by R. J. Koreto
“So who will you visit next, my lady?”
“We may need another visit to the Reverend Halliday. I think he knows something. He’s more curious than I expected him to be.”
“You mean he’s hiding something, my lady?”
“Not intentionally, Mallow. Remember that fuss in Seaforth Manor when it was discovered that the gamekeeper’s daughter was with child?”
“Very clearly, my lady,” said Mallow, pursing her lips. “I can’t say many of us were surprised belowstairs. Anyway, she wouldn’t name the father, and the gamekeeper was most wrathful. Even the vicar was afraid to intervene.” The gamekeeper was about six and a half feet tall with fists like battering rams, and it took all of Charles’s diplomatic skills to soothe the man. Still, the girl protected her lover’s identity.
“It was old Mrs. Weldon who knew, even though she didn’t realize she knew. Half-dotty she was by then, talking about nice young Davey Pribble, who always waved hello to her at her cottage door on his way over the stream. The thing was, there was nothing on the other side of the stream except the gamekeeper’s cottage. And she said he waved to her day after day. She knew, Mallow, but didn’t put it together.”
“I see, my lady. She couldn’t draw a conclusion, as you say.”
“Exactly. And I’m afraid that time I drew my conclusion a little too quickly and vocally.” Indeed, it had taken Charles and two undergardeners to hold back the enraged gamekeeper. The incident had been a lesson to Frances in how information was to be revealed. A lesson that Charles later told Frances he hoped she had learned well.
“For all that, my lady, it was a most jolly country wedding, and the baby boy no less handsome for having been born just seven months after.”
“Yes, it was. So tomorrow we will visit my cousin, Archdeacon Ffolkes.”
“I beg your pardon, my lady; I thought you said we were going to visit the Reverend Halliday.”
“Yes. But as an archdeacon, my cousin should know something about the Reverend Halliday. I think that we will try to find some background about him first. Who knows what we’re missing here? Even the Reverend Halliday may not know what he knows. For example, he was a missionary in Africa—and that’s where Mr. Braceley served. The archdeacon may have some connections we can draw on.”
“Do you think, my lady, he will feel inclined to help us?” Her voice was full of hesitation.
“That will be the difficult part, Mallow. You’ll come with me, of course. The Venerable Michael Ffolkes seemed impressed with your devotion to prayer. Everyone seems to have one piece of the puzzle. And I’m thinking there’s just one left. We’ll find it, even if the person who has it doesn’t even realize it.”
CHAPTER 28
Mallow felt that getting ready to visit an archdeacon in the diocesan offices was at least equal to a dinner in one of the great London houses.
“Modest is good enough, Mallow. I don’t have to look . . . elaborate.”
“I would think ‘Sunday best’ would apply here, my lady,” she replied with just a hint of censure.
“But it’s not Sunday, and we’re going to an office, not a church.”
“As you wish, my lady,” said Mallow stiffly. Then came the counterattack: “But it wouldn’t be respectful to not do your hair up proper, my lady.”
“Yes, Mallow.”
And then it was off to the archdeacon’s office.
Archdeacon Ffolkes occupied a suite that was as sedate as Hal’s law office if a little less elegant, as befitted a religious setting.
“Lady Frances Ffolkes, here to see my cousin, the archdeacon,” Frances told the archdeacon’s soberly dressed clerk, who guarded the inner sanctum, “if he has a few minutes.”
“Of course, my lady. I will see.”
It turned out that, yes, the archdeacon was available, and he came out himself. “Franny, a lovely surprise. You aren’t here to drag me into another exhumation, are you?”
“Not at all—well, in a way. We do need your assistance with a related manner. Could Mallow and I see you in your office?”
He raised an eyebrow. “I am consumed with curiosity. And filled with dread. Come in; we’ll have some tea and see what we can do.”
Archdeacon Ffolkes had a large office, a little disorganized with a few piles of paper. But the pride of place was given to a large leather-bound Bible within easy reach. He invited Frances and Mallow to take seats as he settled behind his desk, and a few minutes later, the clerk from the front office served them tea.
