Death on the Sapphire: A Lady Frances Ffolkes Mystery (12 page)

“See—I can tease, too,” she said. “Anyway, suffragists believe in the marriage of true equals. And when you are ready to propose, you may ask my brother for his blessing but not his permission. Now do lead me inside.”

Other guests were already gathered in the drawing room, which was dimly lit. The dresses were ornate and perhaps too lavishly trimmed for the most proper society events. She saw Lord and Lady Heathcote themselves in clothes so beautiful and well-tailored that they almost succeeded in covering up their dissipation with elegance. She waited for Gareth to introduce her to them, but he whispered. “This is not your typical gathering. If they wish to meet you, they will say so. But probably not tonight.” He smiled and shrugged, trying to excuse this strange breech of etiquette. “They only talk to people after they’ve been to several of their gatherings. It is the way of things here.”

Frances recognized a few people, although knew none of them well. But she could attach at least a minor scandal to them—Lord M., who had once left London very quickly after a card scandal at the Wentworth Club, and Mrs. J., whose attachment to her husband’s cousin had set all the tongues wagging last season. These were people who had come from aristocratic
families—nevertheless, Frances knew her mother would never have admitted any of them to her home.

No servants were evident. Gareth saw her to a drinks table, where Frances couldn’t recognize half the bottles: odd-colored liquors with labels in foreign languages.

“Will you allow me to choose for you?” he asked.

“Thank you. But a sherry will be satisfactory.” She wanted her wits about her, and there was no telling what some of those drinks might do to her senses. Frances wondered if that would disappoint Gareth, if she would appear unsophisticated. But she was pleased when her choice had the opposite effect.

“Interesting, Lady Frances. You are a progressive, even revolutionary, but you turn away from novelties. That shows a nicely balanced mind.”

Frances blushed at the compliment and simply said, “Thank you.”

Apparently, although everyone knew it was a theater party, the location was kept secret until whispers began to permeate the room, and Gareth said it was time to be off. They didn’t drive to the West End theaters but to a slightly shabby bohemian neighborhood that she rarely had occasion to visit. She probably would’ve walked right by the theater had Lord Gareth not pointed it out to her. It could’ve been a warehouse. He drove the auto through a narrow alley into what had once been a stable and parked it. The rest of the party soon followed in their own vehicles, and Lord Gareth tipped a half-asleep porter to watch them.

“While you were on the other side of the Atlantic, did you manage to make it to South America?” asked Lord Gareth.

“You’re still teasing me. South America is as far from New York as New York is from London. But I bet you have.”

He just gave her a mysterious smile. “What we’re seeing tonight is a sort of circus, a troupe from Argentina. There will be singing and dancing and other acts. It will be rather unusual.”

The Heathcote party entered the theater and milled about with the other patrons, who ranged from ladies and gentlemen
in eveningwear to artistic types in worn tweeds flecked with paint. Everyone rubbed shoulders without a fuss; no one seemed to resent sharing the lobby with those much richer or poorer.

As she took in the crowd, she heard a familiar voice address her from behind. “Lady Frances, what an unexpected pleasure.” It was Colonel Mountjoy.

“Colonel, I didn’t take you for a lover of theater. Especially rather obscure entertainments like this.”

“As a retired bachelor, I find time for many interests.” She saw his eyes light on Lord and Lady Heathcote. “But I never took you for a member of the Heathcote set.”

“I am not a member of any ‘set,’ Colonel. My friend, Lord Gareth, invited me to join some friends of his in a theater party.” She found the colonel’s assumption a little bold, as if he were cataloguing her.

Frances introduced the two gentlemen—the colonel as belonging to her brother’s club and Lord Gareth as a government colleague of her brother’s. This was all completely respectable.

“It’s a trifle warm in here, Lady Frances. May I get you a glass of water?”

“Thank you, Lord Gareth.” His meaning was clear. He was going to give the colonel a few moments alone with her out of politeness, but he was her escort for this evening, so it would be just a few moments. The colonel understood this too. He leaned in close to Frances when they were alone.

“It is not my place to comment on your choice of friends, my lady, but you should know that no one is invited to a Heathcote party unless the Heathcotes want something from them. Whispers about the Colcombe manuscript, and your interest in it, have made their way around Society. I advise you to think carefully before becoming too deeply involved in them.”

“I assure you, I have no intention of being taken in by anyone,” said Frances coldly. “Maybe you’re right. But they don’t
seem to want to speak with me at the moment. I am really here at the invitation of Lord Gareth,” she said.

