Death Among Rubies (11 page)

I
n the morning, Tommie and Frances worked with one of the maids to get Gwen dressed. The poor girl seemed still in shock. Aside from losing her father, she was stuck playing the role of chief mourner. Gwen had never put herself forward and was horrified at having to take the lead in the elaborate performance that was a funeral for a great and wealthy man. With no reaction, she allowed herself to be dressed, and when she was done, she turned her eyes on Tommie.

“You’ll be with me, Tommie? You and Franny—all day?”

“Of course,” said Tommie. “Your family, too.”

“You’re my family,” she said.

The village church was not large, and it was stuffed to overflowing. More would be coming to the reception; the great hall at Kestrel’s Eyrie would be used for the first time in anyone’s memory.

It wasn’t usual for nonfamily members to be seated up front, but for Gwen’s sake, they made room for her friends. Frances found herself seated next to Gwen’s cousin, Christopher Blake, who leaned over and whispered. “We owe you and your friend thanks for all your help.” She smiled and nodded.

Gwen leaned against Tommie, and Frances looked around the church. Her eyes, as usual, were restless. She saw it was a typical old church with a cool and clean design, except for some
fussy Victorian memorials marking the death of worthy citizens of past generations. She saw her brother Charles, but he was deep in conversation with other gentlemen. She became aware of a ripple in the back and craned her neck; two servants were helping in a large, elderly woman.

Frances’s first thought was that Queen Victoria, dead these six years, had miraculously returned. The woman was clearly ancient and dressed in clothes that had gone out of style decades ago.

“I can’t believe it,” said Christopher. “It’s Betsy Tanner. I don’t think she’s been out of her house in more than a decade.”

“Oh, it’s dear Betsy,” said Gwen, smiling and crying at once. “She made it. Christopher, see that she’s properly seated?”

But it was not necessary. With great deference, other men gave up their seats for her.

Christopher explained it to Frances. “She was a servant here for years, then married a groom and had half a dozen children, who had half a dozen each. Practically the whole staff is related to her one way or another. Pennington is her nephew or cousin or something. She is respected as part of the ‘old school’ and even gentry in these parts defer to her because of her great age and knowledge about ‘how things are done.’” He smiled. “How’s your history, Lady Frances? Local lore has it she was born on June 18, 1815.”

“Let’s see—oh, that was the Battle of Waterloo. That was her birthday? That would make her well into her nineties.”

“Yes. Her nickname is Battle-Born Betsy,” said Christopher. “It was said that a messenger from the Continent interrupted her baptism in this very church with news of the victory. But that makes no sense; we’re not between any port and London—”

“Betsy is very proud of that story,” said Gwen with unusual sharpness. “She’d be hurt if you doubted it.”

“Sorry, cousin. I forgot how close you two are. No offense intended. She honors us with her presence.” He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.

An old servant. This was someone Frances wanted to talk to. Old servants knew everything.

The funeral service began, and it was no different from the funerals of other important men. A few words from colleagues, including Charles. Frances felt family pride at how smoothly he spoke, the elegant turns of phrase. It was no wonder he was the Foreign Office’s fair-haired boy.

The funeral, and the following graveside service, seemed to go on forever, but Gwen made it through without a fuss, although she occasionally leaned on Tommie. Finally, it was back to the hall, where a large buffet feast had been laid out for the crowd of mourners. Frances and Tommie saw Gwen into a comfortable chair in the corner. She said she wasn’t hungry, but Frances said she had to eat and dispatched a maid for some cold ham, potatoes, and sweet sherry.

Frances let her eyes dart around. There were two more attendees at the dinner party whom she hadn’t met—Mrs. Sweet and Mrs. Bellinger, who rented cottages on the estate. Mrs. Sweet had been seen in a nighttime conversation with Sir Calleford, and Mrs. Bellinger with Mr. Mehmet. She expected they would appear at the hall, and like everyone else, offer their condolences to Gwen.

