Death on the Sapphire: A Lady Frances Ffolkes Mystery (22 page)

Riding home, she turned over the inspector’s information in her mind. The news about the firearms was intriguing—there was perhaps more thought to the killings than she had surmised. The inspector didn’t seem too keen on her idea of multiple motives. On the other hand, he had a point about being too trusting. How far would any of them go—including Colonel Mountjoy? Was he just being helpful? What part did the Secret Service play?
Should she entirely trust the inspector, for that matter? You’d think he’d be more concerned about an aristocratic lady who was poking her nose into police business.

Eastley called Mountjoy a “keeper of secrets.” And Frances kept running against those secrets, not just the ones being kept, but those being revealed.

He certainly left her with some new avenues to explore. There were too many assumptions about the manuscript, and maybe some other people had an idea of what happened in South Africa—and who was willing to kill for it all these years later.

After lunch, she told Mallow she’d be going out that evening in her soup kitchen dress.

“Very good, my lady, but I hadn’t realized it was your turn again tonight.”

“Oh, I’m wearing the dress but not going to the soup kitchen.”

Mallow froze. There was nothing that dress was suitable for except the soup kitchen.

“I beg your pardon, my lady. Perhaps I can find something more suitable for wherever it is you’re going.”

“I am going to a rather simple . . . tavern, I guess you could call it. I don’t want to call attention to myself.” She tried to be offhand about it, but she could tell her maid was about to explode. “I shall be just fine, Mallow.”

That was too much. “I beg your pardon, my lady, but you will not be just fine.” She bit her own lip, shocked at herself for so openly disagreeing with her mistress. “I know you go to the soup kitchen, my lady, but ladies do that, and I know constables keep watch. Any low tavern is dangerous, my lady. They’ll catch you out right away. The only women who go there are . . . I can’t even say, my lady . . .” She blushed.

Frances was surprised at the outburst, but then again, Mallow may have had a point. There was a line between brave and foolhardy, and she was about to cross it.

“I thank you for your concern. But it has to do with the Colcombe manuscript, so I simply must go.”

“If it’s your duty, it’s not my place to argue, my lady. But I’m going with you.”

“Mallow, I couldn’t possibly ask you to do that.”

“Nevertheless, my lady, I will go with you. That’s a neighborhood I know something about. And if I may be so bold, my lady, as soon as you start to talk, they’ll have you down as Belgravia. You can’t go alone.”

“You do have a point. Oh very well, we’ll both go. But you can hardly be my personal maid there. We’ll have to be friends. I’ll call you June, as I did when you were one of my mother’s housemaids. And you will have to call me Franny.” She got a mischievous look in her eye. “Let’s practice now so we don’t slip up. Give it a try—June.”

“Very good—Franny.” It almost stuck in her throat.

“We’ll work on that. Meanwhile, I’ll walk to the cab stand and reserve Mr. Tomkinson.” He was a cheeky young cockney who was very solicitous of Lady Frances when she was his fare. He appeared to be fit, and Frances had no doubt he’d be ready with his fists if need be. “I’ll have him wait for us right outside in case of any problems.”

“I heard you asked for me special, my lady,” said Mr. Tomkinson. He graciously helped Lady Frances into his cab and then helped Mallow as well. He winked at Mallow, but she studiously ignored him. “Glad to oblige. Now where may I take you two this fine evening?”

“Do you know the Red Kangaroo in the East End?”

“Beg pardon, my lady—you want to go where?”

“A tavern called the Red Kangaroo. I believe it’s on Hazlemere Street—”

For once, Mr. Tomkinson was not smiling. “I know the place, my lady; bent my elbow there more than once. Filled with Australians, a good lot, for the most part, but if I may be so bold, I don’t know if you’d find the place exactly to your taste.”

“Thank you. But I have some business there. You will wait around the corner and keep watch.”

He shrugged. “As you wish, my lady.” He climbed into his seat and they were off.

“June, what do you have in that bag?”

