by R. J. Koreto
They both laughed, as Mallow looked on with more than a little confusion. “So I did. Anyway, I have some business here with Mr. Rusk. What about you? Are you producing plays? Writing them?”
Frances laughed lightly. “Very amusing. I am here for some . . . personal business.”
Mr. Shaw raised an eyebrow. “Not another mystery, my lady?”
She looked Mr. Shaw in the eye. “Perhaps.”
He chuckled. “I’ve heard stories about your recent exploits. Trying to work with theatre folk? I won’t press you on details, but I will offer some advice: you will find them a clannish group.”
“So I’ve noticed,” said Frances, a little ruefully.
“But if anyone can break in, it will be the determined Major Frances. I will leave you with one more piece of advice then. This is a world of illusion. Everyone is creating an illusion. The director has one line of illusions, the actors another. The audience brings their own illusions when they show up. Navigating through them to find reality is not easy. Perhaps not even possible.”
“And the playwrights, Mr. Shaw? What about them?”
“Oh, we’re the worst of all. Trust nothing, not even your own eyes. I will wish you success and send you two tickets to my next play.” They said their good-byes, and Frances and Mallow left the theatre.
“That was George Bernard Shaw, Mallow. One of our very best playwrights and one of our wisest. I will take his advice to heart.”
“Very good, my lady.” Then after a pause, she asked, “May I ask why he called you ‘Major’ Frances, my lady? I know his lordship, your brother, was a major in the army.”
“That’s Mr. Shaw’s little joke. It’s after Major Barbara, a play Mr. Shaw wrote about a woman who’s a major in the Salvation Army—you know, the Christian group that does so many good works.”
“Yes, I know of them, my lady. But you aren’t a member of that group.”
“No, but the character of Major Barbara is dedicated to improving the world and goes about it in a very energetic and forthright manner, sometimes to the point of being annoying. Mr. Shaw likes to tease me that I resemble her, even that he based her on me.” Mallow studied her mistress. Her expression was half irritation and half pride. “I don’t really see the resemblance myself.”
“I’m sure I don’t either, my lady.”
They quickly found a hansom cab, and Frances summarized her meeting with Mr. Rusk and Mr. Prescott.
“It seems certain now that Louisa Torrence and Helen the actress are definitely the same, but other than that, we have still more questions. Why did the men who professed to love her not know that she had died so soon after leaving the theatre—and still in England? You’d think word would’ve spread. No one seems to know much about her husband, a man not glamorous or wealthy. Ah, well, we make progress. Did you get any useful information from Mrs. Mancini?”
“Oh, yes, my lady. Quite a talk we had. I am sorry to say that Sir Arnold was not—well, according to Mrs. Mancini, who seemed to be a truthful person, Sir Arnold’s behavior . . .” She sighed, while Frances waited for her maid to find the words. “As the vicar would say, my lady, he fell short of the ideal. He had mistresses, my lady, and a fair number of them were actresses in the company. One of them is now an actress in motion pictures.” She summarized the rest of her talk.
“Mallow—well done! That is fascinating. Louisa Torrence—now renamed Helen—joins the same company as her father’s mistress. She may have heard rumors, especially as she spent a lot of time in the theatre, and her father misbehaved so extensively. Was it anger? Just plain curiosity?” And was Lady Torrence too embarrassed to tell Frances about that? She must’ve known. Wives always knew.
“Will you want to question the actress, my lady? Mrs. Mancini said her name is Miss Genevieve D’Arcy.”
“Absolutely, Mallow, for several reasons. Sir Arnold may have shared something about his family with her, and there seem to be some aspects of family life that Lady Torrence doesn’t want to discuss, even though she engaged me. Helen almost certainly knew—maybe even made friends with—her father’s mistress. That may give us more information. I’ll think on that—and you’ll get your visit to a motion picture studio,” she said, smiling at Mallow.