Meanwhile, she saw Mr. Mehmet across the room, helping himself to some sliced chicken. And then she saw Charles approach him. The two men shook hands, and engaged in serious conversation in a far corner—not angry, but serious.

Then Inspector Eastley joined them. Charles made introductions and the three spoke. She would’ve given anything to know what they were saying, but knew there was no chance any of them would share it with her.

But she was kept busy supporting Gwen as streams of people stopped by to say what a wonderful man her father had been. Gwen just sank further and further into her chair, responding automatically to the well-wishers, most of whom were strangers to her. Mrs. Blake spent most of her time circulating and
supervising the servants but stopped by several times to see how her niece was doing and quietly thank Tommie and Frances for their help.

Eventually, Frances’s patience was rewarded as two women approached. They were in their thirties, dressed in country clothes: appropriate and respectable, with none of the style one found in London.

One stood a little in front of the other. Her hair was swept back to reveal a high forehead. She had a cool eye and set mouth.

This is a proud one
, thought Frances, as Gwen made introductions. Gwen was doing that rather well when she actually knew one of the mourners, falling back on training all girls from good families received when they were very young.

“Frances, Tommie—this is Mrs. Celia Bellinger. Mrs. Bellinger—Lady Frances Ffolkes and Miss Thomasina Calvin, my dearest friends.”

“You are fortunate to have such good friends to support you in this difficult time,” she said, and Frances detected a note of irony.

“I understand you were at the dinner party?” asked Frances. The question was unnecessary and even impertinent, but she was curious about Mrs. Bellinger’s attitude.

She gave a small smile. “Yes, I have also been fortunate in my friendships here.” And again, that ironic tone. That would bear follow-up.

Mrs. Bellinger slipped away, and Mrs. Sweet stepped forward. She was a different type. Her face was warm and open, and there was a comforting look about her. Another round of introductions and then she bent down and kissed Gwen on her cheek.

“Your father was a delightful man, and he spoke often to me of you. He was proud of the woman you had become.”

Frances was sure that was a lie—that Sir Calleford had never discussed his daughter with anyone. That was becoming clear. But it was a good lie, and Gwen accepted it gratefully after
hearing so many meaningless lines about what a great man her father had been. She gave Mrs. Sweet a hug and teared up.

“Did he really?” she asked. “Did he really talk about me?”

And Frances saw Tommie was crying too, to see Gwen so pitifully grateful for a hint that her father cared for her.

Eventually, the crowd thinned out and the servants began clearing.

“Do you think I could lie down now?” said Gwen. “Aunt Phoebe said the solicitor needs to see us later, but an hour or two would be awfully nice.”

“Of course,” said Tommie.

Frances suggested Tommie see Gwen upstairs—she had some people to speak with and set off briskly out of the hall.

Indeed, she was in time to catch Charles standing by his motorcar, again talking to Inspector Eastley. Except for her brother’s valet standing a few paces away, they were alone.

“Gentlemen,” she said. “I am so glad to catch both of you together.”

“Inspector, I know that you have been . . . involved with my dear sister in the past. Has she been pestering you again?” Charles asked with a wry smile.

“Not at all, my lord. She has been of great use. And may I say, she has an organized and disciplined mind. If she were a man, my lord, I’d be happy to welcome her into Special Branch—and I don’t say that in jest, but in all seriousness.”

“Thank you, inspector. Maybe you’ll be a good influence on my brother. I know you would find me an excellent addition to your department. But to the subject at hand, I answered some questions from Inspector Bedlow, and he indicated that you would not be continuing your investigation here. Is that true?”

The inspector glanced quickly at Charles, then spoke. “Yes it is, Lady Frances. Scotland Yard only comes in at the request of the local chief constable. That hasn’t happened—not yet anyway. And even then, it would not be my unit.” Special Branch
involved itself in matters concerning the safety of the realm, not a mere murder.