“Yes—I haven’t met him. I only know of him as the second son of the Duke of Carrolton. Perhaps you should ask what the Heathcotes want from him, as well.”

At that, Lord Gareth returned with the water. The colonel told them to enjoy the show and bowed out. A few minutes later, Lord and Lady Heathcote led the way into the small theater.

“Unusual” didn’t begin to describe the evening. First some vocalists sang a tune accompanied by the strums of a guitar. She listened to the lovely songs in Spanish, which she didn’t understand, but the emotion in the singers’ voices affected her powerfully. There were dances that Lord Gareth told her were from native tribes, older than any European influence. Some juggling acts appeared as well, and everyone was dressed in bright lavish clothes. They reminded her of the ornately colored parrots and other tropical birds she knew only from pictures.

At the end, the small band began playing a seductive piece with a strong beat—alien, as much of the music had been that evening. A man and woman appeared on the stage. He was slim and wore tight black pants and a red shirt. The woman was stunningly beautiful and wore a dress of the same color as the shirt that shockingly left much of her leg visible. And then they danced to the music, a ballroom dance, but like nothing Frances had ever seen. They flowed with each other—it was almost indecent, she thought—and yet it made even the most graceful waltz in her memory seem awkward.

The couple went through several numbers, and at the end the applause was enthusiastic.

“It’s called the tango,” said Lord Gareth. “It came out of the slums of Buenos Aires, where the Catholic Church has spoken out against it.”

“If they continue to perform it here, I’m sure the Anglicans will follow suit,” said Frances.

“Come with me,” said Lord Gareth. He took Frances’s hand in his own. His hand was much larger than hers, cool and strong. Lord Gareth led her through a door near the stage, and they found themselves backstage. Dancers and singers were in a state of half-dress, and only the fear of looking unsophisticated in front of Lord Gareth kept her going. He knocked on the door of a dressing room. Frances heard Spanish, and Lord Gareth opened the door.

The tango dancers were the only occupants. The man was lounging against the wall and smoking a cigarette that filled the room with a blue haze. The woman was taking off her makeup. Up close, she was even more exquisite. Lord Gareth surprised Frances again by speaking to them in Spanish. They both answered, and the man laughed while the woman smiled.

“They are Matias and Dolores. I told them that you found their dancing both magnificent and shocking. Did I tell them right?” Frances just nodded. She had Lord Gareth tell them she had never seen anything like that, and words couldn’t describe . . . When he translated, the two dancers briefly bowed in acknowledgement of the compliment. Matias said something to Lord Gareth and laughed again.

“He said he will give the pretty English girl tango lessons, if she would like.”

Frances rallied. She wasn’t going to come off as cowed in this exotic setting.

“Ask them how much would it cost.”

“He says, for the beautiful señorita, there would be no cost.”

“Tell him he’s a flatterer,” said Frances.

But Dolores didn’t like the exchange. She frowned at Matias, and the Spanish between them was so fast, even Lord Gareth had trouble following. But then they stopped. Dolores rolled her eyes, and Matias shrugged. He thanked them for coming, but it was late and they had to go to their rooming house . . .

Frances managed a simple “adios” and let Lord Gareth lead her out again. The audience was almost gone from the theater. She saw Colonel Mountjoy exiting and fancied he looked at her before heading out of the door, but she couldn’t read his expression. It suddenly felt very warm in the room, and Lord Gareth seemed so close. It was delicious to step outside again into the cool evening air.

For the moment, they had the empty stables to themselves. Frances was still flushed from the tightly packed theater, and all the evening’s memories came together: bandying words with Lord Gareth in his car, laughing over his “marriage proposal,” the achingly beautiful melodies, the tango dancers with their legs weaving in and out . . . and now he bent down and kissed her, and she kissed back. Frances almost forgot how to breathe; she held him tightly, with her arms around him, and they kissed again. He kissed her neck. “Franny, Franny, Franny,” she heard him say and wanted to say something back, but her voice was gone.

She didn’t know if thirty seconds or thirty minutes had passed, but then others came looking for their rides home, and without realizing how it happened, Frances was back in the two-seater, and they were driving through dark London streets in absolute silence.

Lord Gareth drove the car directly to Miss Plimsoll’s. He hopped out and walked around to help Frances out, which was just as well, as her legs were weak. She was about to thank him for the evening, as a proper young lady should, but under the light of the doorway, he silenced her with another kiss, this time much more tender.

