Death Among Rubies (13 page)

So she had heard something, but she would clearly say no more, not even to Gwen’s friend. But Frances knew there was also a chance to find out more about Sir Calleford.

“I am sorry that when she does marry, she won’t have her father to walk her down the aisle. Although I never met Sir Calleford, I’ve only heard good about him.”

Her face lit up. “Oh yes, my lady. He was a fine man. He and his cousin, Captain Jim. Not to be disrespectful, but that’s what everyone called him, my lady. Cousins they were, but as close as brothers, as different as they were.”

Frances got excited at this. Here was someone who had known Sir Calleford as a young man. Perhaps she had some insights, something in the family history that would explain his sudden death or the accusations about Gwen and Tommie.

Mrs. Tanner sipped more tea and had another biscuit. Frances took note of how much she was enjoying herself. No doubt everyone here was tired of her stories and reminiscences, so a fresh audience was deeply welcome.

“It was always the two of them, Captain Jim Blake and Calleford Kestrel, always back and forth between the great house and Captain Jim’s estate, Blake Court—now run by his son, Mr. Blake. Now Mr. Kestrel, as he was before he was knighted, was a quiet, studious man. Always polite and friendly like. But Captain Jim was very outgoing, always laughing and cheerful, ready for anything. A bit of mischief as a boy, but he was never unkind.”

He sounds just like his son, Christopher
, Frances thought.

“As they grew up, they frequently made a party with two young ladies from neighboring manors, Miss Phoebe and Miss Bronwen, the four of them playing tennis and lawn games and having picnic lunches. We knew there would be marriages, and you may laugh to hear me say it, my lady, but as close as they were, there was much discussion about who would marry who.” She nodded at the memories, remembering garden parties of another age.

“But they sorted themselves out. Miss Phoebe, a sensible and well-organized young lady, married Captain Jim and helped him settle down. And Miss Bronwen married Mr. Kestrel. She was gentle and romantic, and very beautiful. If I may be so bold, my lady, she found herself a little overwhelmed running the great house, but no one ever faulted the warmth of her hospitality. I know you never met her, but if you know Miss Gwendolyn, then you know her mother.”

“Did the friendships continue after their marriages?”

“Oh yes, my lady. They dined together every week. Sir Calleford and Captain Jim hunted and the ladies did good works together. Then one by one they were called to God. First, Captain Jim, who took a chill after a long ride one winter. And then Sir Calleford’s wife, the former Miss Bronwen, who was never very strong and never quite recovered from Miss Gwen’s birth. That’s when Miss Phoebe—that is, Mrs. Blake—came to keep house for Sir Calleford, her cousin-in-law, and it seemed to work very well.” She sighed. “And now this tragedy. Lord save us, my
lady, cut down like that. May God forgive whoever struck him down at the great house.”

And Frances offered an “amen.” She had learned quite a bit from Mrs. Tanner, but now something bothered her.

“Mrs. Tanner. You have several times referred to Sir Calleford’s manor as the great house. Everyone here has called it Kestrel’s Eyrie.”

“I suppose they do,” said Mrs. Tanner, letting a sour note creep into her tone. It looked like she would say nothing more, but then she sighed again, and continued. “That’s not the real name. It was a joke of Mr. Jethro Kestrel, Sir Calleford’s grandfather. This house—and I worked there back then—was Marchand Towers, and the lords of Marchand had lived here since Queen Elizabeth’s day.”

Mrs. Blake told the story with much embellishment, but in the end, it was an old tale and a common one: a noble family running out of blood and money, until there was no one left but a young woman and her widowed mother living in the rambling, drafty house. Jethro Kestrel had been nothing more than some squire’s son, who made a fortune “doing something in the East,” said Mrs. Tanner. “He married this last daughter of Marchand, and after renaming the house for himself, restored it to its former glory. The Honorable Miss Marchand, now Mrs. Kestrel, got to stay in her home, and Mr. Kestrel got to graft himself onto an aristocratic tree. Those of us who remember the old days—and there are very few—have trouble calling it Kestrel’s Eyrie, my lady. Some of us remember the Marchands.”

