Death on the Sapphire: A Lady Frances Ffolkes Mystery (8 page)

Major Clive Raleigh occupied what he felt was a very pleasant suite at the War Office. His work taxed him enough to keep him from getting bored but not so much that it exhausted him. He had time for theater and dinner parties, as well as overnight house parties in the better homes. His aide, a young lieutenant, knocked and entered.

“Excuse me, sir. Lady Frances Ffolkes wishes to have a few minutes with you.”

Unlike Superintendent Maples, Raleigh didn’t get at all upset. He had served with Charles Ffolkes and had met Frances several times. Rather pretty girl, he thought, always well turned out. Those big, gray eyes of hers had a way of looking right at you—a little disturbing, but she had some spirit, and those were the girls who were most entertaining, he had found. And as a practical matter, his family was pushing him to get married—having the Marquess of Seaforth as a brother-in-law would be no small advantage, and the dowry was likely to be substantial.

Not being particularly introspective or aware of what others thought about him, Raleigh didn’t know that Ffolkes and his friend Colcombe used to joke about him behind his back, saying that the best way for the British to win the war would be to promote Raleigh to general—in the Boer army. For the same reason, it never occurred to Raleigh to wonder why Lady Frances was visiting him in the War Office—it was enough that she was.

“Thank you, Lieutenant. Please show her in.”

Frances met Major Raleigh’s broad smile with one of her own.

“Dear Frances, it’s so good to see you. It’s been months since we danced at the Henshaw’s house party.”

“I remember. It was a very pleasant evening. I was in the area, and I had a question I couldn’t answer. I said, ‘I know, I’ll
call on Clive Raleigh.’ I heard you had been given a post here. I imagine this is good for your career?”

Raleigh preened a little. Let him, thought Frances. She believed a truly competent officer would be leading troops somewhere, not pushing papers around in a forgotten corner of a government building.

“But you must be very busy, so I’ll ask my question, although it seems so silly now. A friend of mine is having a cheery little party and was asked to invite a certain officer, a colonel, but doesn’t know anything about him. It will be so embarrassing for her not to know anything about his regiment or experiences, and I said I could help her find out, so, well, you understand, she doesn’t look foolish.”

Raleigh thought Frances’s friend was being a little fussy—there were always a few odd people out there, and half the fun was finding out about them. Probably some old spinster, set in her ways. Anyway, the thing was to oblige Frances.

“What’s this man’s name? I may be able to check.”

“Oh, could you? He’s a colonel. Colonel Zachery Mountjoy. I know the officer corps in London was a rather small group, so I’m hoping you may know him, or at least know of him.”

She watched Raleigh closely as he leaned back and frowned.

“I, ah, do know him. He has a . . . well, he sort of has a general HQ assignment.”

You’re a horrible liar
, thought Frances.

“Do you know if he served in South Africa? Which regiment was he attached to? I know a little bit about military affairs. My brother and father served in the Life Guards. My ancestors served under Wellington. Even going back to Marlborough.”

Raleigh smiled. “Of course. I had forgotten what a distinguished military family you come from. The colonel was attached to the Royal Reconnaissance Battalion.” Frances looked at him expectantly, hoping to learn more. “Sort of involved in map
making, various charts and so forth, descriptions of the terrain. Important work, if not particularly exciting.”

“I see. Well, thank you for your time, Major. Just one more thing—do you know the motto of the Reconnaissance Battalion? Or perhaps its nickname? I’m curious about mottos and look forward to surprising the colonel.”

Raleigh looked hard at her, and Frances wondered if she had pushed her luck too far, showing more curiosity than she should.

“I couldn’t say, Lady Frances. It’s not an especially well-known unit.”

“No matter. Thank you again, and I hope to see you at some future house party.” She stood, and Raleigh followed suit, opening the door for her.

“Lady Frances, you say you collect regimental mottos. Do you know the motto of your brother’s regiment, the Life Guards?”

“Of course. ‘
Honi soit qui mal y pense
. Evil be to him who evil thinks.’ Good day, Major.”

Raleigh, alone in his office, composed himself again. He reconsidered a possible alliance with Lady Frances. She asked too many questions, he realized. Lady Frances Ffolkes might be a little too clever to be the wife of an ambitious army officer, he sadly concluded.

Frances was meanwhile feeling rather pleased with herself. She had a name and that was interesting. Something was clearly wrong: well-born gentlemen who managed to get themselves into the distinguished Military Club did not work for obscure map-making units.

One person could help her with the next step, but it was going to cost something.

Angus McDonald had been with her brother Charles through one posting or another and was now his chief clerk in the Foreign Office. He gave Frances a warm welcome.

“Lady Frances, his lordship didn’t tell me you were visiting today, but you’re most welcome. May I get you some tea?”

“Thank you, Mr. McDonald, but I’m just making a flying visit to my brother if he’s available. Also, if there are any openings, I’d like to apply—yet again—for the job of clerk in the Foreign Office.”

McDonald was not a man given to humor. He actually nodded, as if he were considering it. “With your university degree, I daresay you’d do as well as any of the lads,” he said.

A darn sight better, thought Frances.

“But you take a seat here, Lady Frances. His lordship doesn’t have a meeting for another hour, so I’ll see if he can see you now.” And a few minutes later, she was ushered into her brother’s office, large and elegantly appointed, as befitted an undersecretary in an important department.

“Franny, what a pleasant surprise. Nothing wrong, I hope?”

She sat down on one of the comfortable visitors’ chairs.

“Not at all. I was making calls and thought I’d stop to visit.”

That was a mistake. Charles’s eyes narrowed. “What calls are you making in this neighborhood?” Among these blocks were government offices and other businesses—not fashionable residences.