She pulled out a rolling pin. “Borrowed it from the kitchen. A very effective weapon, if need be.”

Frances instantly got a picture of Mallow—scarcely taller than her mistress and weighing about one hundred pounds—swinging the pin like a sword in the hands of an Arthurian knight and wreaking havoc among the hard-drinking colonials in the East End tavern. She coughed to hide her laughter.

There was no problem finding the tavern. Business was brisk and the noise carried down the block. Mr. Tomkinson stopped at the corner. Feeling a little nervous now that they were here, Frances steeled herself and walked down the block to the Red Kangaroo. She and Mallow squared their shoulders, pushed open the door, and entered another world.

The room was full of men talking, laughing, and yelling. They stood in groups or sat around rickety tables. These were working men in rough shirts with sleeves rolled up to reveal muscled arms that frequently were marked with tattoos. The cigar and pipe smoke lent a haze to the already dim room. She saw women, too, dressed in cheap, bright dresses. Most of them paired off with men, curling up comfortably against them or even, in a couple of instances, sitting on their laps.

And there were more than Englishmen and colonials. Two Chinese men, dressed in sailors’ clothes, hovered over mysterious drinks, and they also saw a dark man who might’ve been Indian or Malay.

Frances began to have second thoughts. She felt she might as well have the Seaforth crest emblazoned on her dress. Many were so involved in their talk or so much the worse for drink that they didn’t seem to notice her and Mallow. But a few of the women looked at them curiously, and some of the men appraised them.

Frances and Mallow threaded their way to the bar, where a tall, ruddy-faced man was pouring drinks with the aid of a pair of plump barmaids in clean aprons. Indeed, the place was well kept, Frances would allow that. The floor wasn’t sticky and there was no smell of stale drink.

The man gave them an amused look. “And what can I pour for you two?” His Australian accent gave him away as the proprietor.

They had agreed to let Mallow start the talk, as her accent fit in better.

“Your beer ain’t watered down is it?” she asked. The man just laughed.

“Hand on heart, absolutely not. But try a half pint of cider? It’s very good.”

One of the barmaids upstaged him by rolling her eyes. The man sensed it and turned around. “Do I pay you for your opinion?” he snapped.

“No, just for my beauty.” She winked at them and carried a tray to a table.

“Very well, we will try your cider, Mr.—”

“Davey, miss.”

“Mr. Davey.”

“No, just ‘Davey.’ It’s what everyone calls me.” He poured cider into glasses that seemed clean. Frances reached into her purse, but Davey stopped her. “I’ll run a tab. You two look good for it.” The cider wasn’t bad, and Frances was feeling better about this.

“Davey, I’m actually here to help a friend,” said Frances, trying to play down her posh accent. But Davey’s eyes narrowed.

“I didn’t think you were here for the company,” he said, sweeping his arm across the room.

“In a way, we are. I’m hoping you or someone here can give me some information about a man I knew. He died recently, and I believe he came here often. His name was Alfred Barnstable.”

Davey turned serious. “Aye, I knew him. A lot of us did. He came here when he first arrived in London, then headed to Scotland, but was back here in the weeks before he died. We drank to his memory.” He gave Frances a thoughtful look that made her feel very self-conscious, and then he grinned. “Alfie always had an eye for ladies, but that he’d know someone as presentable as you, miss—well, all I can say was that he was doing even better than we ever thought.”

Oh dear God—Davey thought she was Private Barnstable’s . . . girl.

“That was not our relationship,” she said crisply.

“If you say so,” he said, still grinning.
Dear Lord
, thought Frances.
Why is a romantic attachment the only way some people can understand any kind of connection between a man and a woman?

“I am here because of another man who was killed, Major Daniel Colcombe, who was Private Barnstable’s commanding officer in South Africa. Both men are dead. And we have some questions.”

Now Davey looked at her with real consideration. She didn’t belong here, had a posh accent that spoke of Belgravia or Mayfair, and had some knowledge of murder that no lady should have.

“You’re not with the police?” he asked.