“I do admit, my lady, I am curious to see where motion pictures are made.”
“I am as well. But we can’t forget what we’re really trying to find out—and that’s where Helen ended up. I keep getting back to that strange grave. I am going to report to Lady Torrence, and then I’m going to see about getting an exhumation order for Helen.”
“Beg your pardon, my lady? Exhumation?”
“Dug up. We’re going to have Helen’s grave opened up and see what’s in there.”
Mallow was silent for a few moments. She had done a lot with her ladyship, but grave robbing was a new one. Frances noted how stricken her maid looked and quickly reassured her.
“We’ll be perfectly legal about this. I have friends at Scotland Yard. We’ll just have to be a little . . . diplomatic about it. I am going to leave you at Miss Plimsoll’s before going on to Lady Torrence.”
“Very good, my lady.” She paused. “I will go through your closet and see what we have that might be appropriate for an exhumation.”
Lady Torrence received Frances right away and again told her maid that they were not to be disturbed. Frances could see how the woman was almost quivering with excitement. Only Lady Torrence’s ingrained good manners prevented her from bursting forth with questions before tea was served.
“I have some news for you, Lady Torrence. Nothing definite yet, but we have made some progress. To cut to the heart of the manner, it seems your daughter Louisa changed her name to Helen and joined the Green Players. I think she toured briefly before returning to the London stage, where no one apparently identified her as your daughter.” Soon after, the Torrences had put it out that Louisa was abroad under treatment, and then they had left for foreign shores anyway.
“As far as I can tell, she married, but there’s no telling under what man. Her husband was a man of business, a Scot, and I think she was widowed soon after. And I am sorry to tell you—but she might have died shortly thereafter herself of a fever.”
“I see.” Lady Torrence sipped her tea, and they were both quiet for about a minute. “You promised me the truth, no more and no less, and you have kept your word. But you said, ‘might.’ Is there some hope she might be alive? Or that you have more details?”
“There is a grave in Maidstone that claims to be the last resting place of Helen. I promised other people I would keep their secrets, so I can’t say any more. But within that grave may be your daughter. Or more questions. What I need from you now is your permission to have the grave exhumed. From there, I could work out the details of her last weeks and months, if that’s what you want. I don’t want to hold out false hopes, but there is reason to think Louisa’s remains might be . . . elsewhere.”
Lady Torrence didn’t answer for a while. Frances wondered for a few moments if she had overwhelmed the elderly woman. But no. She was made of sterner stuff.
“I am unfamiliar with the procedures of exhumations,” Lady Torrence finally said. “Will it be sufficient if I write you a letter giving my permission for a reburial among my husband’s people near Shrewsbury?”
“I assume so. There will be some paper work, as the grave says ‘Helen’ and not ‘Louisa.’ But I am confident we can overcome any difficulties. I also believe that it is traditional for a member of the family or an appointed agent to attend the exhumation. I will serve in that capacity, if you don’t want to attend.”
“I would appreciate that. I will add that to the letter myself and have it sent to your rooms this evening. Please let me know when arrangements have been made.”
She clearly was trying so hard to be brave, to be poised, talking about the daughter she had hoped for so long that she might see again. Frances knew that she couldn’t discuss with this woman her husband�
�s apparent infidelities, adding more to her heartache. Would Sherlock Holmes be as kind? Am I too soft to be a consulting detective? wondered Frances.
“I will leave you now, Lady Torrence, and let you know as soon as the matter at hand proceeds.”
“Very good. And I should say—you have already done more than I could have hoped for. Thank you.”
CHAPTER 11
“What shall I lay out for you this morning, my lady?”
“Brisk and businesslike, Mallow.”
“One of the shirtwaists, my lady?”
“Perfect. I am calling on Inspector Eastley at Scotland Yard.”
“Very good, my lady.”
Frances detected the subtlest of tones, indicating that Mallow was not in complete agreement with her ladyship’s course of action.
