Death on the Sapphire: A Lady Frances Ffolkes Mystery (19 page)

“He was a fine man. We had some very good talks. Glad to have another military man here.”

“What kinds of things did you talk about?” she asked, and Faroe gave her a curious look. What could a lady’s maid want to know about two veterans’ conversation? She realized she had gone too far. “It’s just that if there were any talk about my lady, it would be a comfort for her to know.”

“Oh I see,” said Faroe with a knowing look and winked at her. “Your mistress wants to know if the major spoke about her. She was sweet on him. Don’t worry—I won’t tell a soul. But I’m afraid we didn’t talk much about the ladies.” Mallow felt her heart sink. That’s not what she meant to indicate. And she had so wanted to help her ladyship. Then he grinned. “Except for one girl, a real live one, he said, name of Ursula. Said he wanted to see her again, had some things to tell her.”

Oh! That was the nickname Major Colcombe gave her ladyship.

“She was a friend of my lady’s,” said Mallow. “If he told you, and you told me, I could have Lady Frances pass on the words.”

“A friend, was she?” asked Faroe, and he gave Mallow a shrewd look. “Very well then, something for your lady, a
friend
of Ursula’s. Now I can’t remember the exact words, you know, but we were talking about men of honor, and he said, ‘I’ll tell you, Mr. Faroe, they’re the worst. The greedy, selfish, and cowardly, you can see through them. But those obsessed with honor are the most frightening and dangerous of all. There’s no one like a fanatic, Mr. Faroe. Men like you and me, we fought with them and against them.’ He shuddered at that and then suddenly laughed. ‘My dear Ursula has her causes, but she’ll never be a fanatic; she has too much humanity in her.’ Well, that’s the long and short of it, Miss Mallow.”

“Thank you, Mr. Faroe,” said Mallow.

“If you want, I can give you paper and pen to write this all down.”

“I’m a lady’s maid,” said Mallow. “We don’t forget things. Now, thank you for your hospitality, but I should be getting this young man back to his mother.”

As expected, there was fresh fish for supper, and Frances found it delightful that they shared the table with Crispin. In better
London homes, children were not welcome at the table until they were much older.

“He’s a bright lad,” said Frances afterward as she prepared to leave.

“I’m pleased you think so. I agree—but I’m his mother. I am fortunate: Mr. Wheaton explained that Danny left sufficient money for us in his will. I haven’t had much experience with lawyers, but Mr. Wheaton seemed, well, kinder than one expected.”

“Yes, very much so,” said Frances with more enthusiasm than she intended, and Dorothy gave her a moment’s look before continuing.

“It seems there is enough money to either set up Crispin in business someday or to be trained in a profession, as a physician or for the law. I would be so pleased to see him as a local doctor in a town like this.”

“Oh—a boy that bright should be a specialist in Harley Street,” said Frances, referring to the neighborhood where the very best London doctors had their practices. Dorothy laughed.

A neighbor said he’d drive Frances and Mallow to the station, but before they departed, Frances promised to write often and keep Dorothy fully posted on her investigations.

“You’ve given me hope,” Dorothy said, and she gave her new friend a hug before waving her off.

“That was very enlightening,” said Frances when they were on the train. “Did you get anything from the coast guardsman?”

“Yes I did, my lady,” said Mallow, full of pride. She repeated the conversation Mr. Faroe had with Major Colcombe. Frances listened closely without interrupting.

“Well done, Mallow. This shows us something new. We haven’t seen much in the way of honor so far, outside of the major himself. Unless . . . there seems to be multiple motives at work. I’ll have to think that over. But good work.”

“Thank you, my lady. But just one more thing. I am afraid that District Officer Faroe may have realized that you are the ‘Ursula’ the major talked about. And, well, he thought that you and the major were . . . involved.” She was affronted.

“Oh dear,” said Frances. “But no matter. Major Colcombe is dead, and who is Mr. Faroe going to share any gossip with anyway?” She sighed. “I’ll tell you a secret, Mallow, when I was a girl, Danny Colcombe quite stole my heart.”