Frances gave him a cutting look. “Very well, Davey. My voice gave me away. But do you think Scotland Yard now employs young ladies with finishing school manners to investigate East End murders?”

Davey laughed. “Serves me right for asking such a stupid question. I think I can help you, Miss—I didn’t catch your name.”

“Miss Franny Ffolkes.” She decided to keep it simple. Her class was clear enough without admitting she was the daughter of a lord. “And this is Miss June Mallow.”

He reflected on that for a moment. “One moment, Miss Ffolkes, Miss Mallow. I want to make some introductions.” He turned to one of the barmaids. “Jock and Andy around?”

“When are they not?” she said. “Over there, at the table in the corner.” Frances saw two men in their early thirties amiably chatting over pints of beer and accompanied by a rather blowsy looking woman with a red face. Davey headed over to the table and started to talk to them. The two men looked at Frances with no little surprise, but the woman’s look was hostile. She probably wondered if Frances and Mallow were rivals.

Davey waved her over. They picked up their cider and made their way to the table.

“Jock, Andy, this is Miss Ffolkes and Miss Mallow, friends of Alfie’s.” More knowing looks from the men. Oh well—at least any gossip here was unlikely to make its way back to London Society. “Jock and Andy served with Alfie in South Africa, Miss Ffolkes. And this here is Jewel—did I get that right, sweetie?” Jewel just gave Davey a sour look. “I’ll be back at the bar.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” said Frances, and she and Mallow sat down.

Andy seemed entertained by Frances’s presence. His cheerful face took in her dress, which was much simpler but still probably more expensive than what any other woman there wore.

Jock scowled at her, though, as if he expected a trap, and only looked at her furtively.

“Well? Davey said you wanted something. What is it?” said Jock.

“To help find who killed Alfie—that was it, right, miss?” asked Andy.

Jock, however, made it clear he didn’t believe that for a moment. Ladies didn’t come into taverns like this asking after murder.

“I am a very unusual lady,” said Frances.

“We’re respectable,” said Mallow.

“Are you now?” said Jewel. “Anyway, the red-haired one must’ve been special to have caught Alfie. He liked the ladies, and they liked him, but you must’ve been taken bad to try to find out who killed him. Well, I’ll say this for you—you have a sweet face and nice figure, Miss Ffolkes, but you don’t look like someone who would even know what to do with a man if you got one.”

Feeling Jewel’s contempt, Frances was about to snap back, but that hardly seemed appropriate and would not do anything to establish herself seriously with Jock and Andy, both of whom were enjoying Jewel’s comment.

“You’re right about that,” said Frances. “I doubt if I have anywhere near your level of expertise and experience with men.”

That made both men laugh, but Mallow looked appalled and Jewel got even redder. Frances was suddenly sorry. It was an unfair fight with a woman who had a hard life and would probably find herself taking a bowl of stew from Frances in the soup kitchen, if she hadn’t already.

“Be a good girl and take yourself off,” said Andy to Jewel. “Men’s business.”

“These two aren’t men,” snapped Jewel.

“I don’t know what they are,” said Andy so cheerfully, it was hard to take offense. “But if it’s about Alfie, I’ll listen. Oh come on, Jock, it can’t hurt us none to listen, and it’s better than listening to you complain. It’s the least we can do for Alfie’s girl—and her friend with the pretty face.” He winked at Mallow.

She might as well accept it, thought Frances. It’s the only way they could understand who she was.

Jewel took herself off with bad grace. Andy continued to smile and Jock to scowl—but she saw she had his attention
too. She didn’t know how much Davey had told them, so she explained again how her brother and Major Colcombe served in South Africa together, how Colcombe had apparently been murdered, and how it seems Alfie had been killed the same way.

“I know things went very badly for you men at Sapphire River. And I know Major Colcombe was writing a book to tell what really happened. He was killed for it. Mr. Barnstable knew something about it too—and he was killed. I’m hoping Mr. Barnstable told you men something that you could tell me.”