Death Among Rubies

by R. J. Koreto

  “Are you all right, Lady Frances?” asked Mrs. Blake, as if Frances had done nothing more than lightly trip on a wrinkled rug.

  “Quite. Thank you.”

  “I am sorry you were assaulted in this house.” She paused, and her eyes seemed to drill right into Frances. “That door is usually kept locked.”

  Mrs. Blake then turned to the constable. “I have no idea who this . . . person is, or how he got into this house. I will have Mr. Pennington and the footmen carefully check all the doors and windows, and hire carpenters and locksmiths to make any necessary repairs. Please remove this man as soon as you can.”

  “Very good, madam. I do need to call for a police vehicle.”

  “If it would get him out of here more quickly, my car and chauffer at your disposal. I will give the necessary instructions.” She swept out of the room.

  “Come on,” said Dill, dragging the man along. “You’re going to jail on some very serious charges. Now let’s start with your name.”

  “Silas Watkins,” he mumbled. He had a London accent, but Frances remembered what Tommie had said—it was too exact.

  “We’ll be asking you more questions, Mr. Watkins. Now come along peaceably, and don’t make it worse.”

  “I’ll be coming too, constable,” said Frances. “Do you know where Inspector Eastley will be staying?”

  “He called me early this morning to say he was at the Three Bells in Morchester, my lady.”

  “Excellent. Mallow, go to the telephone and call the inspector at the inn. Tell him to meet us at the village station. Then look in on the ladies.”

  “Very good, my lady.”

  Mallow was about to leave, when Frances saw her pause to give Mr. Watkins a look of absolute hatred. It was clear Mr. Watkins was lucky he wasn’t going to be left alone in some windowless back room with Mallow and her rolling pin.

  Dill half led, half dragged Watkins downstairs and out the front door, under the eyes of curious servants. The chauffer admitted his odd group of passengers to the Rolls-Royce with the same attentiveness he gave to all who rode in his car, before getting behind the wheel.

  “The village police station,” said Frances.

  “Very good, my lady.”

  Constable Dill led his prisoner through the front reception and into a larger room in the back with a table and chairs. He pushed Watkins into a chair.

  “An inspector will be coming for you. From Scotland Yard. Be prepared to tell him the full story.” Watkins just groaned and buried his face in his hands.

  They didn’t have long to wait before Inspector Eastley and Constable Smith arrived. Dill jumped up and stood at attention.

  “Good morning, sir. This man, Silas Watkins, was arrested trespassing at the Eyrie and attacking Lady Frances Ffolkes.”

  “So I heard from Miss Mallow.” He seemed very amused. “From the look at that bump, maybe you should’ve arrested Lady Frances for assault.”

  “Sir?”

  “That was a joke, constable.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dill remained standing, while Eastley sat next to Frances and Constable Smith stood behind the prisoner, casting a shadow over him. Watkins looked up nervously at the huge constable.

  Eastley didn’t say anything right away to Watkins, just studied him for a while. So Frances also looked at him, seeing what she could deduce. Yes, gentleman’s clothes, but they were even more uncared for and worn than she had first realized, as if he had bought them used. And how did he grow a mustache so quickly? There was something funny about it. She suddenly leaned forward and ripped it off his face. It was just held on with some sort of adhesive, as she had suspected.

  The man reacted to that, shouting out profanities in pain. So she had been right. He was city born and bred—that was a Manchester accent, not a fake London one.

  “See here, watch your language. There’s a lady present,” Dill said.

  “Indeed,” said Eastley dryly. “Lady Frances, it seems you were wise to invite me back to the country, and I was wise to come. But let’s avoid any further physical contact with the prisoner. After all, that’s Constable Smith’s job.” Watkins looked up again at the huge policeman and seemed to shrink into his chair.

  “Dill, did you search the prisoner?”

  “Yes, sir. And I found this rather odd instrument.” He produced from his pocket what looked to Frances like a knife handle.

  Eastley picked it up. Then suddenly, with a snap, a nasty-looking blade shot out of it.