“So are you going to tell me you solved the mystery of the grave?” the archdeacon asked with a smile.
“I quite honestly don’t know. But if I ask for your help, you deserve the details. The grave was supposed to be the last resting place of an actress named Helen, which was an assumed name. The last place she had been known to reside was in the care of a couple named Halliday, who at that time lived in Maidstone. By all accounts, they were a good Christian couple. The last we know, or believe we knew, was that she died of a fever. The Hallidays are long gone, of course, but they left two legacies, so to speak.”
“The first, their mission to the theatre community. I know of it. Good work.” The Venerable Ffolkes chuckled. “A rather Sisyphean task, but in my profession, we are obliged to take a long view. The second is their son, the Reverend Samuel Halliday, in Wimbledon, I believe.”
“I’m impressed. How do you know that?”
“Oh, yes, how do we poor men manage to stumble through life, how do we run the Church of England, without the brilliant Franny Ffolkes leading the way?”
“Very amusing,” she said.
The Venerable Ffolkes looked at Mallow. “Tell me. Has your mistress ever been wrong?”
Would Mallow lie to a senior church official? wondered Frances.
“In my experience, sir, she has quickly corrected any errors she made.”
“Nicely answered. Honest yet loyal. Very well. Yes, I know of the Reverend Halliday. Well-regarded for his mission work. He apparently delivers a good sermon and is assiduous in his duties but not ambitious. He seems content to be a parish priest and has a legacy from his parents that makes life comfortable for him. He isn’t married but has dined frequently at the home of a prominent barrister who has an eligible daughter. Anything there to help you?”
Frances folded her arms across her chest and frowned. “No. There has to be something else, something hidden. I will need to speak with him directly, of course, but I need to know where to start. There must be something unusual there.”
“Are you looking for gossip or scandal? There are details about the priests I oversee that I can’t share, but I can tell you that there has never been a hint of any impropriety about him. Does that disappoint you?”
“No. It’s not him. It’s his family. It’s something that may have come down to him. His birth was . . . dramatic,” she said, thinking of him coming into the world as Helen was leaving it.
“Indeed? You’re ahead of me. I generally don’t enquire into the birth of our priests. That you know something about it, oddly enough, doesn’t surprise me. Appalls me, but doesn’t surprise me.”
“He related it to me himself. He was the only child born late in life to an unwell mother who was unusually old to bear a first child. The night he was born, a family friend, Helen—the actress I mentioned—was dying. Do you know the Reverend Halliday visits her grave?”
“A vicar who visits the grave of a family friend with no one to mourn her. What an odd task for a man of God to perform,” he said sarcastically.
“But, dear cousin, his mother had to have known Helen wasn’t there.”
He spread his hands out. “I’m an archdeacon, not a detective. That’s your profession. His parents knew, and they’re with God. We have no knowledge that the Reverend Halliday knows anything. How can we guess what secret shame or fear caused his parents to bury a coffin with a nameless child? But they didn’t tell their son, or somehow, they meant to, but it never happened. I
am sorry, Franny, I know you want to—”
“‘The Musgrave Ritual,’” she said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“A Sherlock Holmes story. A ritual that leads to buried treasure is passed down over the years, but at some point, the meaning is lost and all they have is nonsensical words until Holmes figures it out.”
“You are free to ask the Reverend Halliday if his parents gave him a ritual.”
“I doubt it. But the Reverend Halliday was given something—he was given a name. Samuel. I remember now. There something odd about Samuel’s birth in the Bible, wasn’t there?”
Again, the archdeacon tweaked Frances by appealing to her maid. “Mallow, I’ll wager you know the story of Samuel. Could you relate it for your mistress?”
“Oh, yes, sir. A very nice story it is. His mother was sad because she was barren, so she prayed and cried at the great temple in Jerusalem. A priest upbraided her, thinking she was drunk at the temple of all places. But she told him she was just upset because she was childless, and the priest felt bad because he saw she was a good and pious woman. She even said that if she had a son, she’d give him to the service of the temple when he was old enough, and the priest added his prayers to hers. And soon she found she was with child and did as she promised, and he became the great prophet Samuel.”
