Death Among Rubies (17 page)

“Now, Dolly here was a little unclear when she came by the station. Can you two tell me the full story?”

Mallow explained her part, then Frances took over the story, both of them watching the inspector get more and more annoyed, as Constable Dill took notes.

“Miss Mallow, why didn’t you come to get the police straightaway?”

“I wasn’t sure it was a police matter yet, inspector. It was for her ladyship to decide that.”

The inspector looked dubious and thought a moment. Then he told Dolly she could go home, and she practically raced out of the house. “Dill, stand guard outside. And Miss Mallow, I’d like a private word with your mistress—you can wait outside too, with the constable.”

When they were alone, he said, “This is the second time you and your maid have found a body. That’s quite a coincidence, my lady, don’t you think?”

Frances ignored his tone. “I think that’s very significant. Don’t you? Mallow has wisely intervened where lesser servants were afraid. That tells me the killer deliberately created situations
where bodies would go undiscovered for a while. This is someone who knows how servants behave. It was the murderer’s bad luck Mallow and I were here.”

Bedlow just glared at her for a while. “The killer’s bad luck? And mine too, it seems. I would’ve thought that you, Lady Frances, would know enough to get the police directly if your maid reports a body that at least appears dead. Your maid may have been worried Mrs. Sweet was ill. But why did you enter the room?”

“I didn’t want to be accused of wasting valuable police time and thought it best to check first myself. Anyway, I think it’s obvious that this was a case of murder, inspector,” said Frances. “Killed by someone she knew.”

“This is very odd, Lady Frances. On one hand you didn’t know enough to contact the police, and on the other you were able to deduce so much about the murderer.”

Frances sighed. “You’re missing the point. There were no disturbances in the room. Surely she admitted someone and sat down for a cozy chat in her bedroom. And then her guest shot her and came with her own key to lock up afterward.”

“I think this may be part of the same gang that killed Sir Calleford,” he said, more to himself than to Frances.

“I doubt that. There’s virtually nothing in these cottages to steal. And an outsider would be afraid a gunshot would attract attention. But a local would know there was only Mrs. Bellinger’s cottage within hearing.”

“So you’re saying Mrs. Bellinger shot her?”

“I have no reason to think that. But anyone here knows Mrs. Bellinger keeps to herself. She probably wouldn’t even notice a gunshot. She’d assume it was a gamekeeper shooting vermin, or a poacher.”

Inspector Bedlow fixed her with a sharp look. “So, Lady Frances, murder is something you have wide experience with?”

“As a matter of fact it is,” she said. “From time to time I have been of assistance to the police in London.”

“Then you’re welcome to go home and help the police in London. We don’t need help from amateurs in this county.”

Frances struggled to keep her temper. “Inspector Bedlow, Mrs. Sweet was not murdered by a robber. And if you don’t accept that, I can assure you there will be more murders.”

O
utside, it was getting a little cool, and Mallow’s cloak was thin.

“If you’re getting a chill, Miss Mallow, I’ll lend you my jacket until your lady comes back.”

“Thank you. But I will be fine for now.” They heard the voices getting louder inside. “I think my lady is getting angry at your inspector.”

“And I’m sure he’s getting angry right back at her,” said Dill, with a grin. “Just between us, the inspector is under a lot of pressure. It was hoped he would make an arrest soon, and the chief constable has been asking for progress reports. We’ve been looking into local gangs, but they all have alibis.”

Mallow nodded encouragingly.

“In one case, he thought he knew who did it, only to find the gang was under lock and key in the next county on another charge when Sir Calleford was murdered. He was very angry at that, I can tell you,” said the constable. “But he still thinks it’s a gang. Although . . .”

Mallow looked up expectantly.

“I have also heard him mutter things about your lady’s friend, Miss Thomasina Calvin—that she may have a reason to wish Sir Calleford dead. I can’t see a quiet lady like that stabbing a man like Sir Calleford. I shouldn’t really say anything, but I’ve
heard your lady knows important people. She was seen talking with that important inspector from London. If she has any influence . . .” He let the thought hang.