“Good night, dearest Franny,” he said. Once more she was left speechless.

She vaguely remembered walking upstairs and letting Mallow help her get ready for bed. Mallow, for her part, at first wondered if her mistress had perhaps taken a little too much drink,
which would’ve surprised her greatly, as her ladyship never had more than a drop, just to be sociable. No, Mallow had seen plenty of those who had overindulged, from kitchen maids to dukes, and this wasn’t it. Overtired perhaps? Her ladyship could hardly focus on what Mallow said or asked, and her eyes seemed to be looking at something else.

And another thing: her hair was a mess. That was from the motorcar. Never mind what her ladyship’s brother did—a lady should be in a hansom cab or better yet a carriage.

“Good night, Mallow,” said Frances absently as she slipped into bed, and Mallow turned off her light.

“Good night, my lady,” said Mallow. By that point, Mallow had figured out what had happened. She was young and naïve in many ways, but between the crowded boisterous neighborhood she had grown up in and her days as a servant in a great house, she had seen many things. She didn’t blame Lady Frances at all—Mallow had watched when Lord Gareth had picked her up, and he was awfully handsome. Would Lady Frances become Lady Gareth?

One thing was certain: Lord Gareth had kissed her ladyship that evening. And from the look on her ladyship’s face and the state of her mind, he had done a proper job of it.

T
he next morning all Frances wanted to do was to lie in bed and think about Gareth, close her eyes and imagine his face, listen to his voice call her Franny . . . but the Seaforth women were not expected to wallow in emotion, good or bad. She had calls to make and a walk in the park with Mr. Wheaton and his mother.

“A pleasant evening, my lady?” asked Mallow.

“Very, thank you,” said Frances. “Didn’t I tell you last night?”

“You seemed especially tired, my lady, and not inclined to conversation,” said Mallow. Frances studied her maid as she quickly and efficiently laid out Frances’s clothes. The trouble with maids, her mother had always said, was that the good ones always knew what was occurring in your life. There was no keeping secrets from them.

After breakfast, Frances caught herself a hansom and mixed business with pleasure, calling on friends who belonged to various groups and committees to both socialize and get some work done.

Her calls complete, she headed to the Wheaton house and reflected on what a fine day it was for a walk, not too warm. The Wheatons lived in a sober mid-Victorian town house, a model of respectability. Mr. Wheaton was wearing his modern light suit again and smiled at her arrival.

“My mother will be down in a moment. You know, Lady Frances, your visits mean a lot to her.”

“I am glad, but you make it sound like some sort of charitable service I’m providing. I enjoy your company, you and your mother. But as we’ve established that this is a social event, you must call me ‘Franny,’ like all my friends.”

He gave her his shy smile again, which she found disarming. “Then you will call me ‘Hal.’ Outside of the office, ever since my school days, everyone calls me ‘Hal.’”

“Like Prince Hal?” asked Frances. She referred to the medieval prince, a pleasure-seeking wastrel who came into his own on his father’s death, becoming England’s great warrior king, Henry V.

“Hardly,” said Wheaton with a slight blush, and then Mrs. Wheaton came down.

The Wheatons still had a coach, not a car, which carried them to the park. At that time of day, the park walks were almost crowded with people enjoying one of London’s clear days. Mrs. Wheaton leaned on her son’s arm and asked Frances about her college experience and the United States in general. She was astonished to hear that Frances had actually met and spoken with Red Indians in New York.

“Just like in James Fenimore Cooper’s
The Last of the Mohicans
,” said Hal.

A cry from a park bench snapped them out of their discussion of America. A woman of about Mrs. Wheaton’s age, sitting next to a maid, called out to her.

“Delia, I had no idea you were out again,” said Mrs. Wheaton.

“My physician has ordered plenty of fresh air,” she said.

“I’m glad we met. Let us talk a while.” The maid pulled out some knitting as Mrs. Wheaton sat down to talk to her friend. “You young people take a walk while I talk with Delia and collect me later.”

“If you’re sure, Mother,” said Hal. Reassured, he and Frances continued walking. But after a few steps, Hal stopped and, a little self-consciously, offered Frances his arm, which she took.

“You seem very interested in America, Hal. I hope you make some time to visit someday.”

“Yes, I hope to. But if I may be so bold, it’s less America that I’m interested in than, I should say, the idea of you there. The sense of independence you show. I am acquainted with Miss Plimsoll’s Hotel, of course, but if you will pardon my curiosity, why have you chosen to live there when you could live with your brother and sister-in-law, who is your great friend?”

