Death Among Rubies

by R. J. Koreto

  “You are truly remarkable, my lady. Most English girls, indeed, most Turkish girls as well, would spend the time at a funeral offering sympathy to friends and family. But you found time to see so much.”

  She was dying to ask Mr. Mehmet what they had discussed, but knew it would be an outrageous breach of etiquette to ask. She would have to find a way to do so obliquely.

  “I suppose the three of you share an interest in politics. I don’t know about Turkish girls, but English girls, at least this English girl, enjoy political discussions.” She gave Mr. Mehmet what she hoped was a sweet smile. “I tell you this so you won’t have to hesitate to invite me to join any such discussions in the mistaken belief I would be bored.”

  He laughed. “Again, you are most remarkable. A remarkable lady from a remarkable family. Very well, Lady Frances, I will take you at your word that you have a great interest in the family profession of government and diplomacy. Perhaps, at some future time when the situation is more settled, you and I can have a discussion about politics over tea. Good day, my lady.”

  And with that, he tipped his hat and left.

  He’s a smooth one, she thought. But for now, it was off to see Mrs. Bellinger. She knocked on the cottage door and the lady opened it very quickly.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Bellinger. Lady Frances Ffolkes. We met very briefly at the funeral today, and I wanted to extend the family’s thanks for your attendance. May I come in?”

  She saw emotions chase themselves over Mrs. Bellinger’s face, as the woman was trying to think of a reason to refuse admission.

  “Of course,” she finally said. And stepped aside to admit her.

  The cottage was small, but well-kept and cozy. The furniture was plain and old-fashioned, although in good condition. The windows were clean and would’ve let in plenty of light, Frances thought, if the curtains had been open. Odd to see them closed, in the middle of a sunny day.

  Mrs. Bellinger motioned for Frances to take a seat, and took one herself, sitting on the edge of a chair. Unlike with Mrs. Tanner, there wasn’t going to be even a pretense that this was a mere social call.

  “I know Miss Kestrel appreciated your coming. The number of people who came showed her how much her father was loved and admired.”

  “As you see, Lady Frances, I live in a cottage on the estate. It took no great effort to attend.” She said nothing more, and didn’t offer to serve tea.

  “It must be nice, living on such a fine estate,” offered Frances. “The quiet and beauty of the country, but in close proximity to others.” She smiled. Frances knew that her comments, in the wake of Mr. Mehmet’s departure, were right on the border of rudeness. But Mrs. Bellinger was a match.

  “I make preserves as a hobby, as is well known in the neighborhood. Mr. Mehmet heard from one of the servants at the Eyrie. He inquired and I told him to send a servant around for a few jars of my strawberries.” She paused.

  “And in return, he tells you tales of his former life in the East? Life there must seem so exotic.”

  At that, Mrs. Bellinger gave a brittle smile. “Oh, just ask, Lady Frances. You want to know why a Turkish gentleman calls on an obscure widow. As if he had nothing more on his mind than provisioning his kitchen for something to put on his morning toast.” Her voice became a sneer, and Frances was momentarily taken aback.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” she said.

  “Oh come. Don’t be so modest. Your reputation precedes you. Even in the country we’ve heard of Lady Frances, the women’s suffrage ringleader, on a first-name basis with senior officers at Scotland Yard, and friends with people your late mother wouldn’t have admitted to her servants’ hall, let alone her drawing room.”

  This was something. Usually only close family—her brother and her many aunts—bothered to upbraid her like that.

  “I take that as a compliment,” said Lady Frances.

  “Of course you do,” said Mrs. Bellinger. “But tell me, for someone as busy as you, it must be more than idle curiosity that brings you to my door, inquiring about the society I keep.” She used her noble face to full effect, cold and haughty. Frances wasn’t offended. Rather, she admired Mrs. Bellinger for playing a grand lady, even in this simple cottage. But that didn’t mean she was going to apologize.

  Still, she tried smiling again to soften the tone. “You are right. I am too busy to come here simply to indulge myself. I am trying to solve a problem on behalf of a friend, to prevent a scandal. Sir Calleford’s murder is part of it.”

  Mrs. Bellinger just blinked. She didn’t say anything.