“You don’t like Inspector Bedlow much, do you?” asked Mallow.

Constable Dill looked over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being overheard. “I don’t seem to be getting on with my career doing this,” he said. “We’re going in circles. I’m up for sergeant, like I said, and I just found out there’s a watch supervisor position open. Again, Miss Mallow, just between us, helping Inspector Bedlow chase his tail isn’t going to raise my profile with the chief constable.”

“Well I’m sure that your skills will shine through,” said Mallow emphatically, and Dill seemed surprised and pleased with his compliment.

“Thank you very much,” he said.

At that point, Frances came out of the house walking very briskly.

“Come, Mallow, there is nothing more here for us.” She had that clipped tone that signaled great irritation.

Mallow quickly fell in line next to her mistress.

“That utter fool,” said Frances. “Too stupid to see the obvious, too stubborn to call in help. I never thought I’d say this, but I wish Inspector Eastley was back here. He’s stubborn too, but at least he’s intelligent and competent.”

“Yes, my lady.” She paused. “I did hear some information, though, from Constable Dill. He’s the one who interviewed me earlier.” She told Frances what she had heard.

“Very interesting, Mallow. That goes along with what Mrs. Blake told me earlier—they hate calling in Scotland Yard. I never thought it was a gang, but this does show that someone is getting desperate, and desperate people do desperate things. We have to watch carefully because Inspector Bedlow will likely arrest someone out of his own desperation. And we must be
especially careful for Miss Calvin—she could easily become a scapegoat.”

“Yes, my lady.” She paused. “You won’t reveal that you found this out from Constable Dill, though? I wouldn’t want to get him in trouble.”

Frances smiled. It was not like Mallow to worry about a constable. As loyal as she was, she never liked getting mixed up with the police.
Had this one caught her fancy?

“I’ll treat it as confidential, of course, Mallow. We wouldn’t want to mar a promising career, would we?” She shook her head. “Poor Mrs. Sweet. ‘More sinned against than sinning.’”

“My lady?”

“A quote from Shakespeare. I only meant that whatever sins Mrs. Sweet committed, she didn’t deserve this.”

“Of course not, my lady. I will say a prayer for her in church on Sunday.”

“Even though she was with a man outside of marriage?”

“I’m sure it’s not my place to judge her for that, my lady. And if she was a sinner, all the more reason to give her our prayers.”

Back at the house, Frances broke the news quietly, saying Mrs. Sweet had been murdered, but the police had no suspects yet. The accepted explanation, for now, was the “gang” that had supposedly killed Sir Calleford.

Mrs. Blake accepted the news calmly. Gwen teared up, even though she hardly knew the woman, and quickly offered to pay for funeral expenses—although Frances knew of course that Sir Calleford’s substantial gift was sitting in the woman’s account. Tommie caught Frances’s eye—she knew there was more to this.

Christopher Blake accepted it calmly as well and said he would call the chief constable personally to see about his progress. But Frances could tell he didn’t believe the convenient fiction any more than she did.

“Mr. Blake. All of this has been so upsetting for Gwen. I know I’m being shockingly forward, but she speaks of you with such affection. Could you invite us for a day at your estate? I think Gwen would enjoy the change of scene and it would give your mother a day of quiet here.”

And most of all, it would give Frances and Mallow a chance to talk to Blake servants. They may have some insights into family workings.

“Splendid idea, Lady Frances. I’m sorry I didn’t think of it myself. I’ll make the arrangements. And there’s good shooting not far on a neighbor’s estate—that might give the gentlemen some sport while you ladies get a tour of my lands.”

“Thank you so much. And no need to tell anyone it was my idea. I wouldn’t want anyone to think I was being too forward.” No need for anyone to think Lady Frances was more curious than she should be, either.

