by R. J. Koreto
Frances leaned closer to her uncle. “What else? What did she want?”
“My goodness . . . what is this about? But you won’t tell me, and I’m not sure I want to know. We had dinner once more, and then she said that was all. She said I was amusing but nothing more. I saw her onstage again, some months later, and then, one day, she was gone.” He looked sad.
“Gone?”
Lord Hoxley shrugged. “She just left the stage. I asked other actresses what had happened to her, and all they said was that she’d gotten married to an accountant of all things and moved to parts unknown. It seemed odd. A bright girl. Marriage wasn’t for me . . . and I’m more progressive than you realize, dear niece. I accept that some women don’t want to get married either. So why not be mistress to a duke? She’d have been very well taken care of, for minimal work.”
“It is astonishing, Uncle. Just imagine, wanting to be an honest man’s wife rather than spending years as a nobleman’s whore.”
Lord Hoxley turned red. “For goodness’ sake, Franny. Language like that. I’m still eating. And don’t look at me like that. The actress Nell Gwynn was mistress to Charles II. Their son was made Duke of St. Albans. Everyone went home happy.”
“I’m very happy for Nell Gwynn and her son the duke. But what of this accountant? What do you know about him? What kind of person was he, and where did they live?”
“Good gracious, Franny. I wasn’t invited to their wedding. Another actress mentioned that some man who had helped keep the theatre’s books had proposed, Helen had accepted, and they were moving out of London. That’s all I know, I’m afraid.”
Frances suddenly thought of another woman who had made sure that she’d never be the prized wife of a great lord—herself. She loved Hal, surely, but she had never considered that part of her attraction to him was equality. As successful as he was, he was middle class—someone, perhaps, that she could be a helpmeet to instead of just a decorative lady of the manor. Was that what Helen had thought? Times were even harder for women back then, and a marriage alliance with a rising professional was the perfect balance between independence and security. Louisa may have had jewelry to pawn for her own money, and if her uncle was right, she was smart—someone who could be of true help to her husband, not just an entrancing doll. A man who didn’t just love her but needed her. And what do I want?
Lord Hoxley broke into her thoughts. “Woolgathering?” he asked with a smile.
“You gave me something to think about. A lot to think about. Self-determination. That’s what she wanted?”
He nodded. “That’s what she wanted.”
“So not mere comfort, but some measure of independence too.”
“You’re the philosopher, my dear. I will accept your conclusion as fitting the facts. But indulge me. There’s a box of chocolates on the little table there—”
“Uncle, you’re not going to finish your breakfast with candy!”
“Of course not, my dear. It’s unopened. A present for a . . . friend. Just fetch it, and look at the cover.” Frances did. Like many chocolate boxes, it displayed a picture of a lovely young woman with cherry lips and raven hair falling over her shoulders.
“Chocolate-box prettiness—that’s the phrase,” said Lord Hoxley. “Beautiful, idealized, yet doesn’t always age well.”
Frances thought about that. “Was that Helen—just chocolate-box prettiness?”
Lord Hoxley just answered with another question. “Have you spoken to any women who knew Helen? I am well aware of the limits of my sex. Call on a woman who knew her. You’ll get another point of view, certainly more accurate.”
“I agree. I’ll do that.” She thought of the gossip Mallow had picked up about Sir Arnold’s mistress. Perhaps she had known Helen without realizing that Helen was her paramour’s daughter.
“But speaking of marriages, how are wedding plans with your young man, the solicitor? And this is something on which we can agree: I haven’t met him, but from all accounts, he’ll be a fine partner for you and a fine addition to the family.”
“Well said, Uncle. I’ll keep you apprised of our plans. And maybe you can give us dinner some evening.”
“Excellent idea. And here’s a thought—Marie Studholme is a friend of yours, isn’t she? Bring her along, and perhaps we’ll make a foursome of it?”
