Death on the Sapphire: A Lady Frances Ffolkes Mystery (13 page)

But then she heard footsteps and just had a moment to leave, close the door behind her, and compose herself before Hal entered.

“Sorry again. But now we’re ready, and I gave my housekeeper strict instructions we’re not to be disturbed again.”

“Oh good, because I’m absolutely parched.” They had a lovely afternoon, talking more about literature, and then he saw her into a hansom cab. But Frances didn’t head back to Miss Plimsoll’s. Rather, she went to her family home. She very much wanted to talk to Mary.

The butler greeted her warmly and told her that Lady Seaforth was home and alone—a visitor had left a little while ago, and she was writing letters.

“Frances, what a nice surprise. Mavis, bring some more tea for Lady Frances.”

They gathered around the little table in the morning room and caught up on each other’s lives since the party at the Moores’.

“Oh my—you’ve been out with the Heathcote set? What was that like? I hear they can be quite notorious,” said Mary.

“And that is why I’m here. It was quite an evening with the Heathcotes. We went to a very unusual theatrical performance with a dance that was almost obscene.” She watched her friend’s eyes get wider. “And then, as we were leaving, Lord Gareth kissed me. Again and again.”

Mary nearly spilled her tea. “Good Lord, my dear, I can’t imagine . . . that boldness . . . I mean . . .” She seemed astonished. Then she gathered herself and said, “Are you very happy at his . . . courtship of you?”

And Frances nodded. “It is a beginning, I know, and I won’t be foolish. But I am very happy. I have never met a man so forward, so progressive and intelligent. A man who treated me as an equal.”

“Then I am delighted for you.” She dropped her voice to a dramatic whisper. “But we’ll keep this from Charles a while, shall we?” And Frances giggled. Mary studied her friend.
She is so intelligent, normally so full of good sense. Oh please, Lord, keep her from getting hurt
.

“But there’s more. I’ve had a rather busy week. I just came back from a walk in the park with Henry Wheaton and his mother—”

“You mean the family solicitor?”

“Any reason I shouldn’t?” asked Frances.

“Not at all,” said Mary calmly. “As you know, Charles thinks the world of him.”

“It was really a matter of kindness. He’s so busy and can’t properly watch over his mother, who’s perhaps a little too solicitous of her health, although rather nice. It was a surprise, really. He has more of an intellectual and artistic sensibility than you’d expect from a solicitor, and he works so hard, I don’t think he gets to socialize very much. He seemed pleased to have someone to talk to about books and music. Did you know that he paints as a hobby?” Mary hid a smile as Frances talked.

“But then when we got to his house for tea, I’m afraid I did something I rather shouldn’t have. His mother was upstairs and he had to speak on the telephone, so I sneaked into his art studio.”

“Oh, Franny . . .”

“You know curiosity is my besetting sin. And now I’ve been punished for it. The first two paintings I saw were just a landscape and a still life, but the third one—was a portrait of me.”

“Oh my.” Mary smiled wryly. “You’ve made two conquests this week, my dear. You’re in danger of becoming notorious.”

“What do you mean ‘conquests’? Hal and I are friends—intellectual companions, that’s all.”

“Hal?” asked Mary with an arch of her eyebrow. “Mr. Wheaton is now ‘Hal’?” Frances reddened. “It could be Mr. Wheaton is too shy to engage a model, dear Franny, but I don’t think gentlemen paint portraits of women who are just intellectual companions. But was it any good?”

Frances blinked. “I don’t look at myself in the mirror much, but I found it . . . more flattering than I deserve.”

“What were you wearing? I mean, you weren’t, well, like what some painters . . .” Now Mary reddened, and then Frances caught her meaning.

“Mary! Do you think he’d go that far? I was in my blue dress, you know the one. Can you imagine if he had painted me . . . undressed?”