Frances caught the Hardimans and Mr. Mehmet before dinner as well. The Americans offered conventional words of sympathy. Mr. Mehmet said, “I wish you solace upon the death of your friend,” and he seemed sincere.

But since no one knew her well, her death didn’t seem to cast much of a pall over dinner. Mrs. Blake asked the Americans if they had had a good tour of the grounds, and Miss Hardiman gushed about the extent and beauty of the Eyrie estate.

“The estate was a long time in the making,” said Mrs. Blake. “It was laid out more than three hundred years ago.”

“Imagine that,” said Miss Hardiman.

Mr. Mehmet said little, but Frances was not done with him yet. He was the one with an interest in the cottage right next to Mrs. Sweet. He was also the last of the dinner guests Frances still didn’t fully understand.

After dinner, Mrs. Blake said if anyone was interested, the usual after-dinner reception would be held in the drawing room
for the first time since Sir Calleford had died. “Gwen and I thought it was time,” she said, including her niece—an acknowledgment of Gwen’s role as the new mistress of Kestrel’s Eyrie.

Frances thought this would be a good chance to speak with Mr. Mehmet again, and was disappointed to see him heading away from the stairs as the rest of the party walked up to the drawing room. She quietly stepped away from the stairs and into a shadow, to see him heading out the door.
Was he hoping for a breath of air?
It was quite cool outside. Frances thought for a moment, then quickly followed him out.

The cold air hit her, and she wished again she was in her male walking clothes and strong boots. From the little light leaking from the windows, she saw Mr. Mehmet head along the path to the widows’ cottages.
Another visit with Mrs. Bellinger?
It was very late for a man to visit an unattached woman in a home without a live-in servant.

Confident she knew where he was going, she followed at a distance. She knew he wouldn’t expect her to follow him anyway. Her heart beat faster and she forgot how cold it was. She’d catch him out now—there were no innocent explanations for this.

And suddenly he stopped, and she saw him with someone else, the shadowy figure of a man. Frances heard murmurings in a foreign tongue, probably Turkish. She heard the word “Kerem” more than once. They exchanged something, but she couldn’t see what, then there was more talking in Turkish. She clearly made out one English phrase: “our friend in London.” The second man disappeared into the darkness. Mehmet continued on his way.

They were almost there. There was a welcoming glint in the window of Mrs. Bellinger’s cottage and she saw more light as the door opened. So she was expecting him, even eager for him. Frances increased her pace—she’d catch them now, right on the threshold.
What was going on here? Was the financially desperate Mrs. Bellinger working with Mr. Mehmet as a spy?

And then she felt an arm going around her and she was lifted from the ground. She started to scream, but a cloth was stuffed into her mouth. A man held her tightly and tucked her under his arm, immobilizing her hands. Craning her neck, she saw they were heading toward the still open door. They stepped inside, and she heard the door close.

O
nce inside, she was put on her feet, and she instantly pulled the cloth, a cheap handkerchief, out of her mouth. The man who had grabbed her was dressed as a manservant, but did not appear English—no doubt Mr. Mehmet’s valet.

Without thinking, she smoothed her dress, then took stock of her captors: Mrs. Bellinger was giving her a look of pure hatred and Frances glared right back. Mr. Mehmet had the faintest look of amusement.

“Since it was obvious I was coming here anyway, it was unnecessary to have your . . . minion assault me like that.”

Mr. Mehmet gave an ironic bow. “My apologies. It was feared you might stop and turn back to the house, and report what you saw. And Adem, while a fine servant, perhaps overreacted. Although I asked him to watch you, I didn’t want him to kidnap you. Again, I am sorry.” Mr. Mehmet said a few words in Turkish; Adem responded briefly and disappeared into the kitchen.

Frances watched a look pass between Mrs. Bellinger and Mr. Mehmet. She still didn’t know his full story, but she knew what was happening here. Certain kinds of looks were only passed between certain kinds of people. The opened door, welcoming, made it all clear. And Mr. Mehmet’s daytime visit—discreet, but still in the open. Frances guessed no spies would meet by day like that.