“Oh, go on, my lady!”

“He was quite dashing. He never did anything improper, of course. He was my brother’s best friend. And I was just seventeen. My mother and I had just convinced my father to let me study in America, and Danny was devoted to the army. Also, he was not the kind of man, especially then, who was looking to settle down . . .” She shook her head and didn’t speak for the rest of the ride.

A
lthough she got back late, Frances woke up early the next morning, full of purpose. She was feeling that as complicated as this problem seemed, everyone was giving her a piece of the puzzle. The confusing part was that even though the manuscript put some politicians in a bad light, she couldn’t see how murder entered into it. If there was a murder every time a politician faced a scandal, the London streets would be littered with corpses. But her professors would have told her to keep asking questions, and so she would.

However, academia went out of her head when she left the dining room after breakfast—Gareth was waiting for her. He was in the process of leaving a note for her with Mrs. Beasley, and when he noticed her, he greeted her with a smile that hinted of shared secrets. Desire and anger welled up together in an unpleasant mix.

“Franny! I was just leaving you a note. It’s been too long, but this time I’m giving you fair notice. The day after tomorrow, I thought—”

“Perhaps we should discuss this in the lounge,” she said, fighting to keep her voice steady. Gareth seemed to sense something in her tone and frowned as he followed her into the room, where she closed the door behind him.

“Dinner? Are you planning to take me out to dinner?”

“A late supper . . . Franny—”

“Because we’ll need a table for three—you, me, and your fiancée, Miss Chillingford.”

Frances expected, almost hoped, that Gareth would glibly deny the whole thing. But he said nothing, just sat down and put his head in his hands. Frances sat opposite him and waited.

“It’s not exactly . . . you see, Miss Chillingford and I have known each other since we were children. Her father’s estate borders our lands, and we saw quite a bit of each other when we were young. It was hoped, even assumed, that someday . . . and without even realizing it . . .” He realized how weak that sounded and let his voice trail off. “But I swear to you I never made a formal offer of marriage to her or asked her father for her hand.”

Disappointment replaced anger for a moment. “A man of your education and experience, with Claire Chillingford, who can barely tie her own bootlaces . . .”

“No, she is not intellectually inclined, I admit, but she has other qualities.”

Frances gave him a cold look that spoke volumes.

“I don’t mean her physical beauty. She is gentle and sweet and patient, and I thought that would complement my own personality, and I’d have other outlets for intellectual pursuits. But then I met you. I never thought that a woman like you existed; you have everything: charm, wit, intelligence—and, yes, beauty.” He peered at her to see if this was making an impression. It wasn’t.

“How fortunate for you to find the one person who could keep you entertained in your drawing room, dining room, and bedroom.”

“Franny—”

How nice, she thought, to be able to actually embarrass him.

“I never expected, when I sought you out at the Moore party . . .”

“Before you lie to me again, know that I had a very fruitful meeting with your uncle, Lord Crossley. He told me you had seen him about the Sapphire River days before. Why didn’t you tell me? I also got the impression from him that you were deeply involved with the Heathcotes, not a casual messenger as you implied. You went to a lot of trouble to sound me out about the Colcombe manuscript. I might forgive you if I found out you were courting two women at once. But to lie to me about the manuscript is appalling. Tell me the truth.”

Gareth smiled sadly and shook his head. “Uncle Ashton sees almost no one anymore. I had to push to get him to see me. God knows what you did to get into his study, but if there was one woman—no, one person—in all of London who could do it, it would be you.”

Frances felt a small stab of excitement at the compliment. But then she squashed it. She wasn’t going to let him flatter his way back into her good graces.

“Understand, Franny, I am a second son. I was expected to make my own way in the world. I know the Heathcotes have a certain dark reputation, but they merely make deals and alliances the same way government ministers do. It’s not a criminal gang. It’s a chance for ambitious men—and women—to create a place in the world. The Seaforths have long been in government. The Heathcotes and those in their circle do nothing worse than anyone in government.”

