by R. J. Koreto
ALSO BY R. J. KORETO:
Lady Frances Ffolkes Mysteries
Death Among Rubies
Death on the Sapphire
Alice Roosevelt Mysteries
Alice and the Assassin
DEATH AT THE EMERALD
A LADY FRANCES FFOLKES MYSTERY
R. J. Koreto
NEW YORK
This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, organizations, places, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real or actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by R. J. Koreto
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Crooked Lane Books, an imprint of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.
Crooked Lane Books and its logo are trademarks of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.
Library of Congress Catalog-in-Publication data available upon request.
ISBN (hardcover): 978-1-68331-337-3
ISBN (ePub): 978-1-68331-338-0
ISBN (ePDF): 978-1-68331-340-3
Cover design by Andy Ruggirello
www.crookedlanebooks.com
Crooked Lane Books
34 West 27th St., 10th Floor
New York, NY 10001
First Edition: November 2017
This book, about mothers and daughters, is dedicated to that most wonderful mother-and-daughter pair, my sister Abby and her daughter, Haley.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Acknowledgments
Historical Note
CHAPTER 1
Lady Beatrice Torrence, widow of Sir Arnold Torrence, reflected wryly that she knew all the names of everyone at the party but none of the faces. She had been abroad with her husband, from one posting to another, for so long and had come back to find that London was populated by the children and even grandchildren of those she had known a lifetime ago.
Consider that girl with the copper hair, Lady Frances Ffolkes. She had known her father, Lord Seaforth, who had served with Lady Torrence’s husband in the Foreign Office, and Lady Seaforth had made her debut with Lady Torrence’s cousin Edith. But the old Seaforths had gone to their final reward, along with cousin Edith. And now she exchanged a few pleasantries with this young, pretty girl, a brief discussion about her late parents. So full of energy, so full of confidence. It exhausted Lady Torrence just to talk with her.
When Frances departed, Lady Torrence thought that that was an end of it, but there was a lot more to discuss about her. Clara Astley, Lady Torrence’s goddaughter, was practically quivering with excitement. She had a kind heart, was very solicitous of her godmother—and was also one of the worst gossips in London. Mrs. Astley knew everything about everyone, and at a party like this—one of Lord and Lady Moore’s well-attended events—that was no small advantage.
“Dear Aunt Bea, do you have any idea who that was?” Her eyes glittered. This was going to be good. “Lady Frances is practically notorious. One of those suffrage girls pushing to get women the vote. Well, what could you expect—the family let her go to a college for ladies in America of all places, and it put all kinds of ideas into her head.”
“Kicked over the traces, did she?” said Lady Torrence with a smile.
“Oh, and there’s more. She involves herself with”—she lowered her voice—“the police. That fuss over the Colcombe manuscript that ended half a dozen War Office careers? She was in the thick of that. And then that unpleasantness at Kestrel’s Eyrie? She was a guest there when it happened, hand in hand with Scotland Yard.”
“With the police? You mean—more than just a witness?” Lady Torrence raised an eyebrow.
“So they say. Practically set herself up as a private detective, like Sherlock Holmes.” Mrs. Astley was a mix of indignation that such a thing at happened and delight that she was in a position to tell about it.
“Really?” Lady Torrence was more amused than upset. “Her brother tolerates that? I assume she lives with him.”
“Oh, dear, if only! She and her maid live in Miss Plimsoll’s hotel.”
“That’s respectable enough, I’d have thought.”
“Well, yes,” Mrs. Astley conceded. “But it’s really for elderly widows who don’t want the bother and expense of continuing to manage the family home, not young ladies still seeking a husband and in need of a chaperone. It’s unheard of.”
Who’d have thought it—the Seaforth girl. She started thinking about it, and then Mrs. Astley was introducing her to more people, and Lady Frances went out of her head for the moment.
But she recalled the conversation later that night. Her maid was brushing out her hair before she went to bed, and Lady Frances came back to her. Louisa. She had thought about her less and less in recent years but never really stopped, and with the return to London, she once again intruded frequently on her memory. Lady Torrence had made one futile try to follow up, but she was too old, too tired.
But that Lady Frances—a suffragist and, apparently, a detective. Could it be? Was God giving her one last chance? Lady Frances might laugh at her, a silly old lady. If she did, what did it matter? Write now, before she lost her nerve.
“I have a letter to write tonight,” she told her maid. “Please hand me my paper and pen.”
“Now, my lady?”
“Yes, now. Before I forget. Tomorrow morning, take it right after you serve me breakfast and have William deliver it by hand.”
“Very good, my lady.” She got the pen and paper for her mistress and then said good night.
Lady Torrence thought about the wording. She didn’t want to spell it out—that would be too much. She didn’t want to plead either. Or command. Just excite a little curiosity. She could find the right words—she hadn’t been an ambassador’s wife for all those years for nothing. Just a few lines. Then she sealed it and went to bed.