“I think we’ve had enough of her prying,” said Mrs. Bellinger in that icy tone of hers. “Let’s just dump her somewhere and be done with it.”

Frances knew it was anger talking—anger and fear. Mrs. Bellinger just wanted to get a rise out of Frances, but she refused to give her the satisfaction of a response. She only spoke to Mr. Mehmet. “Tell me, did you know she was that bloodthirsty when you first fell in love with her?”

Frances delighted in the absolute astonishment on his face. And then he took a step forward and grabbed her hard on the shoulders. “Who told you? Tell me how you knew that?” he yelled.

She slapped away his hands. “Stop manhandling me. Once was enough. And there’s no need to yell. It was the way you two looked at each other, the easy way you visited. And you were seen at the Eyrie lands in a romantic moonlight walk.” That last was a bit of a guess, but Mme. Aubert had seen them and Frances felt it was a reasonable conclusion.

“Let’s lock her in the root cellar until we decide what to do,” said Mrs. Bellinger, still hoping for a reaction. Now, Frances heard even more fear behind the anger.

“Oh, do stop being so dramatic,” said Frances. “I have no interest in any affair you two are having.”

“We are not having an affair, Lady Frances,” said Mr. Mehmet. “She is not my . . . lover. Mrs. Bellinger is my wife.”

That did surprise Frances. She wouldn’t have guessed their relationship was that close.

“Well then,” she finally said. “I have no interest in your marital status. I’m here because of my friend. Now can we sit down? If you haven’t forgotten everything you knew about hospitality, you will offer me a seat and a glass of that sherry I see on the side table.”

Mr. Mehmet had regained his self-control. “I think you are correct, Lady Frances. Although considering your behavior, you are perhaps not in the best position to lecture us on hospitality.
Please, take a seat. And you, too . . . my wife.” He poured three glasses of sherry, and a few moments later they were all in a somewhat mellower mood.

“You say you are here for your friend, Lady Frances?” asked Mr. Mehmet. “That would be Miss Kestrel? You are trying to find her father’s murderer?”

“Yes, but that is not my main reason. Miss Kestrel was the subject of vicious rumors—and she doesn’t even know about it. I came to find out who started it, and why. Sir Calleford’s murder is probably related. And now your neighbor, Mrs. Sweet. I assume you told your wife about that. And your behavior, Mr. Mehmet, has been suspicious.”

“Of course. But now you see. I visited Sir Calleford a number of times on business in past months. On my first visit, I met Mrs. Bellinger over dinner. And recently she gave me the great honor of becoming my wife, quietly in a registry office where no one knows us.” He smiled at her, and she smiled back. Years fell away from her, and for a few moments she looked like a beautiful bride. “But we must be secret because of my work and the need to avoid gossip—a Muslim Turk marrying a Christian Englishwoman. It could provoke extreme reactions from my associates and family. And I wanted to protect my wife from any embarrassments regarding her family or social circle.”

“And what is your work, Mr. Mehmet?”

He shook his head. “That too is secret. But please know I had no hand in Sir Calleford’s death. Why would I do that? I don’t want any attention called to myself, at least not until sometime in the near future when my wife and I can leave.”

Mrs. Bellinger finished her sherry and stood. “This is difficult for me. I am going to my bedroom. I imagine you will talk a little while. Good night, Mehmet. Good night, Lady Frances.”

Mehmet stood too and kissed his wife. “We won’t be long, and I’ll look in on you before I go.” As she turned to head up the stairs, Frances spoke.

“You may not believe me, but I wish you the greatest happiness in your marriage,” she said.

Mrs. Bellinger just looked at her. “Thank you. But you don’t understand, do you? You can’t imagine a well-born Englishwoman marrying a Turk. But then, you can’t possibly imagine what my first marriage was like—the emotional and physical pain I endured. I don’t like you, Lady Frances, but I don’t wish you the marriage I had.”