“Even if I believed that, they seem to have gone to an awful lot of trouble to make my acquaintance, sending you into the fray to pursue me. I’m just a fellow searcher.”

Gareth sighed deeply and paused, as if to gather his courage to say something important. “No, Franny. The Heathcotes didn’t think you were looking. They thought you had the manuscript and that everything you were doing was jockeying to make the
most use of it. Maybe blackmail a politician or two to support women’s suffrage and get justice for the men of the Empire Light Horse. It’s known Colcombe was a Seaforth friend, that you were a guest in their house, and that . . . when you were younger, there was talk he might even have made an offer of marriage to you. I’ll tell the truth now—they wanted to be your partner, to give you the resources you don’t have in order to fully exploit it.”

Frances thought about that while Gareth searched her face for signs of a reaction. “You are all wrong. I don’t have the manuscript. I really am just looking. And someone made a foolish mistake if they thought my childhood infatuation with a handsome cavalry officer was anything close to an engagement.”

Gareth closed his eyes for a moment. “We were wrong. I don’t think any of us are any closer to knowing where it is. My part in this, as far as the Heathcotes are concerned, is done. But know two things are real: I have not made an offer of marriage to Miss Chillingford or anyone else. And however we met, the point is now I really do love you. Surely you saw that. How can you really think me such a good actor?”

“There are those who say you’ve courted every available lady you’ve come across. I thought I was special, but apparently I’m just the latest in a series.”

“I thought you of all people would refrain from basing judgment on Society gossip.”

She sat there feeling her heart pound and looking into the saddest eyes she had ever seen. It was a rare occasion for her—struggling to find something to say.

“I have a lot to think about,” she eventually said. “We will talk later. Much later. For now, I think you should go. When this is all over, we will talk again.”

Then a sound distracted her. She turned to see the door open—and Henry Wheaton walked in. He was in his black
lawyer suit, and she could see his gold spectacles peeking out from the pocket. His eyes took in the scene.

Gareth stood. “Good day to you, Mr. Wheaton.”

“You as well, Lord Gareth.”

Suddenly, Gareth seemed his usual self, with his slightly amused look. “Mr. Wheaton has long been employed by my father to handle our family’s affairs. I assume he does the same for the Seaforths?”

“Yes, since my own father’s day,” said Frances.

“I didn’t know you made house calls, Mr. Wheaton. My father has always called upon you at your offices.”

“When circumstances dictate. Indeed, I am coming from a client now whose great age has made it unwise for him to leave his house.”

“An affliction that fortunately does not affect my father,” said Gareth. “Or Lady Frances.”

It was an awkward moment, and Frances wished Gareth didn’t seem to enjoy it so much.

Hal turned from Gareth to address Lady Frances directly. “I was passing by and thought, as you are dining at my house tonight, I can send my carriage for you.” From the corner of her eye, Frances could see Gareth’s surprise.

“That is very kind. But there’s always a cab available at the corner.”

“Very good, Lady Frances. I’ll leave then, and my apologies for interrupting.”

“You weren’t interrupting. Lord Gareth was just leaving.”

Hal brightened at that news, and Gareth accepted defeat gracefully. “Yes. But I am sure we can continue this conversation at another time.”

Both men said gracious good-byes and then proceeded to try to outdo each other in politeness in letting the other one exit first, and Frances almost laughed.

“It just occurred to me, Lord Gareth. My coach is outside. It would be a pleasure to take you to your next destination.”

“That is most kind of you, Mr. Wheaton, but it’s a fine day, so I think I’ll walk.”

Finally, Frances had the lounge to herself. She felt limp and didn’t think she could make it up the stairs. Competing emotions chased themselves around her mind. What was needed was a strong cup of tea, she decided, and with renewed vigor at the thought of it, she headed to her rooms.

