Death on the Sapphire: A Lady Frances Ffolkes Mystery (17 page)

Maybe this said something about Mr. Bramwell.

The door opened, and a young man, neatly dressed, walked in. He looked not unkind but a little harried.

“I am sorry you were sent here to wait, my lady. Mr. Bramwell has been in the middle of important parliamentary business. I’m Arthur Appledore, Mr. Bramwell’s secretary.” He then apologetically asked if Lady Frances could describe the reason for her call.

She thought for a moment and decided to be oblique to keep Bramwell guessing and encourage him to see her in person.

“I am helping some friends named Colcombe. Daniel Colcombe, who was a major during the Boer War, died recently, and I am researching some actions that occurred toward the end of that war with his command, the Empire Light Horse.” She added that Lord Crossley had particularly recommended she speak with Mr. Bramwell.

It was only a few sentences, but by the time she was done, the secretary had gone from harried to deeply anxious. It seemed way of out proportion to her story. Unless, of course, Mr. Bramwell had already had words with him about this manuscript.

“Yes . . . ah . . . thank you, my lady. Let me just discuss this and see if . . . if this is something he can address right now.” He almost stumbled out of the room, closing the door behind him. Frances’s curiosity was roused beyond control. She gave Appledore a few seconds to return to his master, then she left the morning room herself. Sounds from a door along the hall gave away the location of the office. No servants were in view, so she decided a bit of eavesdropping was not amiss. One voice rose to the point where there was no need to put her ear to the door—and she guessed that was Bramwell having a talk with his soft-spoken secretary.

“. . . Well why didn’t you just get rid of her . . . Yes, I am very much aware she’s the sister of a marquess . . . I don’t bloody well care; that’s the last thing I want to get involved with . . . Look, Appledore, maybe I’m not making myself clear. I have no intention of addressing this with one of Winifred Elkhorn’s lapdogs. Now get the Seaforth bitch out of here.”

Frances felt the two red spots on her cheek that she always knew appeared when she was infuriated. She beat a retreat to the morning room so Appledore wouldn’t find her outside the door. Frances had composed herself when the secretary returned, but he looked somewhat the worse for wear.

“You must excuse me, Lady Frances, for the delay. Something . . . rather urgent came up.”

“I’m sure,” she said coldly.

“Another time, perhaps, he may be more, ah, available,” he said. He escorted her out of the room and toward the door. They were in the middle of the foyer when Appledore said, “Meanwhile, he assures me he will give the problem his full attention.” That final ridiculous lie was too much. Before Appledore knew
what was happening, Frances spun on her heels and was striding down the hall to the office. Without knocking, she entered.

“Did you get rid of her?” said Bramwell without looking up. He was tucked into his desk, absorbed in his papers. He was only of middle years, saw Frances, but already portly and jowly. He enjoyed food and drink.

“He did not,” said Frances. A few seconds later, a terrified Appledore followed her into the room.

“What the devil—” said Bramwell.

“During my demonstrations in the park, I’ve been called bitch. And worse. But at least those men had the courage to say that to my face. I came here to discuss a heroic British soldier. Now are you going to help me?”

With some effort, Bramwell stood, his face drained of color. “You forget yourself, Lady Frances. You’ll play no games with me. Appledore, get her out of here at once.”

“Don’t you dare touch me, Appledore,” said Frances. She had learned that being imperious was a powerful technique in situations like this. It only postponed the inevitable, it was true, but sometimes a postponement was all that was necessary. “I want to let you know I will see to it the Colcombe manuscript is published—and don’t insult me by pretending you don’t know what I’m talking about. You will regret your behavior.”

“I have nothing to say except that there are libel laws in this country, even for the aristocracy. Now you will leave or I’ll have my servants remove you.”

“With men like you in Parliament, is it any wonder that women want the vote? Good day to you, sir. I will see myself out.”