  “As a result, I am looking for anyone with insights into Sir Calleford. Perhaps you were a friend, who can share some observations into the kind of man he was. I will keep your answers confidential.”

  “I am sorry then. Your trip was for nothing. He was just my landlord. I doubt if I shared more than a dozen sentences with him in all the time I’ve been here. Is there anything else I can help you with?” The tone said she didn’t think there should be.

  “Since we are being so frank with each other, you could tell me a little bit more about Mr. Mehmet, seeing as you’re such good friends. It may have some bearing on my research.”

  The request was outrageous. And Mrs. Bellinger’s reaction was not a surprise. She stood, and what little color was left in her pale face disappeared.

  “It’s been some years since I’ve lived in London. Perhaps such humor is now the fashion there, but it’s not in these parts. Good day, Lady Frances.”

  Frances’s late mother would forgive her daughter a lot, but not rudeness. Frances decided to end on a good note.

  “I am sorry to have taken up so much of your time, on such a sad day. Good day, Mrs. Bellinger. I’ll see myself out.”

  CHAPTER 12

  That was . . . interesting. The key thing she had learned was that there was more mystery about Mr. Mehmet. How had he struck up a friendship with a widow of modest means? Charles had said he was dangerous, but perhaps that was just to discourage her.

  She walked along the path to her next destination. Mr. Mehmet talked about diplomacy and politics. Was he a spy? If so, for whom? European politics being as complicated as they were, there was no telling whose interest he was serving. Perhaps just his own. There was no lack of men selling themselves to the highest bidder in these turbulent times. Mr. Mehmet was hiding something.

  She hoped Mrs. Sweet would at least be more welcoming. Her cottage turned out to be similar to Mrs. Bellinger’s, but all the curtains were open. And she didn’t have to knock, as Mrs. Sweet was in her garden, tending the last few plants to survive into the English autumn. She turned when she heard Frances approach.

  “Lady Frances. This is a nice surprise.” She stood. “I hope you don’t think it’s disrespectful, my working in my little garden on the day of Sir Calleford’s funeral. But I wanted to keep busy.” She wasn’t beautiful, but there was so much gentleness and warmth, Frances was inclined to think her attractive.

  “Mrs. Sweet, I never met Sir Calleford. But I’ve seen enough of these magnificent grounds to know how important they were to him. So I think he’d be tickled to see someone tending to the grounds today.”

  Mrs. Sweet laughed at that, and pulled off her gardening gloves. “What a wonderful outlook you have, Lady Frances. Come in, and I’ll put on some tea.” And soon they were comfortably sitting in the bright room, drinking out of good china that Frances suspected was reserved for company. Mrs. Sweet also passed Frances a box of chocolates. “My besetting sin. It became something of a joke with my late husband, liking candy so much I even became Mrs. Sweet. The village here is small, but boasts a very nice sweet shop.”

  “I’m afraid I like them too much as well—thank you. Anyway, I just wanted to thank you, on behalf of Miss Kestrel, for coming to the funeral today. I know she appreciated it. And as her friend, I liked what you said about how he talked about her. That gave her a lot of comfort.”

  Mrs. Sweet looked
closely at Frances, who then realized she may have misjudged the woman. She may be pleasant and kind, but she wasn’t stupid.

  “That was a convenient lie, as you well know, Lady Frances. But if it brought a sense of peace to Miss Kestrel, I can truly say I’ll have no qualms when I go to church Sunday.”

  “And now it’s my turn to praise your outlook,” said Frances. “Your comment did more for Gwen than all the people who stopped by to tell her what a wonderful man he was. And he must have been, from the outpouring. I never met him myself. Did you know him well?”

  She thought for a moment. “Do you know why these cottages are called the widows’ cottages? There was a centuries-old tradition of making a handful of cottages available at nominal rents to gentlewomen fallen on hard times. The Kestrels kept up the tradition when they took over the estate. Mrs. Bellinger and I are two of the current residents.”

  “I visited Mrs. Bellinger before I knocked on your door—she was not as welcoming.”