Frances just rolled her eyes. “I won’t even bring it up. You’re old enough to be her father. And she’s independent too.” She leaned over and gave her uncle a kiss on his cheek. “Be good. Take care of yourself, and I’ll visit again soon. And maybe, just maybe, I won’t tell Llewelyn to give me all your port, which I can auction off for charity.”
She headed downstairs, and Llewelyn showed her out after thanking her for visiting and raising his lordship’s spirits. Her mind, meanwhile, was a jumble of thoughts. What had driven Helen? It seemed to be less a love of theatre than a love of independence. Frances had upbraided her uncle, but he had a point: a mistress to a wealthy man—especially back then—would have been given great comfort and a large degree of independence, but Helen hadn’t wanted to be at some lord’s beck and call. Frances felt full of admiration for the woman.
The clatter of a hansom cab brought her out of her reverie. A man clambered inside. It was a soldier, her soldier, entering the hansom. How had he found her there? She hadn’t seen him when she left Miss Plimsoll’s. The cab drove off quickly, and Frances knew she’d never catch it on her bicycle. But she smiled. She knew something now. This man was a little afraid of her. He no doubt had the cab ready, knowing she could—and would—follow.
But that wasn’t the most important thing. She had been sure that the soldier hadn’t been waiting at Miss Plimsoll’s. Did he have a confederate spying and reporting back? Or perhaps he had multiple disguises; it had been a busy street—he might’ve been dressed as a dustman or laborer or clerk. And yet, here he was, back as a soldier outside her uncle’s instead of trying another disguise. Whatever else he wanted, he needed Frances to see him as a soldier. That was interesting. Very interesting.
CHAPTER 13
Lady Torrence had sent Frances a note, delivered by a footman, saying that she had responded to the Home Office form, officially appointing Frances as her representative for the exhumation. Inspector Eastley followed with a message saying that he had made the arrangements for the following night. He told Frances to arrive inconspicuously with a trusted driver. The church would be open, and any coachmen and chauffeurs could wait comfortably inside.
Frances was excited about the evening, but nevertheless, she and Mallow both took naps after lunch so they’d be fresh for the night.
After a quick dinner, Mallow laid out a simple outfit for her mistress. Frances had initially suggested the outfit that she saved for her volunteer work at the soup kitchen, but Mallow felt even an exhumation deserved something better. She also produced jackets for both of them and made tea for the vacuum flask.
“Sorry we have to do this so late, Mallow, but apparently exhumations are typically done at night when no other activities are going on and people aren’t around to ask questions and gossip.”
“Of course, my lady. I understand we will be traveling in his lordship’s motorcar?”
“Yes, Mallow. I told my brother that an elderly friend was having a relative exhumed and moved to a family vault and that she felt more comfortable with a woman friend representing her than a solicitor. I even told him my cousin Michael would be attending in his official capacity. His lordship thought it a little odd but didn’t seem upset.”
“Very good, my lady.” No doubt, reasoned Mallow, Lord Seaforth thought her ladyship could not get into trouble surrounded by the officials, including a doctor and an archdeacon.
“However, we do have something else to concern ourselves with. Our soldier-spy is still following us. I don’t think he means us harm, not directly, but he wants to know where we go. He wants us to see him. I don’t know why yet, but he won’t do it tonight, that I can pro
mise you. I have a plan. Do we have everything? Time to be off for our very first exhumation.”
Ridgeway, her brother’s chauffeur, was waiting for them downstairs, and he helped them into the elegant and comfortable sedan.
“I understand we are driving to St. Mark’s church in Maidstone, my lady. I already consulted the map and will head there straightaway.”
“Excellent,” said Frances. “But first, please head around the hotel once before driving to Kent. I have a friend on the next street over, and I want to see if her light is on. We may stop there briefly.”
“Very good, my lady.” He no doubt thought the request strange, but he was too well trained to show surprise. And Seaforth servants expected the unusual from Lady Frances.