“You don’t approve, Mallow?” Frances asked with a smile.
“I’m sure it’s not my place to approve or disapprove of your ladyship’s visits.”
“But you’re concerned that the inspector will not welcome a visit from me? He seemed pleased enough with the results of our work at Kestrel’s Eyrie.”
“Yes, my lady. I believe he also strongly suggested that you and I travel to America for an extended stay so you could share your detecting skills with the New York City police department.”
“I interpreted that remark as a compliment, Mallow.”
That was not Mallow’s interpretation, but she dropped the subject.
“Anyway, I’m just asking for a little advice, not involving him in a case. Not yet, anyway. And I’ll be taking the bicycle. I’m sure the constables will be pleased to watch it while I meet with the inspector.”
So after breakfast, Frances hopped on the bicycle and pedaled her way to Scotland Yard. Another advantage of bicycling: not having to face the confusion of every cab driver who couldn’t believe a lady wanted to go to police headquarters.
The constables now recognized Lady Frances, but the bicycle was new. “Could you please see if Inspector Benjamin Eastley is in?” she asked the constable at the front desk. “And I assume it won’t be inconvenient if I leave my bicycle in this corner? Very good then.”
By leaning over the desk, she heard half of the constable’s telephone call to the inspector’s office, even though he turned away as far as possible. “Lady Frances Ffolkes, sir . . . she didn’t say . . . I would say more cheerful than upset, sir . . . very good, sir . . .” He hung up the phone and offered to accompany Frances.
“Thank you, but I know the way.” She walked briskly to the Special Branch suite and saw Eastley’s huge assistant filing papers.
“Hello, Constable Smith,” she said.
“M’lady,” he said, betraying no emotions. He must be an excellent card player, Frances thought.
Frances knocked on Eastley’s door, heard a weary, “Come in,” and entered.
“Inspector. It is good to see you again. You are well, I trust?” Sitting behind his desk, he was wearing his usual poorly ironed suit. He didn’t bother getting up but waved Frances to one of the two visitor’s chairs.
“Well enough, Lady Frances. And I hope you are doing well too?”
“Very well, thank you. But you’re probably wondering why I’m here today.”
“Consumed with curiosity, my lady. Perhaps you want to help me with one of my current cases?” He waved his arm over the folders on his desk.
“Actually, that’s not why I came . . . although I’d be happy to offer my assistance in any way I can.” She got a thin smile in response. “Oh, very well then. I’m actually just here for advice. A friend of mine has a relative who died some years ago while estranged from the family, and now my friend wants her exhumed to be buried in the family plot. I assumed that no one would have more insights into the people with whom we ought to speak than you.” She gave him a hopeful smile.
Eastley looked back and studied her. She had known in advance that he wouldn’t just give her a name and say good-bye. He’d be as difficult to trick as her brother.
“My lady. You have family solicitors to consult. Why come to a Special Branch inspector for a question like that?”
“Well, there’s a slight wrinkle in the situation. The deceased was buried under an assumed name, so there is no immediate connection to her actual family. However, I have a photograph of a portrait of the woman, which those who knew her under her assumed name will swear is her. So perhaps that will allow us to overcome any difficulties. I also have a letter authorizing me to act as my friend’s agent in this matter.”
Eastley listened and nodded when Frances was done. Then he leaned back in his chair. “In all honesty, I am sure there is a long and fascinating story there, my lady, and had I more leisure, I would like to hear the full tale.”
“It’s rather simple, actually.”
“No, it’s not. If it were simple, a solicitor would be in the office of some Home Office undersecretary. Instead, the daughter of a marquess is sitting in the office of a Special Branch inspector. Convince me, Lady Frances, why I should help. Give me a little more.” His smile became broader.
Oh, very well, thought Frances. He was giving her a chance. And Inspector Eastley would give very few women—or men, for that matter—such an opportunity.