“Nicely done, Mallow,” said the archdeacon. “Accurate in all respects.” Frances turned and gave her maid a quick wink and smile.
“As a reward that at least one of you here knows something of the Old Testament, I will bestow on you one more piece of knowledge,” said the archdeacon. “I don’t know if this helps, but the name Samuel comes from Hebrew, meaning, ‘God has heard.’”
Inspiration hit Frances, and she practically jumped out of her chair. “But that’s the epitaph on the gravestone! Didn’t you see it? I thought it odd and wondered what meaning it could have. ‘God Has Heard.’”
“Remember, Frances, I only saw the gravesite at night, and the light was focused on the pit, not the stone,” Archdeacon Ffolkes said.
“But have you ever seen that phrase on a tombstone?” The archdeacon shook his head. “And yet there it was, a reference to Samuel. But Samuel—that is, Samuel Halliday—lives. But how? It doesn’t . . . but there must be . . .” She lapsed into thought, as if Mallow and her cousin weren’t even there.
The archdeacon chuckled again but not unkindly. “I can’t help you, but I know you will figure it out, dear cousin. When you get on a horse, you ride it to the end.” He paused and then laughed loudly. “I didn’t think what I was saying—what a perfect reference. I’m thinking now of your attempt at steeplechase as a girl. It was horrifying, but I admired you for it. Mallow, did your mistress ever tell you about the time she dressed in her brother’s clothes, hopped on his horse, and took him on a gallop? It took half the grooms in the county to catch her.”
“A slight exaggeration,” said Frances.
“I confess, sir, that that particular event was much discussed belowstairs.”
“I’m sure it was,” said the archdeacon. “Franny, you’ll be glad to hear that the bloodline from Seaforth Star continues. That rich brown coat and fine spirit remains in his descendants. You can’t hide a good bloodline. I know, with the exception of that stunt, that you have little interest in horses, but even you could easily tell all the horses who trace their ancestry back to Seaforth Star. They all look of a kind. When next you travel to Seaforth Manor, do make a visit to the stables.”
Frances stood. “I will. And thanks for your expert advice today. I had hoped for more, but that’s hardly your fault. I know now that the Hallidays did send a message, however subtle, to their son. I can use that to capture his interest, and together, we can . . . we can proceed.” She had been going to say, “force something out of Emma Lockton.” Emma, whose name also sent a message, from Shropshire. But there was no need to involve her cousin in all of that. “Come, Mallow. We have work to do. We’re almost there.” They made their good-byes, and the amused archdeacon saw them out. A few moments later, the two women were in a hansom back to their rooms.
“Was my ill-advised riding adventure really the subject of talk belowstairs, Mallow? I was just making a point, even as a little girl, that having to ride sidesaddle was unfair.”
“It was discussed, my lady, but always in a respectful tone, and the general thought was that your performance was most impressive.” There was also a healthy dose of pity for your parents, Mallow thought but did not say.
Frances laughed. “I’m pleased to hear it. Maybe the next time we travel down to the estate, I’ll see if I recognize any of the horses. As my cousin said, you can’t disguise a bloodline.”
Bloodlines, Frances thought. Horses apparently looked like their parents. Well, why not? People often did. For example, everyone knew Frances was her mother’s daughter. People looked alike. Hair color, a pleasing face. A handsome vicar. The beautiful Susan Lockton and her plain mother. The picture on Frances’s uncle’s candy box—“chocolate-box prettiness.” The handsome horses on the Seaforth estate. Would Mary and Charles’s child favor the mother or father? Helen, the beautiful Helen. The portrait of Louisa with the world’s most kissable mouth . . .
Frances cried out and threw her hands up in surprise.
“My lady, are you unwell?”
“I’m fine. But oh, my dear Lord, oh, Mallow, your mistress is the stupidest woman in all Christendom. However, it’s all right; it’s all clear now, staring me in the face all this time. I was an utter fool, but now I have the last piece of the puzzle. Oh, dear, Mallow, it was brilliant, absolutely brilliant. A cool plan, probably made at the very last minute, but with such daring it held up for years.”
