Death Among Rubies (22 page)

F
rances had breakfast with her friends. Mr. Mehmet and Mr. Hardiman appeared to be discussing hunting, and as usual, Mrs. Blake made sure breakfast was up to Eyrie standards. She then sat down with the gentlemen, leaving the young ladies to themselves.

Tommie’s face showed strain. She was no doubt wondering when and how someone would come after her again. Gwen was cheerful though.
In her mind
, Frances realized,
the problems were all solved when Frances stood up to the inspector
. Effie seemed lost in thought, perhaps dreaming of the day when she would preside over meals here and wondering how recent events might affect that. A private engagement was just that—if her father dragged her away from the Eyrie, her dreams could dissolve.

“So I understand that knitting is on the agenda,” Frances said.

“I’m sure I’ll be hopeless at it,” said Gwen. “But it will be good to have something useful to do.”

“Good works are among the responsibilities for English ladies,” said Frances with a meaningful look at Effie.

“I take your point,” she said with a sigh.

“I’m putting Mallow in charge of all of you. She excels in knitting and can help you get started and through the rough spots.”

“You’re coming too, aren’t you, Franny?” asked Gwen.

“Of course. I just have a letter to write to Mrs. Elkhorn—committee work.” She looked at Tommie and held her eyes.
Don’t worry. I’m on the case.
“In fact, let me get started now, so we won’t be apart too long. I’ll have a word with Mallow to make sure she meets you in the solar.”

She had a final sip of tea and met Mallow just outside the dining room.

“The vicar will be here soon, Mallow. Stay with the ladies in the solar. I’m going to be doing a little reconnaissance work, but that’s just between you and me.”

“‘Reconnaissance,’ my lady?”

“Searching and exploring. Armies have whole units devoted to doing this. We’ve seen how large this house is—in fact, much of it isn’t used. Now, someone on this estate committed murders, and tried to plant evidence on Miss Calvin. They’d need a base of operations, so to speak, and there is a part of this house that’s empty. I’m going to have a look through that locked door at the end of my hallway. No one is to know but you.”

“Very good, my lady.”

“I knew I could count on you. Of course, Constable Dill said he will also be keeping an eye on the grounds.” And she hid a smile as Mallow blushed slightly.

“That is very reassuring, my lady,” she said. She cleared her throat. “The vicar will no doubt be here soon. I’ll make sure Mr. Pennington is aware he is to be shown into the solar.”

Frances headed back to her room, where she selected a nail file from among her toiletries. Then she walked down the hallway, past Gwen’s and Tommie’s rooms, to the locked door at the end of the hallway. It was a better lock than the one in Mrs. Sweet’s cottage, so Frances took a little longer than Mallow to pick this one, but in about twenty minutes it gave way, and Frances entered.

The hallway was dimly lit from a window at the end, so Frances could see the dust. No housemaid had swept here in a long time. There were other contrasts with the rest of the Eyrie:
No tapestries or oil paintings on these walls, which were bare and in need of painting. A series of rooms lined the hallway, and Frances tried the first of the doors. It opened easily, and inside she saw some old, cheap furniture probably kept in storage for servants’ rooms. She prowled around for a while, but there were no clues here.

The next room was the same. She opened all the drawers in a cracked dresser and even looked into what appeared to be an old sea chest. It contained some faded clothes, perhaps used for a fancy dress party when the Marchands still held sway in the house.

But the third room she tried was a surprise. On a much-battered and stained table that might have once graced the Eyrie’s kitchen, Frances saw what was clearly a fresh addition to this forgotten wing—a chipped bowl. She wrinkled her nose at the metallic smell that cut through the pervasive musty odor, and waved away the flies that supplied the only noise and movement in these halls.

The bowl’s inside was stained deep red, and Frances gingerly touched the bottom. It was still a little sticky—the blood that ended up on Tommie’s dress had been stored here. Convenient, and yet hidden.

Perhaps there was more to see. She continued along the hallway, which turned sharply left. She guessed she was on a gallery surrounding the great hall below, and would eventually come to another door on the other side.

There were a dozen more doors—should she check all of them for more clues? She was thinking what to do, when she thought she heard a creak. Was it her imagination? Her own feet? Frances stopped, and held her breath.
Definitely a creak.
She hoped it was just a field mouse, but even a cat didn’t weigh enough to make that much noise. It came more steadily, from the turn in the hallway ahead of her.