“Are you saying it was wrong for Sir Calleford’s grandfather to marry above himself?” Frances asked. There was a little humor in her question, but Mrs. Tanner just shook her head. She may like gossip, but she had served three generations of Kestrels, whatever she may think of them. “It’s not for me to say, my lady.”

Frances didn’t respond. She had learned that if you let a silence hang, you might get more. She was right.

“I will say, my lady, that marriage is very important. The proper choice of your companion for the journey of life can make your life.”

Mrs. Tanner would clearly say no more, and she was looking tired. But Frances was determined to gather more information and come back with more detailed questions, now that she had Mrs. Tanner’s trust. For now, Frances just stood and said, “Mrs. Tanner, you have been too kind, first coming to pay your final respects to Sir Calleford and now giving me the benefit of your insights.”

Mrs. Tanner thanked her for the biscuits and asked Frances to give her regards to Gwendolyn before Frances departed.

That was a lot
, Frances thought, standing in the little yard outside of the cottage. There was some knowledge Gwen was who she was, but nothing to reduce Mrs. Tanner’s affection—or change her expectation that one way or another, Gwen needed to marry. She thought about Sir Calleford and Gwen’s mother. It was hard to imagine this man she had heard so much about, the polished and erudite diplomat, as the ardent suitor of the sweet and beautiful Miss Bronwen.

The chauffeur had said the widows’ cottages were not far, so she had sent him home and used the walk to think. She reflected on the Kestrel pedigree. She had known that the Kestrel family was not aristocratic, but hadn’t realized that Sir Calleford’s grandfather had managed to connect himself so neatly with the aristocracy. Was Gwen supposed to marry well—even into the aristocracy herself?

And what of Mrs. Tanner’s comments about marriage? Were they aimed at old Jethro, who had married the last of the Marchands? At Sir Calleford, marrying the lovely but dim Miss Bronwen? At Gwen, finding an understanding husband despite any personal inclinations she had?

Or were they aimed at me?
thought Franny. Her face involuntarily reddened at the thought of this elderly servant reading her.
My goodness, what a lot of information
. But the pieces were floating without connection.

She was still thinking, and hardly looking where she was going as she turned onto a pleasant country lane with a row of neatly kept houses. A sound roused her—and what she saw sent all thoughts right out of her head. It was the door closing at Mrs. Bellinger’s cottage as a visitor left: Mr. Mehmet.

She didn’t attempt to hide, just stayed her ground on the lane and waited for Mr. Mehmet to notice her. He did—and she saw both surprise and dismay on his face, but only for a few seconds before his debonair look came back. Her eyes then darted to the windows and she saw a curtain twitch. Mrs. Bellinger was watching.

“Lady Frances, how pleasant to meet you again.”
Liar
, she thought.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Mehmet. I was just planning to visit Mrs. Bellinger on behalf of Miss Kestrel to thank her for attending Sir Calleford’s funeral. But seeing you, I can thank you as well.” She kept her tone bright and cheerful.

He bowed slightly. “The honor was mine, to show my respects to the Kestrel family.”

“And to perhaps make some new acquaintances and renew old ones?” She raised an eyebrow. “I couldn’t help but see you in conversation with my brother, Lord Seaforth, and Inspector Benjamin Eastley, from Special Branch of the Metropolitan Police Service.”

Mr. Mehmet’s smile was forced now. He was upset, perhaps angry, and trying to control himself.

“You are truly remarkable, my lady. Most English girls, indeed, most Turkish girls as well, would spend the time at a funeral offering sympathy to friends and family. But you found time to see so much.”

She was dying to ask Mr. Mehmet what they had discussed, but knew it would be an outrageous breach of etiquette to ask. She would have to find a way to do so obliquely.

“I suppose the three of you share an interest in politics. I don’t know about Turkish girls, but English girls, at least this English girl, enjoy political discussions.” She gave Mr. Mehmet what she hoped was a sweet smile. “I tell you this so you won’t have to hesitate to invite me to join any such discussions in the mistaken belief I would be bored.”