  “Dear lord.”

  “Dear lord indeed, Lady Frances. It’s called a switchblade. Not very common in England. The Italians seem to like them, I heard. Used for street fights among the lowest sort of criminals.”

  “I think a low criminal is what we have here, inspector. That man, under disguise, has threatened my friend Miss Thomasina Calvin and now me. She has already recognized him.” She summarized the incident with Tommie in the cathedral and then how she had trapped the man, and was pleased to see Inspector Eastley look impressed. “I am sure that this is related to the murders at Kestrel’s Eyrie.”

  “You may be right. Let’s see about that.” Inspector Eastley started in his peaceful voice that somehow made what he was saying even more frightening. This is a chance to learn about how to question a witness, thought Frances.

  “You have committed a very serious offense. Attacking a lady. And not just any lady—the sister of a marquess, a powerful and wealthy man with a lot of influence. I’ll be long-retired, in a comfortable cottage in the country, while you’re still rotting, forgotten in some prison cell.”

  Watkins hung his head even further as if he wanted to disappear.

  “So let’s be a good boy and be as cooperative as possible, so we can avert needless unpleasantness.”

  “I’ll tell you the whole thing, and you’ll see it was just supposed to be a joke.” He had a pleading voice, willing the inspector to believe him.

  “We’ve been speaking for less than a minute and you’ve already lied to me,” said the inspector. “That’s not a good sign. Maybe you need to spend some time alone with Constable Smith, to consider your position. I am patient. Constable Smith is not. He doesn’t like working into the evening. And he hates having to come to the country. He might try to persuade you to tell the truth. Constable Smith can be very persuasive.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Watkins, who looked like he was about to pass out. “I won’t lie. I knew it was wrong. I’m an actor, you see. I think you guessed that, my lady. Mostly regional touring companies. Well, a couple of weeks ago, you see, I got a letter, with a ten-pound note, from someone saying he had seen me perform and wanted to play a joke on some woman, a Thomasina Calvin—”

  Rage rose through her and she was about to rise, when Eastley laid a restraining hand on her arm. He was right, Frances realized. The interrogation would have to remain calm if it was to be effective.

  “Please continue, Mr. Watkins,” he said, still quietly.

  The story was simple. The letter, written in block characters and unsigned, told him where he could find Miss Calvin, and in whose company she’d be. It took him several days, but he did what was asked and thought no more about it—but then he read the accounts of the murders at the Eyrie and recognized the names. He began to think there was more to it than a joke—and then another letter arrived, with another ten pounds, asking him to threaten Lady Frances at the Eyrie. “I know you won’t believe me, but it was Mrs. Blake. She let me into the house through a back door late in the evening, set me up in a room. I was going to get more instructions but then Lady Frances surprised me. I was just going to threaten her with the knife—I’m not a killer, I swear. Just to scare her, to let her know she wasn’t safe and should go back to London.”

  He put his face in his hands.

  “You are accusing one of the most prominent women in this county,” said Eastley. “Do you have any proof that Mrs. Blake invited you in? That you’re not just making this up? Did you save th
e letters and envelopes she sent you?”

  “No. I was afraid of getting caught with them and burned them.”

  “How did Mrs. Blake even find you?”

  “Our theater company played at a lot of great houses. This was one of them.”

  Inspector Eastley tapped his fingers on the table. Frances looked up at Constable Dill, who seemed astonished at the accusations against Mrs. Blake.

  “There’s more to this story than you’re telling me,” said Eastley. “Why did you do all this for Mrs. Blake? Don’t you dare lie to me again.”

  “Oh God, sir. You won’t believe me.”

  “Try me.”

  “When I was here with the theater company, I may have helped myself to a couple of spoons. Mrs. Blake caught me, but said she wouldn’t call the police if I did something for her. Oh dear God, I knew you wouldn’t believe me.” And again he buried his face in his hands.

  “I’m not sure you’ve given us all the details,” said Frances, “but oddly I do believe you’ve told us the truth. Or most of it. I doubt if you’re good enough an actor to pretend to be as stupid as you are.”