As they drove off, Frances leaned over to Mallow. “Our stalker won’t be able to easily figure out where we’re going if we don’t directly head to Maidstone.” Once they reached the next street, Frances told the chauffeur that it seemed her friend’s house was dark, so they could head on. It was still cool at night, and they were glad of their jackets. Frances enjoyed watching the passing scenery, the dark houses and countryside, and listening to the powerful hum of the engine. Mallow simply wished they were on a train.
It was only about an hour to St. Mark’s. Frances saw a police wagon already there and lanterns in the churchyard by Helen’s grave. Even as they were pulling up, a local constable walking outside the gate approached them.
“Lady Frances? The inspector said you may join him by the gravesite. I have to stay here, but it’s just along the path.”
“I will walk you there, my lady,” said Ridgeway.
“That’s quite all right. You may head directly into the church.”
“I beg your pardon, my lady, but his lordship instructed me most particularly to escort you and Miss Mallow to the official in charge.”
“Oh, very well,” said Frances with a sigh. Mallow seemed pleased with the escort, however. Cemeteries weren’t cheerful in bright sunlight, and in the night they were sinister. With shadows falling across shadows and the dimly lit church hovering over them, it was easy to imagine some nameless monster behind every stone. A scrabbling noise seemed louder than it really was—just a rabbit out for a midnight feeding.
Ridgeway walked them to the gravesite, where Inspector Eastley, Constable Smith, and two diggers were waiting for them. Eastley took in Frances, with her maid and her uniformed chauffeur, and greeted her with a brief nod, just visible in the light of the lanterns.
“As you can see, I am now safe. You may wait in the church,” Frances instructed her chauffeur.
“Very good, my lady.” Ridgeway bowed and left.
“Good evening, Lady Frances, Miss Mallow. I am glad to see you looking so eager. The Home Office physician and your cousin the archdeacon should be here shortly,” Eastley said. “Can you tell me what you expect to find tonight?” His tone was teasing.
“Inspector, merely the remains of Louisa Torrence, known as Helen,” Frances replied, full of innocence.
“If you say so, my lady,” he said with a thin smile. He turned his gaze on her maid. “Tell me, Miss Mallow. I don’t know a great deal about London society. Do other ladies’ maids also attend their mistresses in churchyards at night?”
“A proper lady’s maid would not gossip about such an activity, so I couldn’t say, sir,” said Mallow.
Eastley chuckled. “Well spoken.” More footsteps, and the Archdeacon Michael Ffolkes appeared. His height was emphasized by the beautifully tailored cassock he wore. His expression was serious, as befitted a high-ranking clergyman, but even in the dark Frances could just make out a slightly sardonic smile.
“Thank you for joining us, Archdeacon,” said the inspector. “I am sure it’s tedious for you to come so far, so late.”
“Members of the clergy are used to traveling far, and late,” said Archdeacon Ffolkes. He looked down at Frances. “Plus, I am also assuming the additional duty of chaperoning my young cousin.”
“Very kind of you,” said Frances. “But Inspector Eastley is more than capable of guarding my virtue. You are well? The rest of your family?”
“Yes, in perfect health, thank you. Can you explain why you are here representing the family of the deceased and not a solicitor? The inspector wasn’t entirely clear on that point.”
Frances glanced to Eastley, who raised an eyebrow. “The mother of the deceased felt more comfortable with a woman representing her for such a delicate situation. Perhaps if there were women solicitors, it wouldn’t be necessary—”
“Oh, I see. This is to make a point for your suffrage group. That you have come to Maidstone from London in the middle of the night is proof of your dedication, I’ll give you that.”
“Suffragists are used to traveling far, and late,” said Frances, quoting his own words back to him. He relaxed enough to laugh. A sense of humor was common among all Ffolkes, even archdeacons.
“Touché, Frances.” And then he became serious again. “But this has brought you to church at least. You will join me in prayer afterward?” he asked. Frances agreed.
They heard rushed footsteps and a stumble followed by a muffled curse, and a young gentleman stepped into their midst.
“Am I the last? So sorry. I’ve never been to Maidstone before. Dr. Edward Grayson from the Home Office.” He straightened his tie and smoothed his jacket.