He laughed. “Again, you are most remarkable. A remarkable lady from a remarkable family. Very well, Lady Frances, I will take you at your word that you have a great interest in the family profession of government and diplomacy. Perhaps, at some future time when the situation is more settled, you and I can have a discussion about politics over tea. Good day, my lady.”

And with that, he tipped his hat and left.

He’s a smooth one
, she thought. But for now, it was off to see Mrs. Bellinger. She knocked on the cottage door and the lady opened it very quickly.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Bellinger. Lady Frances Ffolkes. We met very briefly at the funeral today, and I wanted to extend the family’s thanks for your attendance. May I come in?”

She saw emotions chase themselves over Mrs. Bellinger’s face, as the woman was trying to think of a reason to refuse admission.

“Of course,” she finally said. And stepped aside to admit her.

The cottage was small, but well-kept and cozy. The furniture was plain and old-fashioned, although in good condition.
The windows were clean and would’ve let in plenty of light
, Frances thought,
if the curtains had been open. Odd to see them closed, in the middle of a sunny day.

Mrs. Bellinger motioned for Frances to take a seat, and took one herself, sitting on the edge of a chair. Unlike with Mrs. Tanner, there wasn’t going to be even a pretense that this was a mere social call.

“I know Miss Kestrel appreciated your coming. The number of people who came showed her how much her father was loved and admired.”

“As you see, Lady Frances, I live in a cottage on the estate. It took no great effort to attend.” She said nothing more, and didn’t offer to serve tea.

“It must be nice, living on such a fine estate,” offered Frances. “The quiet and beauty of the country, but in close proximity to others.” She smiled. Frances knew that her comments, in the wake of Mr. Mehmet’s departure, were right on the border of rudeness. But Mrs. Bellinger was a match.

“I make preserves as a hobby, as is well known in the neighborhood. Mr. Mehmet heard from one of the servants at the Eyrie. He inquired and I told him to send a servant around for a few jars of my strawberries.” She paused.

“And in return, he tells you tales of his former life in the East? Life there must seem so exotic.”

At that, Mrs. Bellinger gave a brittle smile. “Oh, just ask, Lady Frances. You want to know why a Turkish gentleman calls on an obscure widow. As if he had nothing more on his mind than provisioning his kitchen for something to put on his morning toast.” Her voice became a sneer, and Frances was momentarily taken aback.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” she said.

“Oh come. Don’t be so modest. Your reputation precedes you. Even in the country we’ve heard of Lady Frances, the women’s suffrage ringleader, on a first-name basis with senior officers at Scotland Yard, and friends with people your late mother wouldn’t have admitted to her servants’ hall, let alone her drawing room.”

This was something. Usually only close family—her brother and her many aunts—bothered to upbraid her like that.

“I take that as a compliment,” said Lady Frances.

“Of course you do,” said Mrs. Bellinger. “But tell me, for someone as busy as you, it must be more than idle curiosity that brings you to my door, inquiring about the society I keep.” She used her noble face to full effect, cold and haughty. Frances wasn’t offended. Rather, she admired Mrs. Bellinger for playing
a grand lady, even in this simple cottage. But that didn’t mean she was going to apologize.

Still, she tried smiling again to soften the tone. “You are right. I am too busy to come here simply to indulge myself. I am trying to solve a problem on behalf of a friend, to prevent a scandal. Sir Calleford’s murder is part of it.”

Mrs. Bellinger just blinked. She didn’t say anything.

“As a result, I am looking for anyone with insights into Sir Calleford. Perhaps you were a friend, who can share some observations into the kind of man he was. I will keep your answers confidential.”

“I am sorry then. Your trip was for nothing. He was just my landlord. I doubt if I shared more than a dozen sentences with him in all the time I’ve been here. Is there anything else I can help you with?” The tone said she didn’t think there should be.

“Since we are being so frank with each other, you could tell me a little bit more about Mr. Mehmet, seeing as you’re such good friends. It may have some bearing on my research.”

The request was outrageous. And Mrs. Bellinger’s reaction was not a surprise. She stood, and what little color was left in her pale face disappeared.