“Oh, just helping a friend organize a dinner party—looking up some people for her in the War Office.”

“Liar. This is about your radical politics, isn’t it?” he said, referring to her women’s suffrage work. “Although I can’t figure out why you’d be calling in at the War Office. Angling for a commission in the Blues? Come to think of it, you’d look awfully fetching in one of those uniforms.”

“Very funny, dear brother. You can take your act on the music hall stage. But we’re off subject. I heard a phrase that seemed rather odd to me, and you know how I don’t like not knowing something. When you were in the army, did you come across a unit called the Reconnaissance Battalion?”

The smile vanished quickly, and he leaned over his desk.

“Frances,” he spoke slowly and deliberately, as their father had done when she was up to something she shouldn’t be, “what are you up to? I can’t think of any reason for you to meet someone from that unit.”

“Oh, it was casually mentioned in the hall in the War Office suites.” Frances was a much better liar than Major Raleigh, but Charles had known her too long and too well to be taken in. However, no point in challenging her now.

“Very well, don’t tell me. You have a name. But don’t do . . . whatever it is you’re doing. These aren’t officers you should be mixing with.” Frances knew what her brother meant but didn’t openly say. If Frances were to associate with officers, it should be with those from certain distinguished regiments that everyone in Society knew about. “I’ll explain it to you if you promise not to follow up on . . . whatever you’re doing.”

“Don’t talk to me as if I were still a child. I am capable of discretion and prudent behavior.”

Charles, ever the diplomat, just smiled. “I stand rebuked. I just need to impress upon you the seriousness of this. And I will extract your promise not to use this phrase in discussion?” Frances nodded. “Very well. Do you know what the Secret Service is?”

“I’ve heard the term. They’re spies, right?”

“Yes. But there’s been a change in how they’re organized recently. Out of the Boer War, what had been a casually organized network of agents gathering intelligence was turned into a formal government department designed to protect the security of the realm by uncovering foreign designs against Britain and preventing other nations from doing the same within Britain. Many of the men had been recruited from the ranks of officers in the army and navy. To hide their real purpose, they were given the obscure name of Reconnaissance Battalion. Within the army, because they work in the dark, they’re called the Shadow Boys.
But that’s just used quietly in certain government bureaus. It’s not for drawing room gossip. I’m trusting you, Franny. I’m giving you this information in return for which you won’t get involved in something you shouldn’t. Now does that satisfy your curiosity?”

It did, actually, for the most part. But Frances had more questions.

“You said they protect our security. Doesn’t that overlap with Scotland Yard’s Special Branch?”

“In God’s name, what do you know about Special Branch?”

“I’m taking an interest in government. It is the family profession, after all.”

“Oh, very well. Again, for your ears only, Special Branch and the Secret Service are supposed to work together, with one supplying intelligence information and the other providing security and policing functions. In practice, there is considerable rivalry. The Secret Service has political ties because of the nature of the men who run it. Special Branch comes out of Scotland Yard, which is more civil service—men who have come up from the ranks, so to speak. And that’s enough information for you, dear sister.”

Frances nodded, and Charles watched her. Then everything started to come together.

“Wait—this isn’t a suffrage issue. This is about the Colcombe manuscript, isn’t it?”

She had told Charles about reporting the loss to Superintendent Maples, but Charles had assumed Maples would indulge her and then forget all about it. Then, a month or so from now, the manuscript would turn up in a forgotten drawer somewhere. That an inspector was looking into it, someone from Special Branch no less, was beyond belief. What exactly had Danny been writing about?

As children, Frances and Charles could read each other’s minds. And so it was no surprise when Frances leaned over, put
her hand on Charles’s, and said, “Yes, that’s what it’s about. And so I need to know, what happened in South Africa?”

She knew the basics. The Boers were farmers of Dutch descent, tough and strong, who chaffed under increasing British influence. The professional British army had fought a bitter war against something they were not used to: a citizen army where every able-bodied man could take to the field with a rifle in a strange landscape the enemy troops knew far better than their opponents from Britain.

“South Africa was nothing like the war we were used to, lines of men in uniform across an open field. Battles were sudden and chaotic, with attacks coming out of nowhere, and nothing we had been trained for prepared us. But the British can learn quickly.” He smiled grimly.

General Audendale, their commanding officer, had an idea for a different kind of company. As an extraordinary horseman, Danny was selected as one of the leaders for a new independent unit comprising the best English riders and hard-bitten Australians from the colonial force, men who had grown up in a land as unforgiving as the African veldt. The Empire Light Horse, they called themselves.

Danny took to it well. They were effective, brutally so, copying their enemy’s tactics while armed with the very latest European firearms, and they gave the Boer many a surprise. The war was already winding down, with the Boers mostly in retreat, when disaster struck.

They were ordered into a battle along the Sapphire River. Danny wanted to wait until night, but a day raid was ordered. The company was split up as night fell, and the casualties were terrific. Danny had been wounded, and after the battle of Sapphire River, the Empire Light Horse was disbanded.

“You say you can be discreet,” said Charles, “so I’ll tell you that although Danny never spoke about it, there were rumors that the mission had been badly planned—not by Danny, but by
someone above him. They took a unit that was lightly armed for fast travel and set them up for a traditional battle with a line of men. Some imbecile somewhere wanted to show that the English could still win in a traditional formation.

“It was foolish—no, beyond that. It was criminally stupid. But there was no stomach for an investigation. Everyone was sick of the war by that point. The men were pensioned off, and soon it was over. Perhaps Danny was writing about that—I could see how that could ruffle a few feathers.”