months.”

  Frances leaned forward. “I don’t want Gwen to become the subject of gossip. I think you know that. I love Gwen like a sister. Stories or no stories, we will stand by her, Miss Calvin and I both. Her protection is my only concern. And I think you are the one—the only one—who can give me the stories that will help.”

  Mrs. Tanner just looked for a while, thinking. When she had reached a decision, she continued. “As I said, Miss Gwendolyn was kind, but I’m afraid she was the butt of jokes. I’m too old to bandy words, my lady, so I’ll just say that as sweet
as she was, she was never the smartest girl. It was easy for other children to fool her and tease her. Her only champion was her cousin, Mr. Christopher. Almost like brother and sister, they were. He was at his own house, but when he was around, no one dared show any disrespect to Miss Gwendolyn in his presence. A fine boy he was and fine man he became.”

  “Do you think he’d make a good husband for her?” asked Frances. She watched Mrs. Tanner closely for a reaction—but she just laughed.

  “Bless you, my lady. We all thought that a good idea and hoped for it, but that’s not to be. I think, as I said, they were raised almost like brother and sister. Nevertheless, I think Mrs. Blake had hopes, bringing the two branches of the family together, and the two estates. But still, I think she’d make some man a good wife, and hope she does soon.”

  “Do you, Mrs. Tanner?” Frances spoke emphatically, and the old woman seemed a little confused.

  “Well, yes, my lady. Not to a political family such as yours, but a solid country squire. They’ll hire a proper housekeeper. I think Mrs. Blake will want to return home now. And Miss Gwendolyn will entertain in country style. I could see that, my lady. What else is there for a young lady like Miss Gwen except for marriage?”

  “Of course. She may lack the companionship she had in London though. Perhaps her dear friend, Miss Calvin, would join her as a sort of companion?” I threw out the bait, thought Frances. Will Mrs. Tanner bite?

  “That might work very nicely, my lady. Miss Gwendolyn has written about her good friendship, and Miss Calvin, though I never met her, sounds like a young lady of sober sense. A good idea, my lady.” She fixed her eye on Frances. “But you spoke of rumors, my lady. There are always rumors. We are as God made us and you’ll get no judgment from me. What Miss Gwen does or feels is her own business. Not my place to comment on it. Still, one way or another, she’ll need a husband to run the great house, never mind feelings to the contrary.”

  So she had heard something, but she would clearly say no more, not even to Gwen’s friend. But Frances knew there was also a chance to find out more about Sir Calleford.

  “I am sorry that when she does marry, she won’t have her father to walk her down the aisle. Although I never met Sir Calleford, I’ve only heard good about him.”

  Her face lit up. “Oh yes, my lady. He was a fine man. He and his cousin, Captain Jim. Not to be disrespectful, but that’s what everyone called him, my lady. Cousins they were, but as close as brothers, as different as they were.”

  Frances got excited at this. Here was someone who had known Sir Calleford as a young man. Perhaps she had some insights, something in the family history that would explain his sudden death or the accusations about Gwen and Tommie.

  Mrs. Tanner sipped more tea and had another biscuit. Frances took note of how much she was enjoying herself. No doubt everyone here was tired of her stories and reminiscences, so a fresh audience was deeply welcome.

  “It was always the two of them, Captain Jim Blake and Calleford Kestrel, always back and forth between the great house and Captain Jim’s estate, Blake Court—now run by his son, Mr. Blake. Now Mr. Kestrel, as he was before he was knighted, was a quiet, studious man. Always polite and friendly like. But Captain Jim was very outgoing, always laughing and cheerful, ready for anything. A bit of mischief as a boy, but he was never unkind.”

  He sounds just like his son, Christopher, Frances thought.

  “As they grew up, they frequently made a party with two young ladies from neighboring manors, Miss Phoebe and Miss Bronwen, the four of them playing tennis and lawn games and having picnic lunches. We knew there would be marriages, and you may laugh to hear me say it, my lady, but as close as they were, there was much discussion about who would marry who.” She nodded at the memories, remembering garden parties of another age.

  “But they sorted themselves out. Miss Phoebe, a sensible and well-organized young lady, married Captain Jim and helped him settle down. And Miss Bronwen married Mr. Kestrel. She was gentle and romantic, and very beautiful. If I may be so bold, my lady, she found herself a little overwhelmed running the great house, but no one ever faulted the warmth of her hospitality. I know you never met her, but if you know Miss Gwendolyn, then you know her mother.”

  “Did the friendships continue after their marriages?”

  “Oh yes, my lady. They dined together every week. Sir Calleford and Captain Jim hunted and the ladies did good works together. Then one by one they were called to God. First, Captain Jim, who took a chill after a long ride one winter. And then Sir Calleford’s wife, the former Miss Bronwen, who was never very strong and never quite recovered from Miss Gwen’s birth. That’s when Miss Phoebe—that is, Mrs. Blake—came to keep house for Sir Calleford, her cousin-in-law, and it seemed to work very well.” She sighed. “And now this tragedy. Lord save us, my lady, cut down like that. May God forgive whoever struck him down at the great house.”