“Do you know where Helen is, my lady?”
Frances gave her maid a mysterious smile. “Helen? Oh, Helen is well and truly dead, Mallow. But we were engaged to find Louisa Torrence. And we will have her. However, it’s bringing her out that’s going to be tricky. Not impossible, but tricky. A woman who disappeared. A lost soldier. A killer. We’ll bring them all out, Mallow. I’ll tell you all. And we’ll plan our revelation.”
“I am delighted to hear your ladyship has come to a successful conclusion. I will help in any way I can.”
Frances put her hand on Mallow’s. “I know. You’ve been invaluable so far, dear Watson.”
“Thank you, my lady. And if I may be so bold, just now, you sounded very . . . commanding, my lady, like the prince at the end of the play last night.”
“Yes, Mallow. What did he say? ‘All are punish’d.’ Yes, Mallow, I’m afraid all are punish’d.” Then she smiled. “Or will be.”
CHAPTER 29
Frances immediately started planning with Mallow. They didn’t even break for lunch; Frances sent one of the hotel maids out for fish and chips. Their greasy fingers stained the papers as Frances made lists and charts, explaining it all to Mallow and tossing off ideas for forcing secrets out of those who still kept them.
“It’s one thing to know, Mallow. It’s another to prove. As you can see, there are multiple secrets here and a thirty-year connection between the disappearance of Helen and the murder of Mattins. They’re related, but no one knows the whole story. Except us, of course. It’s rather like pulling up weeds. If you just grab the stem and rip, the roots remain, and a few weeks later the plant comes up stronger than ever.” Or so she had learned one summer as a child, when her mother had tried, and failed, to interest Frances in gardening.
“Anyway, there’s so much illusion, Mallow. I’ve been thinking about what Mr. Shaw told us. Actors are full of illusions, but so are playwrights and directors. I’m going to create my own play. There’s another piece by Shakespeare—Hamlet—and the main character uses his own words to solve a mystery: ‘The play’s the thing wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the King.’ So I’m going to be a playwright and director, and you’re going to be a stage manager.”
“I beg your pardon, my lady—a stage mana
ger?”
“Yes. That’s the job the late Mr. Mattins had. The stage manager is in charge of what goes on behind the stage. I guess you could say that if a director is like the master or mistress of a house, a stage manager is like a butler or housekeeper.”
“Very good, my lady.”
“Do you think you’ll be able to get them to listen to you, Mallow?” asked Frances in a teasing tone.
“I have full confidence they will listen to me, my lady,” said Mallow without cracking a smile. Frances had no doubt either.
After lunch, Frances made another list.
“I’ll need you to visit Lockton’s and have a private talk with Susan. We’ll need her, of course.”
Mallow listened to her ladyship’s instructions and nodded. “We got on well, my lady. I’m sure she will be agreeable.”
Frances then said that she’d be getting her bicycle and they would meet back later.
First, she was off to the St. James Theatre, where the doorman told her where she could find her friend and jujutsu partner, the musical actress Marie Studholme. Frances met her in her dressing room, examining various outfits.
“So, Frances, which color works for me? The pale rose? It contrasts nicely with my hair. But look who I’m asking. I’m sure that Mallow is the one who makes sure you’re properly dressed every morning. If I didn’t like you so much, I’d try to steal her from you.”
Frances feigned shock. “She would never. Even a mistress who lives on her own and speaks publicly on women’s suffrage is more respectable than an actress.”
Marie laughed. “Mallow is absolutely right. But Frances, I should ask if you have recovered. All of London is talking about how you gave a sound thrashing to a thief. I confess to being wildly jealous that you got to put our jujutsu training to use before I did.”
Frances sat down and groaned. “All of London? My sister-in-law heard, and I’m just waiting for my brother to find out. Ah, well, I’ve gotten rather good at soothing him. It’s just more of the same.”