Frances froze. Then from around the corner came a stranger, a man of middle years. His clothes were a gentleman’s, but
scruffy. He didn’t say anything, and they stared at each other for a few moments.

And then Frances turned and ran. She heard his footfalls and was under no illusions: he had a longer stride and wasn’t impeded by skirts.
But I’m smarter.

Realizing she’d never make it to the exit before he caught her, she turned suddenly into one of the storage rooms and slammed the door behind her. It took just a moment to push over an old wardrobe. It fell with a crash against the door, and she heard her assailant try to force his way in.

He’d get in eventually
, Frances knew, but she had slowed him down, and meanwhile she let her eyes adjust to the dark. She reached around for something to use as a weapon. Her hands found a small stool—it would have to do.

The man pushed again and again. Frances slid a chair behind the door, hopped onto it, and waited for him to get in. His eyes would be used to the relatively well-lit hallway and he wouldn’t see her right away. She raised the stool and patiently waited for him to appear. And then, with great satisfaction, she brought it down on his head as hard as she could.

He collapsed on the floor.

Frances just stood there looking at him. He began to groan, and she realized he’d get up soon. She stepped over him, ran to the doorway leading back to the living quarters, and opened the door. Turning, she saw the man stumbling after her. She didn’t want to let him get away, but knew she couldn’t fight him. Reaching into her pocket, she produced the silver police whistle she always kept with her and blew it once, then again and again.

The vicar had dropped off the donated yarn, offered more words of comport for Gwen, and praised the ladies for their charitable works. Mallow set them up and observed their progress.
Effie was surprisingly good
, she observed. But her ladyship had said that Miss Hardiman had been born poor—knitting wasn’t an acceptable
hobby for farm girls, but a necessity. Tommie was a little slow, but competent.

Gwen, however, did not seem to be able to manage.

“Why don’t you read to us,” suggested Tommie. “You have such a nice reading voice.”

“That might be best,” said Gwen, looking forlornly at the tangle of yarn. Mallow began to straighten it all out while Gwen looked for a suitable novel on the solar bookshelf. “How about Dickens? He tells such good stories,” said Gwen. She sat back down on the couch and began to read aloud from
Great Expectations
.

Rachel, one of the housemaids, came in with a tea service. “Mr. Pennington asked me to apologize if you’ve been disturbed, Miss,” she said to Gwen. “Apparently, the bootboy has been practicing his penny whistle, even though he was told not to.”

“Quite all right,” said Gwen. “We couldn’t hear it here anyway.”

It only took Mallow about ten seconds to make the connection.

“Rachel. Never mind the tea. Run downstairs at once. Grab every maid you see and look for Constable Dill, who is somewhere on the grounds. And send him and any footmen to the ladies’ wing immediately.”

Rachel just stared, and the ladies stopped what they were doing, looking back and forth between the two maids.

“Well what are you waiting for? Go!” said Mallow. And Rachel turned and left as fast as she could without actually running. “Miss Kestrel, Miss Calvin, Miss Hardiman. Lady Frances needs us now.” And single file, they unquestioningly followed Mallow out of the solar and toward their wing.

On their way, Mallow glanced out of the window, noting with satisfaction that housemaids and kitchen maids were fanning out of the house, no doubt seeking the constable.

Then, up the stairs, and along the hallway. As they got closer, they could now hear the whistle, clearly not a penny whistle, but
her ladyship’s prized silver police whistle. Mallow felt relief flood through her—her ladyship was safe if she was blowing.

They turned the final corner, and there she was, standing in the open doorway to the empty wing. She had blown herself breathless, and just pointed down the hallway. Mallow peered into the hall, and saw a man sitting on the floor and holding his head. The other ladies gathered around.

“I’ve sent for Constable Dill, my lady. And more servants should be coming.”

“Thank you,” gasped Frances. She motioned for Tommie to step forward, while she turned to her attacker. “You,” she said. “Look at me.” The man looked up, as he continued to rub a growing bump.

“That roman nose and high forehead—that’s him. That’s my attacker from London. Except for the addition of a mustache.”

“Very good,” said Frances. People started to arrive—Mr. Pennington, a footman, Mrs. Blake, and finally Constable Dill, panting almost as much as Lady Frances from his running.

Mallow pushed her way past everyone to the constable. “There’s a man in there who has attacked her ladyship. He needs to be arrested, right now.” He seemed a little stunned. “Well, constable. What are you waiting for?”