  Mrs. Sweet smiled and shook her head. “That doesn’t surprise me. But perhaps some Christian charity is in order. She’s had a hard life. Did you know she’s the granddaughter of the old Earl of Orran? Her mother married badly and she did as well. The marriage quickly soured. The man drank himself to death, and she was left badly off, and out of embarrassment, the rest of society shunned her. She was too proud to ask her noble family for help and they were too hard-hearted to offer it.”

  Frances nodded. That explained the prickly personality and the aristocratic arrogance.

  “At least she’s made a friend. I’ve seen her with Mr. Mehmet, the Turkish gentleman visiting at the Eyrie.”

  “Ah yes. Mr. Mehmet is a frequent visitor to the Eyrie from London. I believe he engaged Mrs. Bellinger to help improve his conversational English. She could use the extra money.”

  That was different from making preserves as a hobby. But perhaps Mrs. Bellinger was embarrassed to admit she was earning money as a tutor.

  Now Mrs. Sweet gave her a wry smile. “I know who you are, Lady Frances. It was your brother, Lord Seaforth, who spoke so well at the funeral. A very distinguished family. And as a well-bred young woman, you’re being too polite to ask me my story.”

  Frances laughed. “You give me too much credit. If you hadn’t brought it up, I would’ve.”

  “Well, I’m afraid it’s nothing as dramatic as Mrs. Bellinger’s, although the results were the same. But you wanted to know how well I knew Sir Calleford. My husband died when we were fairly young, and I was awkwardly living with a distant relation in London. I met Sir Calleford through a mutual friend and he mentioned these widows’ cottages.”

  “So you had a friendship with him?”

  Mrs. Sweet hesitated. “Not a close one. He wasn’t unfriendly, just a very private man. He kindly saw Mrs. Bellinger and I were invited to dinner parties. He liked taking walks after breakfast, and if we came across each other, we’d talk. I understand he was a great diplomat, but I found him shy and intellectual. He would’ve made a fine professor at Oxford.”

  Frances nodded. “I wish Gwen could’ve known him better. She’s feeling somewhat at sea, especially now, as she’s finally realizing that she’s mistress of the Eyrie.”

  “A great responsibility,” said Mrs. Sweet. “She’s no doubt very wealthy now, but the house comes with a lot of work. Of course, she could always sell it.”

  “Nowadays, very few people have the money to buy an estate like this.”

  “How true,” said Mrs. Sweet.

  Frances thanked Mrs. Sweet again for being frank and for coming to the funeral, and began walking back to the Eyrie. Two women, rather commonplace really, who had been dependent on husbands, with no way of earning any kind of living as a man would. England was full of such women. Two widows. They should be living simple, dull lives.

  And yet, for some reason or other, both were lying to her.

  Mrs. Sweet clearly had been more than a casual acquaintance of Sir Calleford’s. The footman, Owen, had seen his late master breaking a rigid habit for a nighttime conversation with her. She was a little too shrewd, Frances thought. That lie she told to Gwen about her father caring for her was a great kindness, it was true, but only a woman with some knowledge of the family would’ve thought to tell it. Where had Mrs. Sweet come by that knowledge? Had she drawn it out of Sir Calleford?

  She walked back to the Eyrie, visited briefly with Gwen and Tommie, then headed to her room, where Mallow had already laid out her dress.

  “Because of the elaborate funeral luncheon, my lady, there will be a simple buffet dinner tonight. Nevertheless, I laid out your usual evening dress.” Quite right. The simplicity of dinner was no excuse for anything less than a full-fledged dinner dress.

  “Good. Any more gossip from below stairs?”

  “Not as such, my lady, although there is talk about the Turkish gentleman’s valet.”

  “I didn’t know he had a valet. Also Turkish?”

  “Yes, my lady, name of Adem. Looks a little sullen, and very quiet, so there’s much curiosity about him. He speaks English, though. He’s seen outside talking and smoking with the head gardener, also sullen. Cook says she heard Adem was the son of a gardener back in his country, and they talk about plants whenever Mr. Mehmet visits.”

  Frances was annoyed at herself for not thinking that Mr. Mehmet might have a servant—but of course, he was a gentleman of means. She was also annoyed at Inspector Eastley and her brother for not mentioning it. If Mehmet was some sort of spy or even criminal, Adem the valet might be more than a valet. He might be a junior in whatever Mr. Mehmet was up to.