Could it be possible to find Louisa after all that time?
Lady Torrence saw herself to bed and turned out the light. For the first time in many years, she allowed herself to cry before falling asleep.
The next morning, as William was delivering the letter, Frances was not thinking of Lady Torrence. She was completely focused on the woman attacking her. Her opponent had her by her shoulder, but Frances seized her arm and let the woman’s own weight send her off balance. But the woman was not fooled and, recovering more quickly than Frances had anticipated, swept her down until she was flat on her back.
Undeterred, Frances grabbed the other woman’s ankle and gave a sharp tug. The woman fell down, and Frances scrambled back up again, ready for more . . . but then stopped at the sound of two hard claps.
Her opponent stopped as well, and they turned to the Japanese gentleman who was watching them closely.
“Improving,” he s
aid. “You still move like oxen, but you are improving.”
“Improving as fast as your male students, sensei?” asked Frances. The other woman stifled a giggle. The man didn’t laugh but considered her question carefully.
“Women follow directions more carefully than men. They learn faster that it is about thought, not strength. Now think on what I have said. I will see you at your next lesson.”
The women bowed to him. “Thank you, sensei,” they said and departed. In the changing room, a female attendant helped them change back into their street clothes.
“My goodness, Marie,” said Frances. “Who’d have thought that London’s best songstress could manhandle someone like a docker?”
“And who’d have thought the daughter of a marquess could kick like a mule?” said Marie. They both laughed. “I’m so glad you’ve been joining me. It’s wonderful exercise, and I had almost despaired of finding a woman to practice with.”
“Thank you for inviting me. We shall persevere and open our own dojo—for women only.”
They said good-bye, and Frances caught a hansom back to Miss Plimsoll’s. She realized that she looked a little worse for wear and was stiff in her legs. What would Mrs. Beasley, the manageress, say?
Miss Plimsoll’s had been an elegant private house for generations until the elderly Miss Plimsoll found herself rattling around inside with too many rooms, too many servants, and a rapidly dwindling bank account. She had turned it into an elegant residential hotel for ladies, and despite the change in status, it still boasted beautifully maintained trimmings. But even though it wasn’t a private residence anymore, Mrs. Beasley still kept up standards. Frances fancied the manageress turned a baleful eye on her. What was her ladyship up to now?
Wincing, Frances walked upstairs to her little suite. Mallow was waiting for her, and Frances watched her maid’s eyes take in her hair and her dress, which were not as well-arranged as when Frances had left.
“Did you have a good physical education class, my lady?” That was what Frances had called it.
“Yes, very good, thank you. But I’m a little stiff, so maybe a hot bath.” Mallow helped her undress.
“My lady, you have bruises!”
“Those happened during the class. We have advanced to the next level.”
“I see, my lady.” And Frances almost winced again at Mallow’s subtle tone. Imagine that, a lady going to a class of her own free will just to get hurt.
Frances knew that she owed her an explanation.
“It’s called jujutsu, Mallow. It’s a method they developed in Japan to defend yourself against being attacked if you don’t have a weapon, and a Japanese gentleman has come to England to give lessons. My actress friend, Marie Studholme, heard about it and asked me to join her since she needed a woman to practice with. I think it’s an excellent idea for women to learn how to defend themselves.”
“Very good, my lady.” Mallow frowned. “So you and Miss Studholme take turns . . . hitting each other?”
“Well, not so much hitting as throwing each other.”
“Very good, my lady,” Mallow said, expertly hiding any thoughts she had about her mistress grappling with another woman. “I’ll prepare a bath. Meanwhile, I picked up the mail for you earlier. There’s a letter delivered by hand.”
Frances looked at it. The handwriting and stationery were not familiar. She opened it.
Dear Lady Frances,
We spoke briefly last night at the reception, and I was hoping that we could continue our conversation at your convenience. I will be at home to you for the rest of the week.
Cordially,
Lady Beatrice Torrence
“That’s odd. Her late husband served in the Foreign Office years ago with my father. We had a few pleasantries, nothing more. Why should she want to speak with me again?”
“Perhaps she wants to join your suffrage club, my lady.”
Frances laughed. “That would be a surprise. I’ve heard that Sir Arnold was strict and rigid even by the standards of his generation. Although . . . you may have hit on something, Mallow. She was with her goddaughter, Mrs. Astley, who is very gossipy. She no doubt gave Lady Torrence an earful about my suffrage work and other events. Maybe Lady Torrence just wants to lecture me.”
Although an elderly aunt might do that, it would be insane for a woman who was practically a stranger to summon Frances to her home for that purpose. And Lady Torrence seemed of sound mind.
“Maybe she’s just lonely and wants the company of someone young. I’m curious, at any rate, but I think I’ll visit my sister-in-law first and see what she knows. But first . . . a bath.”