“I don’t mind talking about it,” she said. “It is modeled on a ladies-only hotel in New York called the Barbizon, where ladies can stay without having their virtue questioned.” She explained that she loved her family, but she had become too used to the freedom of college, of being on her own. She could never give up those freedoms.

“That is remarkable,” said Hal. “You are still so young, if I may make an observation, and to have done so much—to be so, well, different. I’m rather awestruck.”

“I am flattered you think so.” They walked along, and Frances could see he was lost in thought, as if he were trying to formulate what to say next—or wondering what she would say. “I will say that it is I who should be impressed by you. My brother is a fine judge of character, and he has often mentioned that there is no better solicitor in London, that you took over the practice at your father’s untimely death and not only kept the practice but increased it. You take care of your mother. You saw your sister properly married. I’m sure it was most trying and exhausting, but you persevered. I find you admirable, Hal.” He looked at her and smiled, but then she added one more thing. “But must you wear that old-fashioned black coat in your office? It doesn’t become you at all.”

Then Hal laughed, and it all came spilling out. He told Franny she was the first person who seemed to understand, the doubts he had had, the late nights poring over books, the nerve-racking meetings with lords and merchant princes. He had to remain confident in front of his mother and sister and set a strong example for the juniors and clerks.

“And as for the black coat . . . never mind the fashions of the last era; I have clients born during the reign of William IV, who remember Queen Victoria’s coronation. They wouldn’t trust me in anything else.”

“Then concerns of business must take precedence over sartorial matters. But the suit you have today works well for you.”

“Thank you for listening,” he said softly. And Frances gave his arm a squeeze and told him that as his friend, she was pleased to. Now, she knew, was the time to ask him a question she was very curious to know the answer to.

“Tell me, Hal, what are your views on giving women the vote?”

Agree or disagree, Gareth would’ve answered right away. But Hal took a moment to think first. It was his way, she saw, planning each word of each sentence.

“My feeling had long been that the vote for women was not necessary or even advisable. But then you and I spoke during our business meetings in my office and now at social events. You discussed your education with me. I heard about all the fine charitable enterprises you work so hard at. Your good sense, sensitivity, and intellect show through in everything you say and do. And although you mentioned nothing to me about suffrage until today, I cannot see how someone like you could support something that wasn’t fair and right. Without regard to your intention or mine, I have been convinced.”

He stopped talking, and they walked in silence for a while. Frances did not know how to react immediately but finally told
Hal she did not think she had ever been complimented so nicely. Perhaps a little embarrassed, Hal changed the subject.

“Are you familiar with the American novelist Mark Twain? It was a revelation to me. I never thought I knew anything about America until I read it. I was also appalled by it.”

“Appalled? Why?”

“A society built on two classes of citizens separated by race. I admire America and Americans, but to think they thought it was morally and practically possible to proceed indefinitely with such a system.” He shook his head.

“You are more progressive than I expected,” said Frances. Then she heard what she said. “I am sorry. I came across as patronizing. I, who get so offended when men do that to me. Forgive me?”

“Nothing to forgive, Franny. Your assumption was natural. Look whom I spend my days with: the cream of London society, the wealthy and socially prominent. There are exceptions, but as a group, they’re not inclined to push for social change.”

“I have to agree,” said Frances. “Apologies again, this time on behalf of the nobility.”

Hal laughed, but meanwhile, something tickled Frances’s mind. She was thinking of this amiable man as a pleasant companion for a walk around the park, but she had just been reminded he was also one of the most distinguished solicitors in London. As he said, he served the cream of London Society, families like the House of Seaforth. Did he serve the Colcombes too? She remembered the scrap of paper from Danny’s study, the legal paper with the name of an unknown person.

“Hal, does the name ‘D. Tregallis’ mean anything to you?”

She expected a denial, even confusion. After all, there were lots of solicitors in London. But he smiled and shook his head. “I knew it. Your brother told me you were helping the Colcombes. And you would be too thorough, and Major Colcombe
too careless, for you not to come across that name. But I’m afraid my hands are tied by the rules of my profession.”

“I’m not a solicitor, but I thought that privacy rules were no longer in effect after death?”

“You’re absolutely right,” he said, surprised a layperson knew that. “But this is not only about Major Colcombe’s privacy. Other peoples’ lives and reputations are at stake.”

