by R. J. Koreto
A sense of adventure? Love for Christopher? Desire to be mistress of the Eyrie? All of the above? Of course, Mrs. Blake would love to see the back of the Hardimans, her rivals for control of the Eyrie. Frighten them away and use her influence as lady of the manor to get them released. But Effie Hardiman was made of sterner stuff.
Frances took Effie’s hand. “Very good. We’ll see this through together. Now Tommie and Gwen, we managed to thwart the police for now, but they’ll be back. We need to be ready for them. I’ve been making plans. All three of you are to stay together as much as possible. Don’t leave the house.”
Gwen looked fearful, but Frances took her hand now. “You will be fine, my dear. I saw you defend your friend when you thought she’d be arrested. You have more courage than you think. Just hold onto that.” She then looked into Tommie’s eyes, for just a moment: This will end very soon.
“Now, tell me about Mrs. Blake. Pennington said she’s in her room?”
“We haven’t seen her at all since you left,” said Gwen.
“I see. Mallow, I need to refresh myself. Again, the three of you stay together. I’ll see you all at dinner, if not before.” She smiled. “We’ll be strong together.”
Frances and Mallow didn’t speak until they were in Frances’s room with the door closed.
“I know it’s not my place to say, my lady, but to arrest the daughter of a marquess—it’s simply outrageous.”
“The inspector is desperate, so we will make some allowances. But for now, let’s look ahead, and not backward.”
“Very good, my lady.”
“Have you seen Mr. Mehmet since I departed?”
“No, my lady. The ladies had lunch and tea in the solar and Miss Kestrel was kind enough to make sure I was served as well. I heard he and Mr. Hardiman were served in the library for lunch. I don’t know about tea.” When it came to tea, you just never knew with foreigners. “You must be tired, my lady. You have some time to rest before we dress for dinner.”
“Excellent idea. I could use a little rest.” The next couple of days would likely be busy too, and she let Mallow help her out of her dress.
“Miss Kestrel indicated she and the other ladies would be in the solar until it was time to dress for dinner, and with your permission, my lady, I will stay with them.” Mallow picked up her knitting bag.
“That bag looks very full. What are you knitting, a tapestry?”
“Oh no, my lady. I’m still carrying the rolling pin.” And with that, she left, to sounds of Frances’s chuckling.
But Frances’s nap was postponed by the arrival of Mrs. Blake, shortly after Mallow left.
“I just wanted to welcome you back, Lady Frances. I am sorry for the indignities you had to undergo.”
“Thank you. But I was actually treated very well. And I must admit I did provoke him.”
“Yes. I’m curious to know why a lady of your background and intelligence thought it was necessary to provoke a local police inspector.”
“I lost my temper when I saw him bully one of my dearest friends.”
“I find that hard to believe. I’m sure you’re capable of great rage. But you strike me as someone who always controls it, always channels it.”
Frances just shrugged.
“The inspector will be back for Miss Calvin in the next day or two.”
“And my family solicitor will be back as well. With a barrister. I think you will find it hard to separate Tommie from Gwen. Or Effie Hardiman from Christopher. We will all stick together until the end.”
“You will stand up to the police again? The crown prosecutor? The courts of assize?”
Frances just smiled. “Oh yes. You have no idea what I’m capable of.”
Mrs. Blake matched her smile. “Actually, I think I do.”
Dinner in the servants’ hall was somewhat unusual. All everyone had clearly been talking about was the arrest of Lady Frances, but no one was going to discuss it in front of Mallow. Indeed, with three murders and an arrest, the only safe topic of conversation seemed to be the blacksmith’s daughter, who was seen walking out with a corn chandler.
Upstairs, conversation wasn’t much livelier. Frances felt that even local gossip would’ve been preferable to endless discussions about gardening and what flowers to plant where.
Over dessert, Mrs. Blake asked everyone what their plans were on the following day.