“You’re right about that. I can’t understand. But my greatest wish, all my work, is to make sure no woman has to endure what you had to.”

Mrs. Bellinger smiled coolly. “You have a reputation for giving pretty speeches. I see it was well-deserved. Do you know what you do not understand? The importance of kindness from a man. For all our differences, Mr. Mehmet is a kind man. So much kinder than the so-called Christians who turned their backs on me after the humiliation I suffered at my first husband’s hand. Someday, when you are older, you will realize what I mean about the importance of kindness. For now, I appreciate your wishes for my recent marriage and bid you good night.” She headed upstairs. Frances glanced now at her host, whose wet eyes were following his wife up the stairs. She felt a pang in her heart and felt momentarily like an intruder.

Mr. Mehmet quickly wiped his eyes and finished his sherry.

“Lady Frances, if there were anything I could tell you about Sir Calleford’s death, or if there were any rumors about his daughter, I would tell you. I don’t see how I can help you further—except with this: In my faith, hospitality is sacred and inviolable. It is no doubt clear to both of us that it was a guest who murdered Sir Calleford, a man to whom he offered hospitality, a sin that defies description. Such a murderer must have a black heart.”

Frances nodded. She was not of his faith, but his words made sense to her.

“When Adem carried you in here, I saw anger in your eyes, but not fear. You are fearless, Lady Frances, and intelligent. I think you will find what you seek. In a strange way neither of us can understand, you will be Allah’s instrument in uncovering a murderer.”

“I find it odd that your God would pick a woman—a Christian woman—for his plans.”

He smiled. “You mock me, but it is not for us to question his ways. As a woman, you cannot begin to plumb the depths, but it is true. You will be Allah’s sword in this. He will use you to uncover this great sin. I am convinced.”

Frances thought that one over.
What could she say? At some level this was a compliment, but “thank you” didn’t seem right, somehow.

She was saved from trying to find an answer by a knock. It wasn’t at the front door, but rather the kitchen door. Mr. Mehmet jumped up, alarmed. No one was expected. They heard Adem open the door.

“Excuse me,” came Mallow’s strong London accent, with the superior tone she used for fellow servants. “I believe my mistress, Lady Frances Ffolkes, is here.”

Frances started to talk, but Mr. Mehmet silenced her with a glance. “Please, I don’t want anyone else to know,” he whispered. Frances could’ve told him it was a lost cause, but said nothing for the moment.

“Your lady isn’t here, please go home,” said Adem.

“I don’t believe you. She went down this path and there are no other cottages with the lights on. Now please show me to her at once.”

“All I can say is that your lady is not here. Now please go—”

“How dare you lay hands on me!” said Mallow. Frances rushed to the kitchen—if Adem had hurt Mallow . . .

Before she could make it through the door, there was a crack and Adem cried out. When Frances and Mr. Mehmet entered the kitchen, Adem was sitting down, clutching his left shin, and
Mallow—looking very pleased with herself—was holding a rolling pin.

“My lady, I hope you are well. This . . . person dared to lay hands on me. It was necessary to strike him.” She was affronted that such a thing had come to pass. Frances bit her lip to stop herself from laughing at her diminutive maid laying into a manservant who probably had eight inches and one hundred pounds on her.

“Mallow, what are you doing here?”

“I was concerned, my lady, when I couldn’t find you after dinner. A maid saw you leave, and when an assistant gamekeeper said he saw a lady along the path to the cottages, I assumed it must be you.” She glanced down at the rolling pin. “I borrowed this from Cook, my lady, in case of any eventuality.” She stopped to glare at Adem, who was scowling at her. “And I brought a wrap for you, my lady, so you wouldn’t get a chill.”

Mr. Mehmet sighed, but there was a hint of a smile. “This little cottage has become too crowded, I think. All our business has been concluded, has it not, Lady Frances?” Then, with irony in his voice, he continued. “And now, with your maid here, you may go home accompanied by her and thus avoid any damage to your reputation.”