  Eastley chuckled at that. “You have a point, my lady.”

  Watkins saw a thread of hope. “I wasn’t going to hurt you or the other woman, my lady, just scare you. There wasn’t anything I could do,” he whined. “I was stuck.”

  “Mr. Watkins. You will be charged, but we will keep in mind your cooperation today,” said Eastley. “God help you if I find later that you’ve lied to me about any of this. Because, as I said, I’d then have to have Constable Smith here help you with your memory problems. And you don’t want that.”

  Watkins looked again at the huge constable and decided to take the threat seriously.

  “Smith. Take the prisoner into the front room and remain there with him until we’re ready to leave for London.”

  “Sir,” said Smith. And pulled Watkins out of the room.

  “Constable Dill,” said Eastley.

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Today’s meeting hasn’t happened. Do you understand? There will be no record of this arrest. No mention to your superior. I am taking Watkins to London and you will forget you ever met him. I don’t want local men muddying the waters until this is settled, and no one in London should know I came here either. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now tell me. Even in London we heard about Lady Frances’s arrest.” He spared a quick smile for Frances, who gave him a cool look in return. “Dill, do you believe that a gang has been responsible for the . . . incidents here? Or do you agree with Lady Frances that there might be a more accurate explanation.”

  Dill slipped his finger inside the neck of his tunic. “There seemed to be some serious doubts about the gangs, sir.”

  “And you saw fit to bring Lady Frances to an interrogation? Is that the way policing is done here?”

  Frances started to talk, but Eastley motioned her to stay silent. She frowned and folded her arms across her chest.

  “Her, ah, approach and ideas seemed sensible, sir.” Frances saw the poor man sweating despite the coolness of the day.

  Eastley nodded, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a card. “Sensible indeed, constable. Well done. Take my card. If you ever decide you want to advance your career in London, I invite you to call on me.”

  “Thank you, sir!”

  “Now I want to talk with Lady Frances. Go wait with Constable Smith.”

  Dill saluted, and left.

  “Thank you again for coming, inspector,” said Frances. “And for that nice vote of confidence. I know you took a chance trusting me and I’m glad it has worked out.”

  “Credit where credit is due,” said Eastley.

  “What happens now? Can you arrest Phoebe Blake?”

  “Be reasonable, my lady. It’s the word of this actor against one of the most distinguished women in the county. An admitted thief, arrested while attacking you. No judge would even allow charges to be presented. You have established a connection between the threats against your friend, even if we can’t prosecute. But nothing to connect these threats with murder. You are a judge of character. Do you see Mr. Watkins as a murderer?”

  “No, I suppose he’s innocent of murder. He worked for Mrs. Blake to separate Gwen from her friends for his own reasons. But I feel I’m close to making a provable case. Now, I’ve done you a good turn. I’m giving you a criminal to bring back to the Yard. I need something from you. Who is Mr. Mehmet? And what is his role at Kestrel’s Eyrie?”

  “You tell me why you ask, and I will see what I can do.”

  “I’ll tell you what I think. I think you know who Mr. Mehmet is, inspector. You and my brother were very friendly with him at Sir Calleford’s funeral. I think Mr. Mehmet is a spy. For whom or why, I don’t know. But he was doing something at the Eyrie, and he doesn’t want Scotland Yard detectives looking into the murder.”

  “You think he’s the murderer, Lady Frances? Because of the Turkish dagger?”

  She shook her head. “I admit I once did. But not anymore. I think he knows something or saw something. It makes sense. A spy is always looking around, over his shoulder, beyond the turn in the hallway. Or so I imagine. If anyone saw something, he did. Anyway, he asked me to solve the murder quietly and tried to discourage me from using my connections to bring in the Yard—not politically minded Special Branch types like you, but murder investigators who’d want to know what he was doing and when. He doesn’t want that, and will let a murderer go free before he tells me. I don’t think he’s even told you. Who knows? The detectives even might ask him about—” She looked intently at the inspector. “About his ‘friend in London.’”