Frances concluded that Dr. Grayson was new to his profession. A tedious job like this, outside of London, would be assigned to the most junior man available.
“Quite all right,” said Eastley. “Thank you for joining us. This is the Venerable Michael Ffolkes, Archdeacon of Westminster, representing the Church of England. And Lady Frances Ffolkes, representing the mother of the deceased.” He turned to the diggers. “You may begin now.” The men picked up their shovels, and the silent night was broken with the rhythmic crunch of metal on soil.
Dr. Grayson greeted the archdeacon and then Frances. “I say, I’ve been to a few of these, but it’s always some chap from a solicitor’s office.” And Frances had to explain again she was a friend. “Very nice of you. So, both of you named Ffolkes? Just a coincidence?”
“The archdeacon is my cousin,” said Frances with an amused look. “He can watch over me this way.”
“Very nice,” said Dr. Grayson, a little confused. And then he turned to Frances, saying in a reassuring voice, “I wouldn’t worry, Lady Frances. I don’t think the results will be disturbing, and although by regulation I must review the remains, there is no need for you to look.”
Mallow felt a stab of pity for the doctor. Her ladyship hated to be patronized like that, as she would no doubt make clear in a moment.
“There is no need for concern, Doctor,” said Frances. “I’m not inclined to faint at the first unpleasantness. I took science courses while obtaining my degree, so I am not expecting any great surprise.” In the dark, she thought she could sense the inspector stifling a chuckle and her cousin rolling his eyes. “Indeed, I am proud to call Dr. Elizabeth Garrett Anderson my friend and a colleague in the suffrage movement. I am a great admirer of hers. Have you met her?” Dr. Anderson had gained fame for her successful fight to become the first woman physician in England.
“Ah, no,” said Dr. Grayson, a little overwhelmed, and then hastened to assure Frances that he understood that Dr. Anderson “was an admirable member of the medical profession.”
“But speaking of remains,” said Frances, “what will they be like? The body was buried about thirty years ago, probably in a plain box without any embalming process.” There would’ve been no time for elaborate preparation or a well-sealed casket, if she was buried as quickly as the sexton said she had been.
“Good question,” said Dr. Grayson, who clearly decided not to “protect” Frances any further. “This is southern England, so we have damp soil and mild weather for the most part. I’d say the body has been reduced to bones after all this time.”
“I don’t s
uppose there is much you can tell from just bones?” she asked. It was a pity. She knew much could be told about death from bodies, but not when only bones were left. Dr. Grayson looked at her a little oddly.
“Not much,” he admitted. “You can look for signs of breakage. You can estimate age at death, if necessary.”
“Can you tell the sex, just from the skeleton?” she asked.
At that, she heard the inspector shifting. The doctor fell further into confusion.
“Is that a question here?” When Frances didn’t answer the doctor, he cleared his throat. “Yes, you can. The shape of bones, with women’s bodies, of course . . .”
Frances heard the embarrassment in his voice.
“That is very helpful, Doctor. Thank you.”
“Yes, fascinating. Thank you indeed, Doctor,” said Eastley dryly. The inspector wants to know why I’m asking this, thought Frances.
They fell into silence while the men worked. The inspector produced a flask and offered a drink to the doctor, who accepted a quick sip, and to the archdeacon, who politely declined. With a smile he offered the flask to Frances and Mallow, but they had their vacuum flask of hot tea.
The pile of dirt by the side of the grave got higher, and then they heard the thud of the shovel on wood. Frances felt her heart beat faster. There had to be a clue here somewhere—the secret burial, destroyed records, elaborate tombstone. But what?
“Careful,” said the inspector. The diggers eased out the box and placed it on the ground. The Inspector said they would go into the vestry to open it up.
It was warmer inside, and brighter. The inspector already had a plain table set up, and the diggers placed the box onto it. After they left, the inspector nodded at Smith, who produced a jimmy. Frances was looking expectantly at the coffin, and Mallow stood a half step behind her. A moment later, the top was off.