“Thank you for your kind observation,” Frances shot back. “I do agree we’re done here. Your secret will be safe with me.”

“So you trust me then?”

“I didn’t say that, Mr. Mehmet. I said I’d keep your secret. You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here—that is, what your occupation is. Acceptance is one thing. Trust is quite another.”

He laughed. “I appreciate the distinction. And now, I suggest we return.”

The path was only wide enough for two abreast, so Mr. Mehmet walked with Frances, while Adem and Mallow followed behind—the two servants eying each other with suspicion.

Even in the dark, the Eyrie was imposing, filling the sky as they approached it.

“Have you been to India, Lady Frances?”

“No, but I would very much like to someday. Have you?” She wondered where this conversation was going.

“Yes. There is a great building there, I’m sure you’ve heard of it, called the Taj Mahal. It looks like a palace, but it’s a tomb for a queen. And looking at the Eyrie, I think of that. I know it’s a home, but it feels like a tomb. I cannot imagine actually living there. I hope I make sense, Lady Frances, and that I don’t give offense?”

“Not at all, Mr. Mehmet. In fact, I agree. It’s a beautiful house to visit, but I wouldn’t want to reside there. Even less to be its mistress. Your comparison to a tomb is apt. It makes me think of the line, ‘The grave’s a fine and private place, but none, I think, do there embrace.’” Mr. Mehmet laughed.

“An amusing line. Where is it from?”

“A poem by Andrew Marvell, an English poet of the seventeenth century. It’s called ‘To His Coy Mistress.’”

“My wife has promised to recommend English writers for me. I shall ask her to add this Andrew Marvell to the list.”

Frances had a vision of the stiff Mrs. Bellinger—now Mrs. Mehmet—sitting by the fire with Mr. Mehmet, reading English poetry. You just never knew.

“One more thing, Mr. Mehmet. May I ask whom you were speaking with before your servant Adem seized me? You were speaking in Turkish, so it was clearly one of your countrymen.”

“What a curious girl you are, Lady Frances. But there was no other person. It was Adem I was speaking with, then he turned back and grabbed you. He is more comfortable conversing in Turkish.”

“That’s impossible. If the man were Adem, he couldn’t have slipped behind me that quickly after talking to you. There was another man there, and seeing all that has happened here, and how you’re depending on me to solve this crime as ‘Allah’s agent,’ I think you should tell me.”

“Distances in the country, at night, are hard to judge. I assure you, it was just me and Adem.”

“Who is your ‘friend in London’?”

She couldn’t see his face clearly in the dark.

“I have lots of friends in London, Lady Frances.”

“You are lucky I’m not with the London police. They’d have constables checking every person in the village, every coming and going.”

“I suppose I am lucky. But I still have nothing to hide. Or, I should say, nothing more to hide.”

“Very well, don’t tell me. But I know I’m right. And I still don’t trust you.”

Back in the house, they said a quick good-night. Adem studiously ignored Mallow as he followed his master up the stairs. He still had a slight limp—Mallow must’ve hit him pretty hard.

Frances quickly stopped by Gwen’s and Tommie’s rooms to say good-night and apologize for not being able to join them earlier in the drawing room, citing “personal business.” Then she had Mallow help her undress and get ready for bed.

“I hope you don’t think I overstepped by coming to fetch you at the cottage, my lady, or by assaulting Adem.”

“Not at all, Mallow. I should’ve taken you with me in the first place.” She smiled at her maid. “You’re quite handy with that rolling pin.”

“Thank you, my lady. You should’ve known my old gran, my lady. She was a head taller than me and was famed in the neighborhood with her rolling pin. No one took advantage of her. Not twice, anyway.”

“I’m sorry we never met.” She sighed. “I had expected, even hoped, that Mr. Mehmet was involved in these murders. It seemed so . . . obvious. There is still something there, I’m sure, but this is really a family affair, I’m afraid.”