“I called the vicar,” said Tommie. “I asked if there might be any good works we could do to keep ourselves busy while we are here. He said he will come by with some donated yarn, and we can knit socks for poor children to keep them warm this winter.” Gwen seemed cheered by that. Effie did not look like it was the most exciting prospect.
“If anyone would like, there are several pleasant walks.”
“Now that sounds like fun,” said Effie. “Do you think Christopher, that is, Mr. Blake, would be free to join us?”
“He’s busy on estate work,” said Mrs. Blake. That wasn’t a surprise. Mother and son would not want to spend a lot of time together, considering Christopher’s attraction to Effie.
“It’s out of the question,” said Mr. Hardiman. “Too many funny things going on around here. If you want to stay with your friends, Effie, we’ll stay. But inside, until things are more settled.” Mr. Hardiman was no fool, observed Frances. The scene with the inspector and the attempted framing of Tommie had made it clear that not even the police believed some vague “gang” was responsible for the deaths. “I have some letters to write, business to attend to,” he said, and Effie pouted.
“I have commitments as well,” said Mr. Mehmet. “Will you be taking a walk, Lady Frances?” His smile seemed challenging. She turned to Mrs. Blake.
“Thank you, but I’m sure Gwen would still like the support of her friends,” said Frances. Gwen gave her a grateful look. “We’ll all gather to knit.”
CHAPTER 22
Frances had breakfast with her friends. Mr. Mehmet and Mr. Hardiman appeared to be discussing hunting, and as usual, Mrs. Blake made sure breakfast was up to Eyrie standards. She then sat down with the gentlemen, leaving the young ladies to themselves.
Tommie’s face showed strain. She was no doubt wondering when and how someone would come after her again. Gwen was cheerful though. In her mind, Frances realized, the problems were all solved when Frances stood up to the inspector. Effie seemed lost in thought, perhaps dreaming of the day when she would preside over meals here and wondering how recent events might affect that. A private engagement was just that—if her father dragged her away from the Eyrie, her dreams could dissolve.
“So I understand that knitting is on the agenda,” Frances said.
“I’m sure I’ll be hopeless at it,” said Gwen. “But it will be good to have something useful to do.”
“Good works are among the responsibilities for English ladies,” said Frances with a meaningful look at Effie.
“I take your point,” she said with a sigh.
“I’m putting Mallow in charge of all of you. She excels in knitting and can help you get started and through the rough spots.”
“You’re coming too, aren’t you, Franny?” asked Gwen.
“Of course. I just have a letter to write to Mrs. Elkhorn—committee work.” She looked at Tommie and held her eyes. Don’t worry. I’m on the case. “In fact, let me get started now, so we won’t be apart too long. I’ll have a word with Mallow to make sure she meets you in the solar.”
She had a final sip of tea and met Mallow just outside the dining room.
“The vicar will be here soon, Mallow. Stay with the ladies in the solar. I’m going to be doing a little reconnaissance work, but that’s just between you and me.”
“‘Reconnaissance,’ my lady?”
“Searching and exploring. Armies have whole units devoted to doing this. We’ve seen how large this house is—in fact, much of it isn’t used. Now, someone on this estate committed murders, and tried to plant evidence on Miss Calvin. They’
d need a base of operations, so to speak, and there is a part of this house that’s empty. I’m going to have a look through that locked door at the end of my hallway. No one is to know but you.”
“Very good, my lady.”
“I knew I could count on you. Of course, Constable Dill said he will also be keeping an eye on the grounds.” And she hid a smile as Mallow blushed slightly.
“That is very reassuring, my lady,” she said. She cleared her throat. “The vicar will no doubt be here soon. I’ll make sure Mr. Pennington is aware he is to be shown into the solar.”
Frances headed back to her room, where she selected a nail file from among her toiletries. Then she walked down the hallway, past Gwen’s and Tommie’s rooms, to the locked door at the end of the hallway. It was a better lock than the one in Mrs. Sweet’s cottage, so Frances took a little longer than Mallow to pick this one, but in about twenty minutes it gave way, and Frances entered.