Dill strode into the hallway and grabbed the man by his collar. “Come with me, my man. You are in big trouble.”

Frances remembered the bloodstained bowl.
But no. That had nothing to do with this man. He wouldn’t have done that.
She’d keep quiet about that, especially with so many people in the hall. She told Dill to follow Mallow to the solar.

Frances then peered over everyone’s heads to Mrs. Blake. Her expression was a perfect example of self-control. Frances couldn’t help but admire her.

Mr. Pennington quickly sent all the servants back to their tasks. Tommie looked upset—no, angry.
But she’d get her justice
, thought Frances. Gwen was more confused than anything. Effie seemed—amused.

“Tommie, why don’t the three of you go to Gwen’s room and order some more tea from the kitchen.”

“I don’t understand,” said Gwen. “Who was that man?”

“No need to worry, dear. Probably some tramp looking for a warm place,” said Tommie. “The police will take care of it. Now let’s get some tea.” She put a comforting arm around Gwen and led her away, leaving Frances and Effie alone.

“I guess Dad didn’t hear from all the way in his room. We’re going to have some fight when he finds out. He’ll want to go back to London right away.” She sighed. “Is it always like this in great English houses?” asked Effie.

“Not typically,” said Frances.

“Too bad. It’s kind of exciting. So what did you do to him anyway?”

“Slammed a stool on his head.”

Effie laughed and gave Frances a hug. “You’re my kind of girl, Franny Ffolkes.”

“I’m glad you approve,” said Frances, smiling back. “But don’t worry—things will soon be back to the normal, predictable world we English so love.”

W
hen Frances entered the solar, she saw that Mallow had gathered up the knitting and was serving tea, which was probably getting cool by now, to Mrs. Blake and Constable Dill. The culprit was cuffed and sitting in a chair with his head down. The bump was now very obvious.
I really hit him hard.

“Are you all right, Lady Frances?” asked Mrs. Blake, as if Frances had done nothing more than lightly trip on a wrinkled rug.

“Quite. Thank you.”

“I am sorry you were assaulted in this house.” She paused, and her eyes seemed to drill right into Frances. “That door is usually kept locked.”

Mrs. Blake then turned to the constable. “I have no idea who this . . . person is, or how he got into this house. I will have Mr. Pennington and the footmen carefully check all the doors and windows, and hire carpenters and locksmiths to make any necessary repairs. Please remove this man as soon as you can.”

“Very good, madam. I do need to call for a police vehicle.”

“If it would get him out of here more quickly, my car and chauffer at your disposal. I will give the necessary instructions.” She swept out of the room.

“Come on,” said Dill, dragging the man along. “You’re going to jail on some very serious charges. Now let’s start with your name.”

“Silas Watkins,” he mumbled. He had a London accent, but Frances remembered what Tommie had said—it was too exact.

“We’ll be asking you more questions, Mr. Watkins. Now come along peaceably, and don’t make it worse.”

“I’ll be coming too, constable,” said Frances. “Do you know where Inspector Eastley will be staying?”

“He called me early this morning to say he was at the Three Bells in Morchester, my lady.”

“Excellent. Mallow, go to the telephone and call the inspector at the inn. Tell him to meet us at the village station. Then look in on the ladies.”

“Very good, my lady.”

Mallow was about to leave, when Frances saw her pause to give Mr. Watkins a look of absolute hatred. It was clear Mr. Watkins was lucky he wasn’t going to be left alone in some windowless back room with Mallow and her rolling pin.

Dill half led, half dragged Watkins downstairs and out the front door, under the eyes of curious servants. The chauffer admitted his odd group of passengers to the Rolls-Royce with the same attentiveness he gave to all who rode in his car, before getting behind the wheel.

“The village police station,” said Frances.

“Very good, my lady.”

Constable Dill led his prisoner through the front reception and into a larger room in the back with a table and chairs. He pushed Watkins into a chair.

“An inspector will be coming for you. From Scotland Yard. Be prepared to tell him the full story.” Watkins just groaned and buried his face in his hands.

They didn’t have long to wait before Inspector Eastley and Constable Smith arrived. Dill jumped up and stood at attention.

“Good morning, sir. This man, Silas Watkins, was arrested trespassing at the Eyrie and attacking Lady Frances Ffolkes.”