“Very good, my lady. And I’ll choose a dress appropriate for calling.”
Once she was suitably relaxed and refreshed after her bath, Frances let Mallow dress her again and headed out to visit her dear friend Mary, her brother’s wife.
Cumberland, the Seaforth butler, greeted her at the door. “A pleasure to see you again, my lady. Her ladyship is in the morning room.”
“Thank you, Cumberland,” she said, then turned a mischievous eye on the butler who had been serving the family since before she was born. “Don’t think I didn’t catch you making sure Mallow wasn’t letting me out of the house without my dress and hair in proper form,” she said. Mallow had been a Seaforth housemaid before Frances had promoted her to lady’s maid when going out on her own. Cumberland bowed and gave Frances a small smile.
“I will only say, my lady, that Miss Mallow is a credit to the training she received in this house.”
Which is more than you could say for me, thought Frances.
Frances found Mary writing letters when Cumberland announced her. “I’m so glad you called. We hardly got to speak last night, with Charles and I having to spend so much time making the rounds, speaking to everyone.” Charles was Undersecretary for European Affairs in the Foreign Office. “The joys of being a political wife.”
“And you like it. Even Charles’s political opponents say that you’re his best asset.” The two women laughed. “I don’t normally go to those events myself, but Lady Moore asked me specially, and as she was such a good friend of my mother’s, I couldn’t say no. But remember when you introduced me to Lady Torrence?”
“Yes. I hope she didn’t ramble on too much about some house party she attended decades ago with some great aunt of yours. I was afraid she was getting a little dotty.”
“No, she was clear enough, although we didn’t talk long. But this morning she sent me a brief note asking me to call on her. It seemed such an odd request. They were hardly intimate friends with us, so I wondered why. You know everyone. What can you tell me about the Torrences?”
“That is strange. Let’s see. I know Sir Arnold died some years back. He served mostly overseas in one country or another, in the continent and even the Orient. They have a daughter—oh, what’s her name?—Sarah, yes. Raised a few eyebrows some years back when she married a fellow from the City, someone deep in finance rather than from the old aristocracy. Apparently, he did very well for himself, became extremely wealthy, and was even raised to the peerage, although I can’t recall his name right now.”
“Doesn’t sound anything unusual,” said Frances, but then Mary frowned.
“However, there was something about another child, I believe, something someone mentioned to me. An older daughter who died, but there was something more—a bad marriage, maybe. Louisa, I think the name was. You know how it is, a half-remembered story someone repeats over dinner, and then conversation stops because it’s too painful or embarrassing. Sorry, I can’t remember any more.”
“Oh, but that’s very helpful. If the late Louisa did something scandalous . . .”
“Then perhaps Lady Torrence wants to speak to a modern-day scandalous woman,” finished Mary.
“Well done, dear sister,” said Frances. “Perhaps my growing reputation precedes me. I’ll call on her this afternoon and let you know what she says.”
; “Please do. And how are you faring otherwise? Or more specifically, how goes it with dear Mr. Wheaton?”
Mary smiled briefly at how the mention of Henry “Hal” Wheaton could still bring a blush to Frances’s cheeks.
“Very well, thank you. As I told him, we’ll have a long engagement. I see it as a way to make sure we are indeed fully suited to each other, to create an important stage between courtship and marriage.”
“Dear Franny, does Hal share your noble goals?”
“Why, Mary, of course he does. He’s more broad-minded and forward-thinking than people realize.”
Mary arched an eyebrow. “As broad-minded and forward-thinking as you?”
At that, Frances gave Mary a look of mock horror. “I couldn’t expect a mere man to go that far!”
Frances headed next to a Mayfair address where, over tea and sandwiches in a drawing room, she worked on speeches and pamphlets with friends from the suffrage group. And then it was time to call on Lady Torrence.
Frances continued to think about the message. Was it about the mysterious Louisa? But she was theorizing without the full facts. Her professors at Vassar would upbraid her severely for that. There were other possibilities. For example, Lady Torrence had been out of London for many years and might not know that Frances had become quietly engaged. Maybe she had a grandnephew she wanted to introduce to Frances, a chance for a connection to the large and influential Seaforth family. I wouldn’t have thought I was satisfactory to someone in Society anymore, between my suffrage work and police activities, she thought. But then again, maybe this mythical grandnephew isn’t very satisfactory either.
The house was typical for its fashionable neighborhood, well-kept on the outside, so Lady Torrence had the money to hire good servants and the ability to see they were well-supervised.
A proper butler answered the door and took her card. “Her ladyship is in the drawing room,” he said, and Frances followed him. Although the outside of the house was nondescript, the interior was a delightful jumble, something she hadn’t expected. She saw small jade statues from the Orient, oil paintings showing the Alps and the Hindu Kush, brass from India, and ivory from Africa. Souvenirs from a well-traveled life.