The hallway was dimly lit from a window at the end, so Frances could see the dust. No housemaid had swept here in a long time. There were other contrasts with the rest of the Eyrie: No tapestries or oil paintings on these walls, which were bare and in need of painting. A series of rooms lined the hallway, and Frances tried the first of the doors. It opened easily, and inside she saw some old, cheap furniture probably kept in storage for servants’ rooms. She prowled around for a while, but there were no clues here.
The next room was the same. She opened all the drawers in a cracked dresser and even looked into what appeared to be an old sea chest. It contained some faded clothes, perhaps used for a fancy dress party when the Marchands still held sway in the house.
But the third room she tried was a surprise. On a much-battered and stained table that might have once graced the Eyrie’s kitchen, Frances saw what was clearly a fresh addition to this forgotten wing—a chipped bowl. She wrinkled her nose at the metallic smell that cut through the pervasive musty odor, and waved away the flies that supplied the only noise and movement in these halls.
The bowl’s inside was stained deep red, and Frances gingerly touched the bottom. It was still a little sticky—the blood that ended up on Tommie’s dress had been stored here. Convenient, and yet hidden.
Perhaps there was more to see. She continued along the hallway, which turned sharply left. She guessed she was on a gallery surrounding the great hall below, and would eventually come to another door on the other side.
There were a dozen more doors—should she check all of them for more clues? She was thinking what to do, when she thought she heard a creak. Was it her imagination? Her own feet? Frances stopped, and held her breath. Definitely a creak. She hoped it was just a field mouse, but even a cat didn’t weigh enough to make that much noise. It came more steadily, from the turn in the hallway ahead of her.
Frances froze. Then from around the corner came a stranger, a man of middle years. His clothes were a gentleman’s, but scruffy. He didn’t say anything, and they stared at each other for a few moments.
And then Frances turned and ran. She heard his footfalls and was under no illusions: he had a longer stride and wasn’t impeded by skirts. But I’m smarter.
Realizing she’d never make it to the exit before he caught her, she turned suddenly into one of the storage rooms and slammed the door behind her. It took just a moment to push over an old wardrobe. It fell with a crash against the door, and she heard her assailant try to force his way in.
He’d get in eventually, Frances knew, but she had slowed him down, and meanwhile she let her eyes adjust to the dark. She reached around for something to use as a weapon. Her hands found a small stool—it would have to do.
The man pushed again and again. Frances slid a chair behind the door, hopped onto it, and waited for him to get in. His eyes would be used to the relatively well-lit hallway and he wouldn’t see her right away. She raised the stool and patiently waited for him to appear. And then, with great satisfaction, she brought it down on his head as hard as she could.
He collapsed on the floor.
Frances just stood there looking at him. He began to groan, and she realized he’d get up soon. She stepped over him, ran to the doorway leading back to the living quarters, and opened the door. Turning, she saw the man stumbling after her. She didn’t want to let him get away, but knew she couldn’t fight him. Reaching into her pocket, she produced the silver police whistle she always kept with her and blew it once, then again and again.
The vicar had dropped off the donated yarn, offered more words of comport for Gwen, and praised the ladies for their charitable works. Mallow set them up and observed their progress. Effie was surprisingly good, she observed. But her ladyship had said that Miss Hardiman had been born poor—knitting wasn’t an acceptable hobby for farm girls, but a necessity. Tommie was a little slow, but competent.
Gwen, however, did not seem to be able to manage.
“Why don’t you read to us,” suggested Tommie. “You have such a nice reading voice.”
“That might be best,” said Gwen, looking forlornly at the tangle of yarn. Mallow began to straighten it all out while Gwen looked for a suitable novel on the solar bookshelf. “How about Dickens? He tells such good stories,” said Gwen. She sat back down on the couch and began to read aloud from Great Expectations.
Rachel, one of the housemaids, came in with a tea service. “Mr. Pennington asked me to apologize if you’ve been disturbed, Miss,” she said to Gwen. “Apparently, the bootboy has been practicing his penny whistle, even though he was told not to.”