They both broke into helpless laughter at the thought. “My dear, I’d give a year’s dress allowance to buy such a portrait and put it over the mantle. Think of your aunts coming into the house and seeing that . . . and after they pass out, telling them it was painted by the family solicitor.” And they laughed so hard they could hardly catch their breath.

“Sweet Franny, in all seriousness, the man has developed feelings for you. I will tell you to be careful all around and leave it at that. Now, any progress with the Colcombe manuscript?”

“Following leads, as the detectives say. I have hopes, if nothing solid yet.”

“You worry your brother.”

“Then reassure him I am staying safe. In fact, there may be certain aspects of today’s conversation that might be best to omit from Charles.”

“Franny, as far as your brother is concerned, I think this entire day’s conversation never happened.”

F
rances caught an early morning train to Grenville. She did enjoy train travel, watching the world pass by and wondering about the other passengers. Were they going home or visiting friends and relations? On business or on holiday? What were they hoping to find at the other end?

She was the only one who got off the train at Grenville, a sleepy village that probably saw more freight than passenger traffic from the neighboring farms. With her small bag, she found herself alone in the empty station, but then an older man, heavily bearded, approached her. He wore rustic clothes and walked with a slight limp.

“Lady Frances Ffolkes? I’m Tredwell, the general’s manservant. He sent me to fetch you. I’m afraid there’s no car or coach here, just a simple pony cart, if you don’t mind. It’s about five miles to the house.”

“Thank you, Tredwell. I am sure your cart will be most acceptable.” He easily helped her onto the seat next to him and cracked the reins. The horse ambled on, clearly in no hurry. Frances truly didn’t mind. They had had such a cart in their country place. When they were children, Charles would take the reins, but if she pleaded enough, he’d give her a turn.

“My brother served under General Audendale. Perhaps you knew him—Major Charles Ffolkes—and his great friend, Major Daniel Colcombe?”

“That I did, my lady. A fine man, your brother, by all accounts. An important figure in London, the general says. And I knew Major Colcombe, too, my lady.” He scowled, and his face grew black. “That was a hard day for the general. He doesn’t like to travel much anymore, but he came up to London for his funeral. He had too much respect not to. That’s the way he’s always been, my lady. He has always put duty and honor first.” Frances remembered the general at the funeral, walking with a cane and looking frail.

He stopped speaking, and Frances was sorry she had led him into such a painful subject. But Tredwell brightened when she asked him if he had been with the general long.

“I was a green recruit, and if you can keep a secret, my lady, the general was a young lieutenant who didn’t know one end of a rifle from another.” They both laughed at that. “Eventually, he took me on as his soldier-servant, my lady, what we in the army call a ‘batman.’”

They had been together ever since, more than forty years, through transfers and promotions and wars. A bullet in India had ended Sergeant Tredwell’s military career, but General Audendale kept him on as a sort of assistant/valet. They traveled together to South Africa for what would be the aging general’s last command.

“I have been blessed to have such a good master all these years,” said Tredwell. “It’s rare in this world to meet such a gentleman, my lady. I would do anything for him.”

“From what I see, he has also been blessed to have you.”

“That is very kind of you to say, my lady.”

As they approached Egdon Hall, the seat of the Audendale family, Frances thought back to what she knew of architectural history. The main section had gone up during the Stuart era, she
guessed, in the seventeenth century, but the family had added on sections during the Georgian period that followed. Frances imagined a large central hall that had once held elaborate balls. She thought of the shocking tango—this house had no doubt held dances when even the waltz was considered risqué. But now, the house looked dark and a little unloved. The grounds were barely tended, the minimum done, with no flowers. Tredwell noticed her look.

“Yes, there are only a few servants left now. The general is alone here. Most of the house is closed up.”

Frances knew General Audendale had been a widower for a long time. He had one daughter, but she lived in India with her husband, who had a government appointment in Bombay. She was glad he and Tredwell had each other. They probably played cards and drank whiskey in the evening and relived battles past.

The main hall was indeed splendid, with some good oil paintings that could’ve used a cleaning. Sheets kept the furniture free from dust.