And feeling triumphant, she left the office and the house. She had hoped to get more out of him, but what she had learned was actually very helpful. Mr. Bramwell was beyond angry. The tone of last sentence wasn’t rage—it was fear. Mr. Bramwell was frightened when she mentioned the manuscript, and Frances found that enlightening.

It wasn’t even lunchtime—it had been a very profitable morning.

Back at Miss Plimsoll’s, she looked at the rack of letters and messages, half-hoping and half-fearing one from Gareth, but there was nothing. She shook her head as if to clear it. No point in brooding, she reminded herself. Meanwhile, she had some time to change before another committee luncheon, then she’d be able to rest in the afternoon until it was time to go to the soup kitchen.

She found herself looking forward to the evening. The hard, difficult work would be a refreshing change from the intellectual complexities of government ministers and, yes, from lingering thoughts of Gareth.

Indeed, as the crowds of the hungry flowed through the door that night, all other thoughts left her. By the end of the evening, she was weary in body but at peace in mind. She bid good night to Eleanor at her house and then continued in the cab to Miss Plimsoll’s, looking forward to her bed. The night porter let her in, and usually he said nothing more than “Good evening,” but tonight he said, “A visitor, my lady.”

“At this hour?” No one would call unless it was an emergency—something about her family? The porter jabbed a thumb at the lounge. As tired as she was, Frances suddenly felt awake and practically ran into the room. But it wasn’t family or one of their servants: it was a large figure in a loud, checked suit—Constable Smith, Inspector Eastley’s right-hand man. As before, he was looking around the room in wonderment but focused on Frances as soon as she entered.

He bowed to her and, in his heavy East End accent, said, “Good evening, my lady. The inspector requests your immediate presence. I am to take you there.”

“Why? What has happened? It can’t wait until tomorrow?”

“The inspector wants to see you tonight, my lady. He will explain.”

Curiosity won out over fear.

“Very well, if he insists. Let me tell my maid, and I will be back down in one minute.” She raced up the stairs, her mind spinning. Inspector Eastley hadn’t seemed to want to see her again, but now he was asking for her at night.

Mallow was stalking the small sitting room in high indignation.

“Good evening, my lady, I am very glad you’re back. I must tell you that a police constable had the nerve to call on you and demand your presence. He actually asked where you were. Of course, I told him nothing except that you were expected tonight.”

“Thank you, Mallow.” Frances hid a smile. “I saw him downstairs in the visitor’s lounge.”

“He was bold enough to wait here, my lady?” Mallow couldn’t believe it—the lounge was for
gentlemen
visitors.

“I’m afraid the police don’t observe typical proprieties, Mallow. But thank you for handling this. Now, I will be going off with him—I am sure I will be fine, but I wanted to tell you so you wouldn’t worry.”

“Very good, my lady. I shall wait up for you.”

“Thank you, Mallow.”

Back downstairs, she told the constable she was ready, and they headed out the door. Smith said there was a cab waiting just around the corner. He helped her in graciously but said nothing to her or to the driver, who clearly had already been given his orders. The whip cracked and the horse took off.

As she watched the neighborhoods pass by, she realized they were headed back to the East End. Indeed, when they finally stopped, she figured they were no more than a ten-minute walk from her soup kitchen.

The street, like so many in that area, was narrow and dimly lit. Frances made a mental note to find out which London bureau
handled street lighting and make a case for more illumination. As they stepped out of the cab, Frances saw a knot of men gathered on the sidewalk. One of them separated from the group and walked over to her—Inspector Eastley, again in a suit in need of an ironing.

“Your man practically kidnapped me. Do you care to tell me why?” she asked.

Eastley raised an eyebrow. “Constable, did you kidnap Lady Frances?”

“No, sir. I told her you requested her presence, as you said, sir.”

“I’m glad we cleared that up,” he said. “But I do owe you an explanation. A man was murdered here this evening, my lady. There were no witnesses, but he was identified by an acquaintance.”