  His mustache hid a small smile, and he nodded before speaking.

  “It’s interesting, my lady. A skill for analysis and reasoning must run in your family. Your brother thinks the same way.”

  “But my brother has one thing I don’t. He has access to the official story, and Charles will never tell me. I know you have it too. I need a way to force Mr. Mehmet to cooperate, or I don’t know if I can stop the killer. I am asking you as a police officer to help me.”

  “I can trust you, or so you say—but you want to use the information to blackmail Mr. Mehmet into cooperating with you. Do I have that right?”

  “Blackmail is a very ugly word,” said Frances, as if she were correcting a naughty child. “I just want to improve my negotiating position.”

  Eastley chuckled. “Nicely put.” Frances wanted to look calm, but she could hardly breathe. She felt a sheen of sweat on her brow. Mallow would be horrified, and would jump in with a delicate handkerchief. She couldn’t read the expression on Inspector Eastley’s face.

  “Why should I tell you what your own brother wants hidden?”

  “Because my brother is charged with international policy, but you are charged with safety within the realm. And because I’m a bright and well-educated woman, not your little sister who still needs protecting.”

  That won her another smile. He thought for a moment.

  “Let me make you an offer. I cannot intervene directly in this case. And you are right about Mr. Mehmet—he has a purpose here that will not be easily interrupted. But what if I use my influence to force the chief constable to accept Scotland Yard help? They may find the necessary evidence to charge Mrs. Blake. If she’s indeed the murderer. You must admit you have no direct evidence.”

  Frances was thinking of a response when she heard yelling outside.

  “What is going on here? Why have there been arrests without my knowledge?”

  And Frances and Inspector Eastley said at the same time—“Inspector Bedlow.”

  Bedlow stormed into the back room and glared at both Eastley and Frances.

  “They called me from the Eyrie,” said Bedlow. Of course, Frances realized. Mrs. Blake would’ve reported it. “I should’ve been the one questioning him. You have no right to come from London.” He then looked at
Frances. “And you shouldn’t be here at all.”

  “Do calm yourself,” said Eastley quietly. “Take a seat.”

  Bedlow seemed to debate that, then roughly pulled over a chair and sat. “This is my patch, inspector. What are you doing here?”

  “We heard word that a man wanted in connection with something Sir Calleford was working on was making his way here. Indeed, it turns out he was hiding in the house. We are bringing him back to London. That is all.”

  Bedlow’s eyes narrowed. “That’s ridiculous. This clearly has to do with Sir Calleford’s murder. This man is my prisoner. He will be held in Morchester and I will question him.”

  But Eastley just smiled and shook his head. “These are secret matters for the Foreign Office. If you have a problem with my leaving and taking the prisoner with me, I will have the chief superintendent of Special Branch call your chief constable. And you’ll live to regret your behavior.”

  Bedlow licked his lips and thought that over. “Very well. Take him and don’t come back.” He gave Frances a sly smile. “As long as you’re here, my lady, I can tell you that we’ll be coming back within twenty four hours with a warrant for Thomasina Calvin’s arrest—for the murder of Sir Calleford Kestrel.”

  “I thought you held a criminal gang responsible. Or perhaps now Inspector Eastley’s prisoner. Why will you be arresting Miss Calvin?” asked Frances. “And you have no evidence anyway.”

  “Never you mind. I think you’ll find that Miss Calvin’s very special friendship with Miss Kestrel will speak for itself—”

  Frances stood up quickly. “If you dare say anything, I will—” She felt her hands making fists. Striking men who threaten me is a habit I could develop.

  “What? Give me another excuse to arrest you again? Because this time—”

  “Stop it. Both of you,” Eastley said in the same soft voice that was nevertheless forceful. “Bedlow, you have no reason to be here. I suggest you leave.”

  “With pleasure. And Dill is a Morchester constable. He’s coming with me.”

  Frances was now doubly annoyed. She wanted to talk with Dill. But Bedlow stalked out and ordered Dill to follow him.