“Just follow me, my lady. We’ve set the general up right nice in a little apartment on the second floor.” The staircase was grand, but the carpet was getting worn. They walked along a hallway past closed doors before stopping at one. Tredwell knocked, then walked in without waiting for an answer.

They had done the general nice, as Tredwell had said. Here, at least, it was cheerful. The general had a little sitting room with a bedroom beyond. It reminded her of her own suite at Miss Plimsoll’s. It was well lit, and the walls were covered with framed pictures and photos, memorabilia of people and places in the far corners of the empire. She saw more photos and knickknacks on the table, including some exotic pieces. But despite the number of items, Frances was glad to see the room was clean and tidy.

General Audendale himself seemed to have become even more frail than she had remembered him from the funeral. He sat in a large comfortable chair and seemed to disappear into it.
He wore a smoking jacket, and his legs were covered with blankets. He had become quite thin.

Still, he seemed to recognize her at once and smiled.

“You bring me a visitor, Tredwell, good man!” His voice was weak but still audible. “Lady Frances, I remember you as a little girl. I knew your father and commanded your brother. But you know that. Come, sit near me. Tredwell, be a good lad and see about getting this young lady some refreshment.”

But a maid had been alerted when they arrived and a moment later came in carrying a tray with a large pot of tea and some tempting baked goods. The maid and Tredwell set it up. Tredwell leaned over and whispered to Frances, “We’d all be most grateful, my lady, if you could get the general to eat something,” he said. Then louder, he said, “General, sir, we’ll leave you with your guest. We’ll be close at hand if you need anything.” And he and the maid left.

Frances poured for the general and herself, giving him plenty of sugar.

“My staff has outdone themselves today, dear lady. Please have something.”

“Only if you do first,” said Frances with a sweet smile. “Come, these buns look divine.” The general said he could refuse her nothing and joined her.

“So a young girl like you comes all the way here for a book poor Colcombe was writing?” asked the general. He closed his eyes, but just for a moment or two. “That was such a sad day. Funerals are always sad, but his . . . Anyway, as you can see, I don’t know how much use I can be. It’s just me and my memories.”

“But it’s your memories I want, General.” She gave him more details, telling him that Colcombe had written something but it had been stolen.

“Indeed. I am sorry to hear that. He was an intelligent man, as well as being a brave and resourceful officer. I am sure that book would’ve been a fine addition to military literature.”

“I think we may still find it, General. But that means figuring out why it was stolen. I think someone doesn’t want what Major Colcombe wrote to be publicly known. And that may refer to something that happened in South Africa.”

The general was looking at her intently. Even when sipping his tea, his eyes never left her.

“I think it may refer to Sapphire River, the last battle of the Empire Light Horse.”

“My God, dear Lady Frances. How did you ever hear about that? It seems like ages ago. Tell me, my dear, what do you know about the Crimean War?”

“We were talking about South Africa,” said Frances. Was the general’s mind getting frail? He smiled gently at her.

“Don’t worry, my dear. My mind is not that far gone.” She was a little embarrassed. “But you need to know. Back then, my man, Tredwell, was then a private under my command—I was a newly minted lieutenant. You see him as an old man with a limp, but I can tell you, he was the fiercest, most loyal man in our regiment. Crimea is ancient history to you, already old when you were born. Did you learn anything about it?”

“A bit. I come from a military and diplomatic family.” The conflict had been complex: England, France, and the Ottoman Empire trying to contain Russia. The politics had been a muddle; the battles had been horrific.

“Of course. Back then, things, and by that I mean battles, were done a certain kind of way. But we were already in the middle of change—the cavalry charge had passed its day. By the time South Africa came around, you see, war had taken on a different kind of cast. It’s odd talking to a woman about this,” he said.

“I heard enough from my brother,” she said, hoping he wasn’t going to become too old-fashioned to discuss it with her.