“Quite all right,” said Gwen. “We couldn’t hear it here anyway.”
It only took Mallow about ten seconds to make the connection.
“Rachel. Never mind the tea. Run downstairs at once. Grab every maid you see and look for Constable Dill, who is somewhere on the grounds. And send him and any footmen to the ladies’ wing immediately.”
Rachel just stared, and the ladies stopped what they were doing, looking back and forth between the two maids.
“Well what are you waiting for? Go!” said Mallow. And Rachel turned and left as fast as she could without actually running. “Miss Kestrel, Miss Calvin, Miss Hardiman. Lady Frances needs us now.” And single file, they unquestioningly followed Mallow out of the solar and toward their wing.
On their way, Mallow glanced out of the window, noting with satisfaction that housemaids and kitchen maids were fanning out of the house, no doubt seeking the constable.
Then, up the stairs, and along the hallway. As they got closer, they could now hear the whistle, clearly not a penny whistle, but her ladyship’s prized silver police whistle. Mallow felt relief flood through her—her ladyship was safe if she was blowing.
They turned the final corner, and there she was, standing in the open doorway to the empty wing. She had blown herself breathless, and just pointed down the hallway. Mallow peered into the hall, and saw a man sitting on the floor and holding his head. The other ladies gathered around.
“I’ve sent for Constable Dill, my lady. And more servants should be coming.”
“Thank you,” gasped Frances. She motioned for Tommie to step forward, while she turned to her attacker. “You,” she said. “Look at me.” The man looked up, as he continued to rub a growing bump.
“That roman nose and high forehead—that’s him. That’s my attacker from London. Except for the addition of a mustache.”
“Very good,” said Frances. People started to arrive—Mr. Pennington, a footman, Mrs. Blake, and finally Constable Dill, panting almost as much as Lady Frances from his running.
Mallow pushed her way past everyone to the constable. “There’s a man in there who has attacked her ladyship. He needs to be arrested, right now.” He seemed a little stunned. “Well, constable. What are you waiting for?”
Dill strode into the hallway and grabbed the man by his collar. “Come with me, my man. You are in big trouble.”
Frances remembered the bloodstained bowl. But no. That had nothing to do w
ith this man. He wouldn’t have done that. She’d keep quiet about that, especially with so many people in the hall. She told Dill to follow Mallow to the solar.
Frances then peered over everyone’s heads to Mrs. Blake. Her expression was a perfect example of self-control. Frances couldn’t help but admire her.
Mr. Pennington quickly sent all the servants back to their tasks. Tommie looked upset—no, angry. But she’d get her justice, thought Frances. Gwen was more confused than anything. Effie seemed—amused.
“Tommie, why don’t the three of you go to Gwen’s room and order some more tea from the kitchen.”
“I don’t understand,” said Gwen. “Who was that man?”
“No need to worry, dear. Probably some tramp looking for a warm place,” said Tommie. “The police will take care of it. Now let’s get some tea.” She put a comforting arm around Gwen and led her away, leaving Frances and Effie alone.
“I guess Dad didn’t hear from all the way in his room. We’re going to have some fight when he finds out. He’ll want to go back to London right away.” She sighed. “Is it always like this in great English houses?” asked Effie.
“Not typically,” said Frances.
“Too bad. It’s kind of exciting. So what did you do to him anyway?”
“Slammed a stool on his head.”
Effie laughed and gave Frances a hug. “You’re my kind of girl, Franny Ffolkes.”
“I’m glad you approve,” said Frances, smiling back. “But don’t worry—things will soon be back to the normal, predictable world we English so love.”
CHAPTER 23
When Frances entered the solar, she saw that Mallow had gathered up the knitting and was serving tea, which was probably getting cool by now, to Mrs. Blake and Constable Dill. The culprit was cuffed and sitting in a chair with his head down. The bump was now very obvious. I really hit him hard.