After tea and some rest, Frances had to face Mallow, who sought yet another lengthy discussion about dress for the evening.

“Mr. Wheaton is not of the aristocracy, Mallow. They may not dress as elaborately as lords and ladies, but he may feel insulted if I’m not dressed to the highest standards. The same dress I wore to Lady Moore’s should do fine.”

“And we’ll have to do your hair up proper, my lady.”

Frances sighed. “Of course, Mallow.”

It was odd really, Frances reflected as Mallow got her ready—Hal Wheaton was technically middle class, but with the size and success of his firm, he probably had more money than many noble London families whose farmlands could no longer support their lifestyles. When Hal married, he would doubtless be able to afford to send his wife to the finest dressmakers in London, even as many noble ladies wondered if they could make their current outfits serve another season.

As it turned out, when Hal met her at the door that evening, she was glad she had made the decision she had. Hal wore a perfect evening suit, classic and well-tailored. He seemed a little self-conscious.

“You look lovely, Franny. Thank you so much for coming.” He led her into the drawing room, decorated at the height of style of some forty years ago but in good condition. Frances
had been in that room once before, after the funeral for Hal’s father. She had thought the room was used only for very special occasions—funerals, visits of great men, and apparently, dinners with Lady Frances Ffolkes.

“Dinner will be ready shortly. I’m afraid our cook is rather limited—plain English cooking. But she’s been with us more than twenty years, and it pleased my parents well enough.”

“I have great respect for plain English cooking,” she said. “Indeed, I had a delightful meal of simple fish at Mrs. Tregallis’s house.”

“I am glad you got on. She sent me a brief note thanking me for effecting the introduction but gave me no details. But no—” He stopped Franny from speaking. “—you have no legal or, if I may say, moral responsibility to tell me.”

“Oh, but I’d like to tell you. I’d like your legal insights,” she said and thought it very sweet the way Hal cocked his head and steepled his fingers in that way of his. She summarized their talk and what Daniel Colcombe had hinted at. She also told him about her meeting with Lord Crossley and discussed the death of Private Barnstable. He listened closely and then he frowned.

“I don’t want to sound melodramatic, but it sounds like you’re involving yourself with some powerful and connected people.” He smiled wryly.

“And yet there is something so . . . sordid about these murders. Daniel Colcombe was killed because his manuscript threatened someone. Perhaps many people. But a simple Australian private? Was he truly a threat to the great men in Whitehall?”

“And what do you deduce, my lady?”

“That perhaps . . . there are multiple motives here,” she said slowly. “One manuscript, but different people searching it for different reasons?”

“You’re thinking like a lawyer now,” he said. And Frances laughed.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll have to mull that over. Meanwhile, Dorothy—Mrs. Tregallis—and I have agreed to start a correspondence. So at the very least, I have made a new friend.”

“A new friend is always a cause for rejoicing,” said Hal. “And speaking of friends . . . I am sorry for interrupting your conversation with Gareth Blaine.” He was looking closely at her. He wanted to know how deep their friendship went.

“Not at all. We were just finishing. But tell me, do you know him well?”

“Not very well. As he said, we’ve acted for his family for years, as we’ve done for the Seaforths. And he does something in the Home Office.”

Frances suspected Hal knew more—a lot more. She had noted how stiffly the two men had greeted each other. Had Hal extricated him from a romantic entanglement in the past?

“I don’t know him well myself. We only met briefly at a reception full of government people. There were hints he rather has something of a reputation.” She made it almost a question.

“Lady Frances,” said Hal with mock severity, “do you really expect me to gossip about my clients?”

And she was saved from having to answer by the announcement that dinner was served. They rose, and Hal gave her his arm.

“We’re not going to our dining room. It’s a bit large for just two. We have a small library, and as someone who likes books so much, Franny, I thought you’d like to dine there.” Hal made it sound more informal than it was. The table was elegantly set. The butler poured the wine, and a footman placed the roast in front of Hal and then served the potatoes and vegetables. Then they both bowed out.