“I suppose so. You girls are so modern today. Where was I? Yes, back in South Africa. No worse than Crimea, you see, but
different. We didn’t understand . . .” His eyes stopped looking at her and lost their focus.

“But you did understand, General. The Empire Light Horse was your idea, your plan for a different war. Charles said so.”

The general smiled, but now it was mirthless. “My idea. We thought it was good, but it was too good. We couldn’t understand that battle lines were gone, that everything we knew about war was over. That we were no longer necessary.”

“‘We,’ General? Who is ‘we’?” She felt on the cusp of something, even closer to finding out what had happened in South Africa—more than what Charles knew, what Private Barnstable knew. Frances felt her heart pounding. She felt she was getting close to those who wanted the manuscript stolen, people who didn’t want anyone to know what Danny was writing about.

“‘We,’ Lady Frances? It was all of us. Men in the government halls, men in Parliament, men from the War Office, the general staff. No one likes change. Why do you think I live here?” He raised an arm and waved it to show the entire house, with its dozens of unused rooms.

Frances didn’t want to get off the topic. “But one man, General. One man ordered the Empire Light Horse to change its tactics, to meet the enemy in a battle it couldn’t win.” One man who didn’t want that manuscript to come to light.

“One man? That man was me, Lady Frances. But you knew that. I was the commanding officer. I gave the order.”

Frances didn’t know much about how the army was organized, but she knew everyone answered to someone. Danny Colcombe had never said a bad word about the general. Someone had ordered the general to give new instructions to the Empire Light Horse. She thought of what Barnstable had overheard: “War Office.” The government department that supervised the army. She felt a chill. She had been so sure she could find one man who was responsible. But was it some shadowy committee? Was it some group who stole the manuscript and killed Danny?
All the men with a stake in a concealment? She thought of Colonel Mountjoy and Inspector Eastley, servants of the government. What were their motives? Who were their masters? But she refused to despair. There must be an answer.

“But there was another man, General. Someone who gave you the order?”

He smiled at her again, this time warmly. “Like all the Seaforths, my dear—both men and women—you are interested in politics, but you are young and have much to learn. When you are older, you will understand how foolish that question is.”

He wasn’t unkind, and because of his age, Frances was prepared to forgive his patronizing tone—it was because she was young, not because she was a woman. She thought about what he really said: there were byways in London’s political circles, and somewhere there was an answer.

After a few moments, he spoke again. “As for me, if you find that manuscript and publish it, I will buy the first copy that comes off the press. For reasons I can’t discuss and don’t even agree with, Colcombe never got the recognition he deserved for his heroism. If he gets it posthumously, I’ll die a happy man.”

And Frances had to be content with that. She smiled at the elderly officer. “Then I shall redouble my efforts. You have provided an education to me, sir, and I thank you. Now, as I am here, you might like to ask me questions in return.”

He laughed. “Yes. That is kind of you. Except for the sad occasion of Colcombe’s funeral, I haven’t been to London in years. The pretty young girls—are they all wearing dresses like yours? I remember the ladies from the Queen’s Golden Jubilee, back in eighty-seven. How are they dancing today?”

She wondered what General Audendale would think of the tango.

“I will tell you all about it. But first, I will make you another cup of tea, and you will have one of these delicious cakes.”

The general was beginning to look tired. Tredwell reappeared as if he knew how the general was feeling—of course he would have a good sense of how long the general could last.

“I know I speak for the general when I say you are more than welcome, but we need to leave in the next thirty minutes to make the next train, and there’s not another for some hours afterward, if you have evening engagements, my lady.”

Frances thanked the general for the conversation. He replied he was sorry he couldn’t be of more help.

“Oh, but you have helped, General,” she said, and he seemed surprised. She bid him farewell and followed Tredwell out the door.

Frances wanted to think on what the general had said but decided to postpone reflection until later. Once more sitting in the pony cart, she decided to see if she could get anything out of Tredwell. He started the conversation by thanking her for her visit—not many stopped by nowadays.