“My understanding was that you came to take charge of certain papers. But I doubt someone of your rank was needed to do that. And you were questioning witnesses, as I well know. May I ask why you really did come?” she asked.

“You may not,” said the inspector.

“I don’t mind,” said Charles. “Franny, Special Branch is here at my request because of Sir Calleford’s work, which is highly classified. Only highly ranked personnel could handle them. The questions for the witnesses were routine for Whitehall records. That’s all you need to know.”

“Indeed,” said Frances with a skeptical look.
Why were they making such a secret fuss about everything? There was something more to this.

Charles sighed. “Franny, help Gwen get settled and then come home. You’ve been running around a lot, and Mary misses you. Now, I’m due back in London, and I believe Inspector Eastley is as well.”

But Frances was not giving up yet. “Will you at least tell me, perhaps in a general way, what you were discussing with Mr. Mehmet? He was a guest here, and it would help Gwen if she understood the relationship.”

Inspector Eastley just grinned and shook his head, but Charles became stormy.

“Franny, that’s one of your more transparent attempts to insert yourself into a situation where you don’t belong. I told you before—stay away from Mr. Mehmet.”

“Besides, my lady, I was talking with Inspector Bedlow, and it seems very clear this was simply some outside intruder, likely trying to commit robbery. He knows the local lay of the land, so to speak, and will no doubt track down the murderer. It’s nothing very complicated, just a lot of leg work, that’s all.”

Frances looked doubtful again.

“Both of you have a good trip back to London. Tell Mary we’ll speak soon.” And with that, she turned sharply and headed back to the house. She didn’t believe that robbery story for a minute, and there was indeed something important about Mr. Mehmet.

Back inside, Frances was going to see how Gwen was faring, but ran into Mme. Aubert, who greeted her warmly. It made sense: she spoke almost no English and her husband was probably busy speaking with others in the diplomatic community who remained.

“Lady Frances, we are leaving on a train later today for London, and will then be heading back to France in a few days. I wanted to see you again and tell you how I enjoyed meeting you, even in such terrible circumstances. When you next visit Paris, please come stay with us.”

“Thank you—I’d like to see Paris again. For now, do you have a few moments to talk?”

“The pleasure is mine.”

They found a seat outside.

“Gwen Kestrel is a good friend of mine, and is feeling rather desolate after her father’s death. Like many busy and important men, he was not very close to his daughter. I was hoping to uncover whether he spoke to you about her—something I can pass on to her.”

Mme. Aubert thought about this for a while—so long, Frances thought she might not answer at all.

“I have three brothers. My father was also in government and had extensive business interests as well. I hardly knew him. When I came of age, men were paraded past me, and when one I formed a bond with asked my father for permission to marry me, I did. Fathers and daughters, Lady Frances. I did what I was supposed to do, and that was the extent of my father’s interest.” She spoke lightly, without bitterness. “I didn’t meet Sir Calleford until after his wife had died. His daughter was in the hands of a nanny and then a governess. I wouldn’t have even known about her if my husband hadn’t told me of her existence.”

Frances nodded. “And in later years, he never spoke of Gwen?”

“No. I only met her briefly, once or twice.”

“What about Mrs. Blake? Was she interested in her niece?”

“I don’t think so. She didn’t talk about her much either. She was very . . . solicitous of her son, Christopher. I think Miss Kestrel spent so much time in London, she wasn’t well known up here. I am glad she has good friends in London—she wasn’t close to her family, I imagine.”

“But was there any indication that he wanted Gwen to leave London and return to the Eyrie?”
Had he found out about the rumors and wanted to separate Gwen and Tommie?

Mme. Aubert shrugged. “I saw no sign of that, and had my husband known, he would’ve told me. Sir Calleford mentioned in passing that Gwen was happy in London, and that was fine with him. I think he would’ve found her . . . oh, what is that English expression . . . ‘under his feet.’ I wondered if he thought she’d have a better chance of finding a suitable husband in London, under the supervision of her London relations.”