“It’s been some years since I’ve lived in London. Perhaps such humor is now the fashion there, but it’s not in these parts. Good day, Lady Frances.”

Frances’s late mother would forgive her daughter a lot, but not rudeness. Frances decided to end on a good note.

“I am sorry to have taken up so much of your time, on such a sad day. Good day, Mrs. Bellinger. I’ll see myself out.”

T
hat was . . . interesting. The key thing she had learned was that there was more mystery about Mr. Mehmet.
How had he struck up a friendship with a widow of modest means?
Charles had said he was dangerous, but perhaps that was just to discourage her.

She walked along the path to her next destination. Mr. Mehmet talked about diplomacy and politics.
Was he a spy? If so, for whom? European politics being as complicated as they were, there was no telling whose interest he was serving. Perhaps just his own. There was no lack of men selling themselves to the highest bidder in these turbulent times. Mr. Mehmet was hiding something.

She hoped Mrs. Sweet would at least be more welcoming. Her cottage turned out to be similar to Mrs. Bellinger’s, but all the curtains were open. And she didn’t have to knock, as Mrs. Sweet was in her garden, tending the last few plants to survive into the English autumn. She turned when she heard Frances approach.

“Lady Frances. This is a nice surprise.” She stood. “I hope you don’t think it’s disrespectful, my working in my little garden on the day of Sir Calleford’s funeral. But I wanted to keep busy.” She wasn’t beautiful, but there was so much gentleness and warmth, Frances was inclined to think her attractive.

“Mrs. Sweet, I never met Sir Calleford. But I’ve seen enough of these magnificent grounds to know how important they were
to him. So I think he’d be tickled to see someone tending to the grounds today.”

Mrs. Sweet laughed at that, and pulled off her gardening gloves. “What a wonderful outlook you have, Lady Frances. Come in, and I’ll put on some tea.” And soon they were comfortably sitting in the bright room, drinking out of good china that Frances suspected was reserved for company. Mrs. Sweet also passed Frances a box of chocolates. “My besetting sin. It became something of a joke with my late husband, liking candy so much I even became Mrs. Sweet. The village here is small, but boasts a very nice sweet shop.”

“I’m afraid I like them too much as well—thank you. Anyway, I just wanted to thank you, on behalf of Miss Kestrel, for coming to the funeral today. I know she appreciated it. And as her friend, I liked what you said about how he talked about her. That gave her a lot of comfort.”

Mrs. Sweet looked closely at Frances, who then realized she may have misjudged the woman. She may be pleasant and kind, but she wasn’t stupid.

“That was a convenient lie, as you well know, Lady Frances. But if it brought a sense of peace to Miss Kestrel, I can truly say I’ll have no qualms when I go to church Sunday.”

“And now it’s my turn to praise your outlook,” said Frances. “Your comment did more for Gwen than all the people who stopped by to tell her what a wonderful man he was. And he must have been, from the outpouring. I never met him myself. Did you know him well?”

She thought for a moment. “Do you know why these cottages are called the widows’ cottages? There was a centuries-old tradition of making a handful of cottages available at nominal rents to gentlewomen fallen on hard times. The Kestrels kept up the tradition when they took over the estate. Mrs. Bellinger and I are two of the current residents.”

“I visited Mrs. Bellinger before I knocked on your door—she was not as welcoming.”

Mrs. Sweet smiled and shook her head. “That doesn’t surprise me. But perhaps some Christian charity is in order. She’s had a hard life. Did you know she’s the granddaughter of the old Earl of Orran? Her mother married badly and she did as well. The marriage quickly soured. The man drank himself to death, and she was left badly off, and out of embarrassment, the rest of society shunned her. She was too proud to ask her noble family for help and they were too hard-hearted to offer it.”

Frances nodded. That explained the prickly personality and the aristocratic arrogance.

“At least she’s made a friend. I’ve seen her with Mr. Mehmet, the Turkish gentleman visiting at the Eyrie.”

“Ah yes. Mr. Mehmet is a frequent visitor to the Eyrie from London. I believe he engaged Mrs. Bellinger to help improve his conversational English. She could use the extra money.”