“So I heard from Miss Mallow.” He seemed very amused. “From the look at that bump, maybe you should’ve arrested Lady Frances for assault.”

“Sir?”

“That was a joke, constable.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dill remained standing, while Eastley sat next to Frances and Constable Smith stood behind the prisoner, casting a shadow over him. Watkins looked up nervously at the huge constable.

Eastley didn’t say anything right away to Watkins, just studied him for a while. So Frances also looked at him, seeing what she could deduce.
Yes, gentleman’s clothes, but they were even more uncared for and worn than she had first realized, as if he had bought them used. And how did he grow a mustache so quickly? There was something funny about it.
She suddenly leaned forward and ripped it off his face. It was just held on with some sort of adhesive, as she had suspected.

The man reacted to that, shouting out profanities in pain. So she had been right. He was city born and bred—that was a Manchester accent, not a fake London one.

“See here, watch your language. There’s a lady present,” Dill said.

“Indeed,” said Eastley dryly. “Lady Frances, it seems you were wise to invite me back to the country, and I was wise to come. But let’s avoid any further physical contact with the prisoner. After all, that’s Constable Smith’s job.” Watkins looked up again at the huge policeman and seemed to shrink into his chair.

“Dill, did you search the prisoner?”

“Yes, sir. And I found this rather odd instrument.” He produced from his pocket what looked to Frances like a knife handle.

Eastley picked it up. Then suddenly, with a snap, a nasty-looking blade shot out of it.

“Dear lord.”

“Dear lord indeed, Lady Frances. It’s called a switchblade. Not very common in England. The Italians seem to like them, I heard. Used for street fights among the lowest sort of criminals.”

“I think a low criminal is what we have here, inspector. That man, under disguise, has threatened my friend Miss Thomasina Calvin and now me. She has already recognized him.” She summarized the incident with Tommie in the cathedral and then how she had trapped the man, and was pleased to see Inspector Eastley look impressed. “I am sure that this is related to the murders at Kestrel’s Eyrie.”

“You may be right. Let’s see about that.” Inspector Eastley started in his peaceful voice that somehow made what he was saying even more frightening.
This is a chance to learn about how to question a witness
, thought Frances.

“You have committed a very serious offense. Attacking a lady. And not just any lady—the sister of a marquess, a powerful and wealthy man with a lot of influence. I’ll be long-retired, in a comfortable cottage in the country, while you’re still rotting, forgotten in some prison cell.”

Watkins hung his head even further as if he wanted to disappear.

“So let’s be a good boy and be as cooperative as possible, so we can avert needless unpleasantness.”

“I’ll tell you the whole thing, and you’ll see it was just supposed to be a joke.” He had a pleading voice, willing the inspector to believe him.

“We’ve been speaking for less than a minute and you’ve already lied to me,” said the inspector. “That’s not a good sign. Maybe you need to spend some time alone with Constable Smith, to consider your position. I am patient. Constable Smith is not. He doesn’t like working into the evening. And he hates having to come to the country. He might try to persuade you to tell the truth. Constable Smith can be very persuasive.”

“Yes, sir,” said Watkins, who looked like he was about to pass out. “I won’t lie. I knew it was wrong. I’m an actor, you see. I think you guessed that, my lady. Mostly regional touring companies. Well, a couple of weeks ago, you see, I got a letter, with a ten-pound note, from someone saying he had seen me
perform and wanted to play a joke on some woman, a Thomasina Calvin—”

Rage rose through her and she was about to rise, when Eastley laid a restraining hand on her arm.
He was right
, Frances realized. The interrogation would have to remain calm if it was to be effective.

“Please continue, Mr. Watkins,” he said, still quietly.

The story was simple. The letter, written in block characters and unsigned, told him where he could find Miss Calvin, and in whose company she’d be. It took him several days, but he did what was asked and thought no more about it—but then he read the accounts of the murders at the Eyrie and recognized the names. He began to think there was more to it than a joke—and then another letter arrived, with another ten pounds, asking him to threaten Lady Frances at the Eyrie. “I know you won’t believe me, but it was Mrs. Blake. She let me into the house through a back door late in the evening, set me up in a room. I was going to get more instructions but then Lady Frances surprised me. I was just going to threaten her with the knife—I’m not a killer, I swear. Just to scare her, to let her know she wasn’t safe and should go back to London.”

He put his face in his hands.