“Some thirty years ago, the daughter of a well-born family ran away to join a theatrical company, acting under the name ‘Helen.’ I showed a photograph of the missing girl to her former theatrical colleagues, and they confirmed Helen and the missing girl were one and the same. After she left her brief theatrical career, she moved in with another friend and died in Maidstone. There is a tombstone that says ‘Helen,’ and the dates are right.” It wasn’t the entire story, she knew, but enough to get the inspector to help her while avoiding awkward questions. Frances hadn’t forgotten that she had stolen her main clues from Mattins’s room.
Eastley nodded. “Do you have this photograph?”
She produced it and handed it to him.
“She’s a beautiful girl,” he said. “Girls like that often have a story about them.”
“Why, Inspector, that sounds almost poetical,” said Frances.
“Not at all. I don’t know this Helen. But I know men and what they would do for a face like that. Anyway, this friend of yours—does she have any family?”
Frances was surprised at that question. “Yes . . . a younger daughter and two grandsons.”
“Then have her say her good-byes at Helen’s grave. Leave some flowers. And spend the rest of her life and energies with the family she has left.”
“That’s not what she wants, Inspector. She wants her daughter buried with her own people, under her true name, not forgotten in Kent.”
“I don’t know what you did to find a woman who disappeared thirty years ago, but I am impressed that you brought your investigation to a successful conclusion. And yet, that isn’t enough. You want—how should I say—a more complete solution. I don’t know of any detective inspector who would need that.”
“Is that a compliment or an insult, Inspector?” He seemed a little amused, and Frances didn’t know if that was a good sign.
“Part of me wonders about the many details you no doubt left out, my lady. Do you have another reason for requesting this, other than your friend’s sentimentality?” She didn’t respond, and it was very quiet in the office for a long moment as they just looked at each other. “Did you not understand my question?”
“I assumed your question was just a rhetorical device,” she shot back.
He laughed dryly. “Oh, very well, my lady. What exactly do you want?”
“The connection between my client and Helen is clear to me and any thinking person, but the situation is not legally perfect. If I handed this over to solicitors, my request would be bounced from one department to another for weeks and months, because no petty bureaucrat would want to take responsibility for signing an exhumation order when the case is not entirely solid. I need to reach the right person. And who would know
more about the inner workings here than a Special Branch inspector?”
“Thank you,” he said. “So you assume that I could cut through these functionaries? That I would know the one correct department?”
“No. Not the department. You know the one right person, and I’d like you to introduce me to him. We’re a political family, and I’ve learned that, for all the talk of Parliamentary groups and Ministerial committees, decisions like this tend to come down to one person.”
“That, if I may say, is a surprisingly shrewd comment.”
“Oh, and you are surprised because a woman made it?”
“No, I’m surprised that anyone who doesn’t hold a position in government realizes that. Oh, very well, my lady. You want my trust. But will you give me yours? And that question is by no means rhetorical.”
He was serious. And she matched him with a grave look. “Yes, Inspector. I will.”
“Then let me see your letter of permission.” She would have to trust the inspector with Lady Torrence’s secret—to a certain extent. There was no other way. She handed it over, the inspector read it, and then he handed it back to Frances. He stood.
“Wait here, my lady. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“Where are you going? Can’t I come?”
“None of your concern, and no.”
The inspector left quickly, leaving the door open. Frances was momentarily nonplussed, pleased that she seemed to be getting what she wanted but irritated that she was being left in the dark. There was another advantage to this, though—the inspector had left what were no doubt fascinating case files on his desk.
But a moment later, Frances realized that the inspector was no fool. He had left his door wide open in full sight of Constable Smith and other officers. There was no way to quietly shut the door or secretly consult the files. Oh, well. She sat back on his chair and waited for him to return, musing about the case in the meantime. She might need continued help from Eastley and other Scotland Yard inspectors. It wasn’t just Helen’s fate she had to investigate—who was still so concerned about her queries that he had killed Mattins?