That was different from making preserves as a hobby. But perhaps Mrs. Bellinger was embarrassed to admit she was earning money as a tutor.

Now Mrs. Sweet gave her a wry smile. “I know who you are, Lady Frances. It was your brother, Lord Seaforth, who spoke so well at the funeral. A very distinguished family. And as a well-bred young woman, you’re being too polite to ask me my story.”

Frances laughed. “You give me too much credit. If you hadn’t brought it up, I would’ve.”

“Well, I’m afraid it’s nothing as dramatic as Mrs. Bellinger’s, although the results were the same. But you wanted to know how well I knew Sir Calleford. My husband died when we were fairly young, and I was awkwardly living with a distant relation in London. I met Sir Calleford through a mutual friend and he mentioned these widows’ cottages.”

“So you had a friendship with him?”

Mrs. Sweet hesitated. “Not a close one. He wasn’t unfriendly, just a very private man. He kindly saw Mrs. Bellinger and I were invited to dinner parties. He liked taking walks after breakfast, and if we came across each other, we’d talk. I understand he
was a great diplomat, but I found him shy and intellectual. He would’ve made a fine professor at Oxford.”

Frances nodded. “I wish Gwen could’ve known him better. She’s feeling somewhat at sea, especially now, as she’s finally realizing that she’s mistress of the Eyrie.”

“A great responsibility,” said Mrs. Sweet. “She’s no doubt very wealthy now, but the house comes with a lot of work. Of course, she could always sell it.”

“Nowadays, very few people have the money to buy an estate like this.”

“How true,” said Mrs. Sweet.

Frances thanked Mrs. Sweet again for being frank and for coming to the funeral, and began walking back to the Eyrie. Two women, rather commonplace really, who had been dependent on husbands, with no way of earning any kind of living as a man would. England was full of such women. Two widows. They should be living simple, dull lives.

And yet, for some reason or other, both were lying to her.

Mrs. Sweet clearly had been more than a casual acquaintance of Sir Calleford’s. The footman, Owen, had seen his late master breaking a rigid habit for a nighttime conversation with her.
She was a little too shrewd
, Frances thought. That lie she told to Gwen about her father caring for her was a great kindness, it was true, but only a woman with some knowledge of the family would’ve thought to tell it. Where had Mrs. Sweet come by that knowledge? Had she drawn it out of Sir Calleford?

She walked back to the Eyrie, visited briefly with Gwen and Tommie, then headed to her room, where Mallow had already laid out her dress.

“Because of the elaborate funeral luncheon, my lady, there will be a simple buffet dinner tonight. Nevertheless, I laid out your usual evening dress.” Quite right. The simplicity of dinner was no excuse for anything less than a full-fledged dinner dress.

“Good. Any more gossip from below stairs?”

“Not as such, my lady, although there is talk about the Turkish gentleman’s valet.”

“I didn’t know he had a valet. Also Turkish?”

“Yes, my lady, name of Adem. Looks a little sullen, and very quiet, so there’s much curiosity about him. He speaks English, though. He’s seen outside talking and smoking with the head gardener, also sullen. Cook says she heard Adem was the son of a gardener back in his country, and they talk about plants whenever Mr. Mehmet visits.”

Frances was annoyed at herself for not thinking that Mr. Mehmet might have a servant—but of course, he was a gentleman of means. She was also annoyed at Inspector Eastley and her brother for not mentioning it. If Mehmet was some sort of spy or even criminal, Adem the valet might be more than a valet. He might be a junior in whatever Mr. Mehmet was up to.

Mallow got Frances into her dress and began touching up her hair.

“By the way, there will be a visitor tomorrow. Just for the day, most likely. Mr. Wheaton is coming down from London to see Miss Kestrel.”

“Very good, my lady.”

Her tone was even. Frances never knew just what Mallow thought or suspected about how deep their relationship was.

“I’ll put out your rose dress for the morning, my lady.”

Frances turned. Her maid’s expression was bland. “Why the rose dress?”

“It brings out your eyes very nicely, my lady. But if you would rather—”

“No. Thank you, Mallow. The rose dress will be most suitable.”

“Very good, my lady.”