“You are accusing one of the most prominent women in this county,” said Eastley. “Do you have any proof that Mrs. Blake invited you in? That you’re not just making this up? Did you save the letters and envelopes she sent you?”

“No. I was afraid of getting caught with them and burned them.”

“How did Mrs. Blake even find you?”

“Our theater company played at a lot of great houses. This was one of them.”

Inspector Eastley tapped his fingers on the table. Frances looked up at Constable Dill, who seemed astonished at the accusations against Mrs. Blake.

“There’s more to this story than you’re telling me,” said Eastley. “Why did you do all this for Mrs. Blake? Don’t you dare lie to me again.”

“Oh God, sir. You won’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

“When I was here with the theater company, I may have helped myself to a couple of spoons. Mrs. Blake caught me, but said she wouldn’t call the police if I did something for her. Oh dear God, I knew you wouldn’t believe me.” And again he buried his face in his hands.

“I’m not sure you’ve given us all the details,” said Frances, “but oddly I do believe you’ve told us the truth. Or most of it. I doubt if you’re good enough an actor to pretend to be as stupid as you are.”

Eastley chuckled at that. “You have a point, my lady.”

Watkins saw a thread of hope. “I wasn’t going to hurt you or the other woman, my lady, just scare you. There wasn’t anything I could do,” he whined. “I was stuck.”

“Mr. Watkins. You will be charged, but we will keep in mind your cooperation today,” said Eastley. “God help you if I find later that you’ve lied to me about any of this. Because, as I said, I’d then have to have Constable Smith here help you with your memory problems. And you don’t want that.”

Watkins looked again at the huge constable and decided to take the threat seriously.

“Smith. Take the prisoner into the front room and remain there with him until we’re ready to leave for London.”

“Sir,” said Smith. And pulled Watkins out of the room.

“Constable Dill,” said Eastley.

“Yes, sir!”

“Today’s meeting hasn’t happened. Do you understand? There will be no record of this arrest. No mention to your superior. I am taking Watkins to London and you will forget you ever met him. I don’t want local men muddying the waters until
this is settled, and no one in London should know I came here either. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now tell me. Even in London we heard about Lady Frances’s arrest.” He spared a quick smile for Frances, who gave him a cool look in return. “Dill, do you believe that a gang has been responsible for the . . . incidents here? Or do you agree with Lady Frances that there might be a more accurate explanation.”

Dill slipped his finger inside the neck of his tunic. “There seemed to be some serious doubts about the gangs, sir.”

“And you saw fit to bring Lady Frances to an interrogation? Is that the way policing is done here?”

Frances started to talk, but Eastley motioned her to stay silent. She frowned and folded her arms across her chest.

“Her, ah, approach and ideas seemed sensible, sir.” Frances saw the poor man sweating despite the coolness of the day.

Eastley nodded, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a card. “Sensible indeed, constable. Well done. Take my card. If you ever decide you want to advance your career in London, I invite you to call on me.”

“Thank you, sir!”

“Now I want to talk with Lady Frances. Go wait with Constable Smith.”

Dill saluted, and left.

“Thank you again for coming, inspector,” said Frances. “And for that nice vote of confidence. I know you took a chance trusting me and I’m glad it has worked out.”

“Credit where credit is due,” said Eastley.

“What happens now? Can you arrest Phoebe Blake?”

“Be reasonable, my lady. It’s the word of this actor against one of the most distinguished women in the county. An admitted thief, arrested while attacking you. No judge would even allow charges to be presented. You have established a connection between the threats against your friend, even if we can’t
prosecute. But nothing to connect these threats with murder. You are a judge of character. Do you see Mr. Watkins as a murderer?”

“No, I suppose he’s innocent of murder. He worked for Mrs. Blake to separate Gwen from her friends for his own reasons. But I feel I’m close to making a provable case. Now, I’ve done you a good turn. I’m giving you a criminal to bring back to the Yard. I need something from you. Who is Mr. Mehmet? And what is his role at Kestrel’s Eyrie?”

“You tell me why you ask, and I will see what I can do.”

“I’ll tell you what I think. I think you know who Mr. Mehmet is, inspector. You and my brother were very friendly with him at Sir Calleford’s funeral. I think Mr. Mehmet is a spy. For whom or why, I don’t know. But he was doing something at the Eyrie, and he doesn’t want Scotland Yard detectives looking into the murder.”

“You think he’s the murderer, Lady Frances? Because of the Turkish dagger?”