Death on the Sapphire: A Lady Frances Ffolkes Mystery (6 page)

“And presumably, we will be better protected this time—thanks to your contacts with the police, Frances?” she asked with a wry smile.

“I had to wait two hours to see him the first time,” said Frances. “But in the end, he came through with the extra constables.”

“Yes, he did—and good for you!” Frances flushed with the praise. There were few people in London—in England—whose good opinion she valued more that Mrs. Elkhorn’s.

With a little hesitancy, she brought up her idea for a future speech. It had been a joke in Superintendent Maples’s office, but after she had given it more thought, it made more and more sense.

“I’m thinking about proposing women police constables—especially detective constables. We are every bit as capable of decisive and rational thought as men. We speak here of the importance of women making laws—why not women enforcing them as well?”

Mrs. Elkhorn was quiet for several moments, and Frances held her breath as she watched the wheels turning in the woman’s head.

“Where do women have the vote today, Frances?”

“In the empire, women have the vote in Australia and New Zealand . . . and in America, where I studied, some Western states like Colorado have given the vote to women for local elections.”

“And what does that tell you?”

Frances certainly knew what it told her brother. Charles said it was easy for these half-wild, out-of-the-way places to give the
vote to women for local elections that hardly changed anything anyway. Voting for Parliament or voting for the U.S. Congress—that was a different matter. But as Frances eagerly explained to Mrs. Elkhorn, women got the vote in places at the edge of civilization, where men relied on them for the hard work of farming and ranching, whether in the Pacific or the American West. In London, Manchester, and Liverpool, women—or more properly, wealthy women—could be merely decorative. Poor women had to work for what they got with less opportunity and less money than men.

“So what do you conclude?” asked Mrs. Elkhorn, smiling again.

“With hard work—no, with dangerous hard work—equality can come?” Frances hazarded.

“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Elkhorn. “Something for you to think about. Indeed, something for all of us to think about.”

On the ride home, her mind reflected on the intricacies and possibilities of getting women into the police force. They were making inroads into other areas. Nursing had become a very respectable profession for women. Bobbies did more than catch criminals. They helped people after accidents, for example. That was sort of like nursing. Maybe get women into the force that way—as a kind of emergency worker. Of course, once they were in the force, with a foot in the door, they could gradually push their way into other areas.

She paid off the hansom at the front of Miss Plimsoll’s and let herself into the house. The foyer of Miss Plimsoll’s had been redone on its conversion to a residential hotel. The stairs were now guarded by a desk outside of a little makeshift office. The severe manageress, or one of her minions, was on duty at all times to make sure no men made it to the bedroom floors. What had been a morning room—a reception room less formal than a
larger and more elegant drawing room—had been turned into a lounge where residents could receive male guests. Although it was a quiet place to sit in the evenings, it got little use as a reception area. As Frances once reflected, for most of the residents, if there had been men in their lives, they wouldn’t be living at Miss Plimsoll’s.

“You have visitors, Lady Frances,” said the manageress. She was a few degrees cooler than usual. When her brother had visited a few times, there was almost a sense of gratitude that the marquess was gracing their house. These visitors were probably not as illustrious.

“Thank you, Mrs. Beasley.” Curious, she headed into the lounge. At first, she saw only one visitor, as he seemed to take up half the space—tall and broad-shouldered, and it didn’t help that his obviously cheap suit was much too loud for the room. Like something a low-level clerk might wear to the horse races on his day off. He was looking around the room as if he had never been in a place like that before, which may have been the truth. He reminded Frances of one of the grooms in their country estate, a former prizefighter whose face bore witness to his former profession. But this man was not so marked.

The man gave her a thin smile and then turned to another man she hadn’t noticed yet. He was of a slight build and was looking at the books on the shelf, an informal lending library for residents. His suit was the complete opposite, an inconspicuous brown.

“Sir,” said the giant, with a cockney accent so strong even that one syllable marked him as born in London’s poor East End.

The brown-suited man then turned as well, and Frances recognized him: the odd man from Danny’s funeral, the one she and Kat had labeled “Mr. Rumpled.” This suit was rumpled as well, and now Frances could take him in more clearly. He didn’t have a handsome face, but it was one full of what her mother would have called “character.” A small mustache. And eyes that,
like hers, darted around. But not exactly like hers—these eyes were hard.

“Smith, you may wait outside,” he said, and the large man said, “Sir,” again, nodded at Frances, and left the room and the house.

“You are Lady Frances Ffolkes?” asked the man in a quiet, well-modulated voice.

“You have the advantage of me, sir,” said Frances. Who was this man who knew her? A man who was not of her class.

“My apologies,” he said, and stepped toward her. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a wallet, which he opened to show her a police department warrant card. “My name is Benjamin Eastley. I am an inspector of police. And I was led to understand you had a theft you wanted to report. Shall we sit and discuss it?”

He sat on a chair, and Frances sat on a loveseat opposite him.

“I was not expecting you to call on me. I thought Superintendent Maples or a colleague would give me your name and I would see you at your station.”

“Indeed. You have wide familiarity with police procedure then.”

He’s trying to goad me
, she thought. But she wasn’t going to let him. “I have many interests and concerns and so have a wide circle of friends and acquaintances,” she said a little loftily. “Are you one of Superintendent Maples’s men? Or are you local? My family has long been a sponsor of the Police Widows and Orphans Fund, and we know many of the local senior officers.”
Take that, Inspector
.

Inspector Eastley studied her. Would she know who he was? Most women would not. But then again, her family was political, and it was his understanding she was well educated.