  And Frances offered an “amen.” She had learned quite a bit from Mrs. Tanner, but now something bothered her.

  “Mrs. Tanner. You have several times referred to Sir Calleford’s manor as the great house. Everyone here has called it Kestrel’s Eyrie.”

  “I suppose they do,” said Mrs. Tanner, letting a sour note creep into her tone. It looked like she would say nothing more, but then she sighed again, and continued. “That’s not the real name. It was a joke of Mr. Jethro Kestrel, Sir Calleford’s grandfather. This house—and I worked there back then—was Marchand Towers, and the lords of Marchand had lived here since Queen Elizabeth’s day.”

  Mrs. Blake told the story with much embellishment, but in the end, it was an old tale and a common one: a noble family running out of blood and money, until there was no one left but a young woman and her widowed mother living in the rambling, drafty house. Jethro Kestrel had been nothing more than some squire’s son, who made a fortune “doing something in the East,” said Mrs. Tanner. “He married this last daughter of Marchand, and after renaming the house for himself, restored it to its former glory. The Honorable Miss Marchand, now Mrs. Kestrel, got to stay in her home, and Mr. Kestrel got to graft himself onto an aristocratic tree. Those of us who remember the old days—and there are very few—have trouble calling it Kestrel’s Eyrie, my lady. Some of us remember the Marchands.”

  “Are you saying it was wrong for Sir Calleford’s grandfather to marry above himself?” Frances asked. There was a little humor in her question, but Mrs. Tanner just shook her head. She may like gossip, but she had served three generations of Kestrels, whatever she may think of them. “It’s not for me to say, my lady.”

  Frances didn’t respond. She had learned that if you let a silence hang, you might get more. She was right.

  “I will say, my lady, that marriage is very important. The proper choice of your companion for the journey of life can make your life.”

  Mrs. Tanner would clearly say no more, and she was looking tired. But Frances was determined to gather more information and come back with more detailed questions, now that she had Mrs. Tanner’s trust. For now, Frances just stood and said, “Mrs. Tanner, you have been too kind, first coming to pay your final respects to Sir Calleford and now giving me the benefit of your insights.”

  Mrs. Tanner thanked her for the biscuits and asked Frances to give her regards to Gwendolyn before Frances departed.

  That was a lot, Frances thought, standing in the little yard outside of the cottage. There was some knowledge Gwen was who she was, but nothing to reduce Mrs. Tanner’s affection—or change her expectation that one way or another, Gwen needed to marry. She thought about Sir Calleford and Gwen’s mother. It was hard to imagine this man she had heard so much about, the polished and erudite diplomat, as the ardent suitor of the sweet and beautiful Miss Bronwen.

  The chauffeur had said the widows’ cottages were not far, so she had sent him home and used the walk to think. She reflected on the Kestrel pedigree. She had known that the Kestrel family was not aristocratic, but hadn’t realized that Sir Callef
ord’s grandfather had managed to connect himself so neatly with the aristocracy. Was Gwen supposed to marry well—even into the aristocracy herself?

  And what of Mrs. Tanner’s comments about marriage? Were they aimed at old Jethro, who had married the last of the Marchands? At Sir Calleford, marrying the lovely but dim Miss Bronwen? At Gwen, finding an understanding husband despite any personal inclinations she had?

  Or were they aimed at me? thought Franny. Her face involuntarily reddened at the thought of this elderly servant reading her. My goodness, what a lot of information. But the pieces were floating without connection.

  She was still thinking, and hardly looking where she was going as she turned onto a pleasant country lane with a row of neatly kept houses. A sound roused her—and what she saw sent all thoughts right out of her head. It was the door closing at Mrs. Bellinger’s cottage as a visitor left: Mr. Mehmet.

  She didn’t attempt to hide, just stayed her ground on the lane and waited for Mr. Mehmet to notice her. He did—and she saw both surprise and dismay on his face, but only for a few seconds before his debonair look came back. Her eyes then darted to the windows and she saw a curtain twitch. Mrs. Bellinger was watching.

  “Lady Frances, how pleasant to meet you again.” Liar, she thought.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Mehmet. I was just planning to visit Mrs. Bellinger on behalf of Miss Kestrel to thank her for attending Sir Calleford’s funeral. But seeing you, I can thank you as well.” She kept her tone bright and cheerful.

  He bowed slightly. “The honor was mine, to show my respects to the Kestrel family.”

  “And to perhaps make some new acquaintances and renew old ones?” She raised an eyebrow. “I couldn’t help but see you in conversation with my brother, Lord Seaforth, and Inspector Benjamin Eastley, from Special Branch of the Metropolitan Police Service.”

  Mr. Mehmet’s smile was forced now. He was upset, perhaps angry, and trying to control himself.