“I understand. But I can’t just give up. I’ll ask and ask. I will find them and figure out why Danny paid them such a large sum. Maybe it has nothing to do with his book. But I have to see.” Her chin was held high, and her mouth was set.

“Of course. I understand.” He paused. “Very well. I may be able to help you, but I have to consult someone else first. Call my chief clerk in a few days. And please don’t mention D. Tregallis to anyone meanwhile.”

It seemed like a very nice coincidence—but maybe not, thought Frances. If Danny had a secret, whether or not it was connected with his manuscript, then he’d share it with Charles if he shared it with anyone. And if legal or financial advice was needed, Hal was the obvious choice.

Hal broke into her thoughts. “Our cook does a very nice tea, so shall we collect my mother and head home?”

Mrs. Wheaton had had a good time catching up with her friend, and soon they were back in the coach heading home. “The workmen are probably there, so you will excuse some noise,” said Mrs. Wheaton.

“You’ll be interested to know, Franny, that I’m adding a small annex to the back of the house to serve as a studio for my painting. There is some hammering and sawing going on.”

“But how marvelous. I am pleased to see you taking your painting so seriously,” said Franny.

Once inside, Mrs. Wheaton said she was quite tired from all the fresh air and would lie down for a bit. But the young people should have tea without her. She headed upstairs, and then the
housekeeper came into the drawing room to say tea would be ready presently.

“Now that I have again heard about your painting, Hal, I insist on seeing some of them.”

“Franny, they are hardly fit for public exhibition.”

“I’m not the public. I’m your friend.”

“Well if you must—I have three in my private office here in the house. Come, but you’ve been warned.”

He led her into an office that was a miniature version of the office at his firm, expensively furnished and old-fashioned.

“These three are mine,” he said.

Her first reaction was that Hal had made the right decision in choosing the law as a career rather than art. It’s not that he didn’t have talent. They were technically well executed, but there was no excitement, nothing to raise them from merely competent to inspirational.

Two were still lives: one with a bowl of fruit, bread loaf, and a bottle of wine. The second had the same fruit bowl, now accompanied by a candle and a dead pheasant, ready for plucking and roasting. The third was the best: a seascape. He had done a good job of capturing the texture of the waves and the battered wood of the fishing boat plunging between them.

“You like the seascape best, don’t you? It’s my favorite of what I’ve done. We take a house there for a holiday, and always as a boy, even now, I dream . . .” and perhaps feeling he had said too much, he stopped. Well, maybe, thought Franny, he was a better artist than she thought. He just needed the right emotional push.

“And meanwhile, I do fruit,” he said with a self-deprecating laugh. “There is always fruit around.”

She asked if he ever did portraits, and he quickly shook his head—much too difficult, plus all the problems and expenses of hiring models.

The housekeeper interrupted them to say that tea was almost ready, but she was afraid the master had received a call, and the man was most insistent. Hal rolled his eyes.

“A client. Somehow they always find me. I am terribly sorry, Franny. I won’t be more than a moment. I know who it is, and I just need to reassure him.”

“The Seaforth motto is ‘My duty is my life.’ Take your call, by all means.”

Hal picked up the extension in the office, and the housekeeper showed Frances back to the drawing room.

“Excuse any noise, my lady, from the workmen. They’re building a new, ah, work area for the master.” The housekeeper no doubt felt it was not her place to comment on the master’s pastime.

“Mr. Wheaton has told me it was an art studio,” said Frances. “I encouraged him to continue his work.”

“Very good, my lady,” said the housekeeper, relaxing now that this titled lady had given her blessing to the master’s artistic pursuits. “He has been talking about this for some months. He previously used a sort of little studio right off of this room,” she said, pointing to a side door. “But he said it was too small and the light not very good. Now, I’ll see about tea. The master should only be a few moments.”

She left, and Frances found herself alone. There was nothing in the room to hold her attention, just some old-fashioned furniture and indifferent landscapes you might find in dozens of similar London town houses. But there was that door . . . the door to Hal’s little studio. Frances knew she should leave well enough alone, but curiosity won out. She turned the doorknob and entered.

She had been in artists’ studios before in bohemian neighborhoods, and this gentleman’s studio looked much the same: an easel, tubes of paint, boxes of brushes, and a stack of unframed canvases against the wall. Frances kept her ears open for footsteps and began looking through them: Another still life, this one
with stilton cheese and a silver knife. A country scene, woods bordering on a summer field, with a farmhouse in the distance. Then the third canvas . . . she was stunned and felt the heat rise to her face. She didn’t know what to think.