“Lady Frances, have you ever heard of Special Branch?”

Eastley was right—she had heard of the elite Special Branch. Its responsibilities took in sensitive cases when political issues
were involved. They were part of the Metropolitan Police Service, but they had their own command structure. No wonder she didn’t know who he was.

And that explained so much else as well. The surprise on Maples’s face when he found out who was in charge of the case, the fact that she wasn’t immediately given his name but told she would see him later. What wasn’t clear was why an apparently simple theft was put in care of Special Branch.

“May I ask what Special Branch’s interest is in this case?”

“Since you seem familiar with police procedure, Lady Frances, you should know in police cases, the police ask the questions. Everyone else answers.” His voice was soft, even gentle, but the meaning was clear.

Frances flushed at that and was poised to snap back. But that’s what he wanted, she suddenly realized. He wanted her to play the grand dame, the arrogant highborn lady who’d insist on her rights, start listing her influential connections, and provide fodder for hours of amusement among his mates.

“I take your point, Inspector,” she said. “I reported a crime, and you’ve apparently come to investigate. I am not quite as familiar with police procedure as you seem to think, so please tell me how I may best help you do your job.”

He raised an eyebrow and looked a little surprised. Perhaps, thought Frances, a little disappointed too.

“Thank you. Now why don’t you start by telling me how you became involved with the theft of a manuscript from the Colcombe home?”

So Frances told him about Kat’s arrival and her own investigations in the Colcombe house. She even produced a copy of the list she and Kat had drawn up of those who had attended the funeral. Inspector Eastley raised an eyebrow at that but said nothing, as he folded it and tucked it into a jacket pocket. He listened to everything Frances had to say without interrupting.

“You say this appears to be a memoir of Mr. Colcombe’s war experiences in South Africa?”

“That’s what we believe it to be. No one seems to have read it.”

The inspector nodded. “Now tell me about the Colcombe family.”

That surprised her. What did he want to know? She stated simply that it had consisted of Daniel and his younger sister, Katherine, known as Kat, and their mother. Mr. Colcombe Sr. had died some years ago.

Eastley smiled. “I know that, Lady Frances. What I need to know is more about the family. Are they wealthy? Where do they come from? What kind of people are they? Any scandals? As a close friend of the family, you should know.”

Frances glared at him. Such things were known in Society, but one didn’t discuss them openly. Certainly not with the police.

“I can’t possibly see what any of that has to do with a stolen manuscript,” she said.

“You don’t see because you are not a trained police officer. You have no idea how family issues can become intertwined with a crime, how even an apparently simple theft may have its roots in family history and character.”

That made some sense, Frances had to admit, but she wasn’t going down without a fight.

“You’re right, Inspector, I don’t know. Perhaps if you accepted and trained women as detective constables, more women like me would have a better sense of how procedure worked.”

Eastley chuckled at that. “Very good, Lady Frances. Nicely spoken. But as much as I’d like to debate department policy with you, my time is not unlimited. If you want that manuscript found, you will have to be frank. If it helps, I will assure you that I will hold what you say in confidence, as much as possible. I would like you to describe the family, because I sense a
certain shrewdness about you and a well-organized mind. I do not think Miss Colcombe or her mother would be as much help as you.”

The assurance seemed genuine and the flattery honest, not condescension. Very well, he’d hear about the Colcombes.

“Mr. Colcombe Senior—that is, Daniel Colcombe’s father—had come from a distinguished family, if not a noble one, and as with many other old families, the money was just about gone. So he married the daughter of a wealthy, self-made Sheffield ironmonger, whose dowry restored the family fortune. For all that, Inspector, I think the marriage was happy, if not passionate. Mrs. Colcombe has long doted on her children, especially after she became a widow. She is close to her daughter, Kat, and the two ladies are very much alike—sweet, gentle, and not . . . intellectually inclined.”

“But Daniel was different?” Eastley prompted.

“Oh, yes. He was something of an adventurer. Indeed, in a previous generation, he would’ve been empire building in India, and it was his loss that he had been born into a world that has already mostly tamed. Still, he kept on the move, becoming an officer and going to war. He traveled and made friends with everyone from earls to actors.” She smiled. “I don’t mind telling you that he had many female friends as well but never married and never even had a public engagement.”

“But this was before the war?” he asked.

Oh, yes. South Africa—the Boer War—had changed him, as it had changed her brother, Charles, and every man who had gone. “He was quieter when he came back. He had emotional and physical wounds when he returned to the family home. He was thinner and seemed less inclined to travel, although at the time of his death, he apparently had a number of projects going and seemed happy again. There was talk he was writing a memoir of his war experiences, but no one I knew read it.”

That was all the detail she could bring herself to discuss. He had seemed older, but sometimes in his eyes, you could still see the old mischief, the old Danny.

Inspector Eastley listened with care and patience. Frances was impressed despite herself at the way he paid such close attention. Few people did, she had noticed. He really wanted to absorb every single word.

When she was done, he nodded thoughtfully.

“Thank you, Lady Frances, for being so frank with me. It is much appreciated. My men and I will look into this, and we’ll let you know, as representative of the Colcombe family, of any progress.” He stood.

“That sounds very satisfactory, Inspector. May I ask one question?”

“I’m still not going to tell you my department’s interest in this case.”

She gave him an ingratiating smile. “I understand. But I was hoping you could tell me exactly how Danny Colcombe died. All the local police said it was ‘an accident at home.’” This was not a surprise. The word would’ve come down from senior officers at Scotland Yard to keep tight-lipped and spare the Colcombe ladies from hearing any painful details about any accident.