Frances knew it was a dangerous neighborhood. She was determined to not appear shaken and then faint, as might be expected of a woman, and she told the inspector she was not surprised there was a murder here.

“No surprise at all, my lady. Except for this.” He produced a card from his pocket. “Not many men in this neighborhood carry with them the calling card of Lady Frances Ffolkes, sister of the Marquess of Seaforth.”

At that, Frances paled. She looked over the inspector’s shoulder to where uniformed constables were guarding what she could now see was a body covered by a sheet. She knew who it must be: Private Alfred Barnstable, formerly of the Empire Light Horse, to whom she had given a card at their meeting.

When the local inspector saw a lady’s calling card in the dead man’s pocket, he had brought in Special Branch. Inspector Eastley told Frances he thought it too much of a coincidence: Lady Frances Ffolkes’s card in possession of a man soon identified as having served under the late Daniel Colcombe. He had been found near a bar owned by an Australian and frequented by his countrymen—the Red Kangaroo.

“If he had your card, I assume you met. I’d like to know about it.” His voice was silky, but Frances sensed the command, and she instinctively fought against it.

“Mr. Barnstable seemed to me to be a fine man in our short acquaintanceship. I shall mourn him. But surely this is just a simple robbery. I can’t see what it has to do with our talk.”

“You have an unpleasant habit of questioning police methods, Lady Frances.” He was more menacing now. “You haven’t asked how Mr. Barnstable died. I will tell you. It was a gunshot to the chest at close range, just like Major Colcombe, but he wasn’t cleaning a weapon here.” He went on to list a range of ghastly ways violence was meted out in the East End—knives, clubs, garrotes—and Frances strove not to look queasy.

“But the local criminals and gang members generally don’t use guns. They’re expensive, heavy, and make a lot of noise. So we don’t think he was killed by a common robber. And in the police, we don’t trust coincidences. Tell me what you discussed and don’t make me ask you again.”

“Very well. It is late, and I am tired too. However, there’s no need for discourtesy. Mr. Barnstable came to me because I had posted a note at the Soldiers and Sailors Club asking to speak to anyone under Colcombe. He told me the major had been a great hero but that the debacle had been covered up by politicians and War Office bureaucrats.”

Inspector Eastley was a careful listener, she’d give him that.

“But no names came up?”

“None. He had no idea, and Major Colcombe would hardly confide something that important to a private soldier.”

“Of course,” he murmured. “But tell me, my lady, have you made any progress in your quest for the manuscript?”

She could tell the inspector about the attack in the mews, the mysterious constable, and her connection with Lord Crossley. But she hesitated.

“Do you ask out of curiosity? Or is that the subject of your investigation?”

He smiled. “I do apologize, Lady Frances, but as I said, the police don’t answer questions. They just ask them.”

“Of course,” she said and smiled back. “But perhaps one specific question. How close was the man who shot him? You can tell that, can’t you, by looking at the wound, at least approximately?”

He looked surprised. “I can tell you that, Lady Frances. The shooter was no more than a foot or two away.”

“Thank you, Inspector. And now, I will be frank with you. Private Barnstable was a very cautious man who stayed alive in a difficult war. He would not have let someone he didn’t know get that close to him.”

Before the inspector could comment, they both turned at the sound of a hansom arriving on the quiet street.

It stopped, and a well-dressed man alighted. Colonel Zachery Mountjoy. He walked as quickly as he could without losing dignity. The hard set of his mouth, clear under his mustache, showed he was angry. The inspector greeted him with a thin smile, and Constable Smith stepped back to let the colonel into their little circle—but never took his eyes off him.

“You are most welcome, Colonel. Did you hear about this particular incident? Or do you just frequent this part of London?”

“I have no use for your impertinence,” said Mountjoy. “I heard about this the same way you did. What I couldn’t believe is that you dragged Lady Frances down here. Her brother is a marquess—a crown minister and a member of several prestigious clubs. Have you completely lost your senses?”