  Mallow got Frances into her dress and began touching up her hair.

  “By the way, there will be a visitor tomorrow. Just for the day, most likely. Mr. Wheaton is coming down from London to see Miss Kestrel.”

  “Very good, my lady.”

  Her tone was even. Frances never knew just what Mallow thought or suspected about how deep their relationship was.

  “I’ll put out your rose dress for the morning, my lady.”

  Frances turned. Her maid’s expression was bland. “Why the rose dress?”

  “It brings out your eyes very nicely, my lady. But if you would rather—”

  “No. Thank you, Mallow. The rose dress will be most suitable.”

  “Very good, my lady.”

  CHAPTER 13

  In the morning, the Rolls-Royce was dispatched to Morchester station to pick up Henry “Hal” Wheaton, Esq., and Frances was in the foyer to greet him. He wasn’t wearing one of the smart, elegant outfits he favored in his off hours, but the old-fashioned black suit from another generation. “My older clients seem to expect it,” he always said with a sigh. But today, his hair was a little ruffled by the wind and there was no disguising the merriment in his eyes.

  “I am very pleased to see you, of course,” she said. “But I am sorry to interrupt your busy schedule. When I called you yesterday, I assumed you’d offer to send a junior.”

  “But this sounds like a fascinating situation, and you know my interest in architecture, so I always wanted to see Kestrel’s Eyrie.” He looked around to see that they were alone. “And I’ve missed you.”

  “Then let’s take care of business,” she said with a wink. “And just maybe we’ll have time for a private walk around the gardens.”

  Gwen and Tommie were waiting for them in the solar, and a maid was just serving tea and sandwiches.

  “Miss Kestrel, Miss Calvin, this is Mr. Henry Wheaton, the Ffolkes family solicitor and advisor to the House of Seaforth.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, and my deepest sympathies on the loss of your father, Miss Kestrel.”

  Hal sat down and put his case on the table. He gave a reassuring smile to Gwen. “Now, Miss Kestrel, did Frances explain to you why she asked me to come?”

  Gwen looked a little hesitant. “She said you could help me—that is, with my money and things. But I was a little unclear, because Mr. Small has a
lways been our solicitor. . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  Hal began to explain things immediately. That was one of the wonderful things Frances liked about him. He was always clear but never condescended.

  “Yes, Miss Kestrel. Mr. Small represented the estate. That is, Mr. Small is in charge of the house, the lands, and all the money your father has left you. It is yours, but Mr. Small manages it. However, Miss Kestrel, I will represent you personally. I will not replace Mr. Small, but I will make sure that he is managing the estate in your best interest and represent you in discussions with him. I will charge a fee, but you are allowed to have your own solicitor, and Mr. Small must pay my fee out of your estate.”

  “I see. Thank you.” She paused. “Is it acceptable for me to ask my friends for their advice?”

  “I hope you will. That is why I asked Frances to make sure she and Miss Calvin were present while I spoke with you.”

  “Oh! Thank you.” She looked around. “Is this a good idea?” she asked her friends. Tommie smiled.

  “Yes. Franny knows about these things, and Mr. Wheaton is very distinguished.”

  “Very well then, Mr. Wheaton.” She gave her golden curls a toss, and tried to look sophisticated. “You will be my personal solicitor.”

  “Excellent. There are just a few papers to sign, which I have here.” He showed her where to sign. “And for now, to make it official, money must change hands. I just need a small coin—do you have a shilling?”

  Yes, she had a shilling, and Hal slipped it into his waistcoat pocket. “And that should be all for now. I am ready to pay a call on Mr. Neville Small and obtain an accounting of the estate you’ve just inherited.”

  “Do you need me to attend, Mr. Wheaton?” asked Gwen a little fearfully.

  “You may attend, but do not have to. As your solicitor, I have the power to examine any documents on your behalf and report back to you.”

  “That will be fine,” said Gwen, relaxing again. “But oh, why don’t you take Franny with you? She’s so clever, and I know you have to return to London soon, and this way Franny could discuss it with me at her leisure.”