CHAPTER 2

Unaware that Lady Frances was about to descend on him, Superintendent Maples was feeling rather satisfied. A sharp-eyed constable had stopped a burglary in progress overnight, leading to the arrest of a gang of thieves that had been plaguing small shopkeepers. The assistant commissioner had gone more than twenty-four hours without sending him one of his vague, rambling memorandums. And he was drinking a very nice cup of tea and eating a fresh bun.

Sergeant Cardiff knocked and entered. “Those statistics that you wanted, sir.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.”

“Also, sir, Lady Frances Ffolkes is in the outer office. She would like a word with you, if it is convenient.”

The superintendent choked on his bun. He looked up at Cardiff—was that a smile? No, Cardiff had no sense of humor, at least none Maples could detect. But the morning had collapsed now, his tea-and-bun break in ruins.

“And her maid, sir.”

“What about her maid?”

“She’s accompanied by her maid, sir.”

“That’s a new one. Did she favor you with the reason she’s come here?”

“She told me it was to report a crime, sir.”

“Really? Does she seem upset?”

“No, sir.”

Further questioning revealed that Sergeant Cardiff had advised Lady Frances to report any alleged crime to the appropriate station. Indeed, he had promised to look up the address for her, even see her into a hansom so she could go there herself. But nothing would do except a conversation with the superintendent in person. Maples sighed. He could say he was busy, but she was patient and persistent. She’d wait. She’d come back. She’d go to the assistant commissioner, the commissioner himself—even the home secretary, the cabinet minister who oversaw all police functions.

Might as well get it over with. “Here—get rid of this damn tea and bun.” He shoved them at his sergeant. He stood up, brushed the crumbs off his uniform, and straightened his jacket and tie. “And show her in.”

In the outer office, Frances and Mallow sat on unpadded wooden chairs. Frances didn’t mind waiting; it was interesting being in a bustling office, men running around, the clacking sound of typewriting machines. They were most interesting devices; Frances considered buying one and seeing if she could engage a professional typist to teach her how to use it. Telephones would ring, and men would shout into them. A few glanced her way; she was not the typical Scotland Yard visitor.

Mallow, on the other hand, was deeply unhappy. Where she came from, no good ever came from police involvement. Respectable people never had anything to do with the police, except maybe a brief greeting to the “bobby” on the corner. She’d done and seen a lot of things with her ladyship, but to be in a police station . . . She was sure his lordship, her ladyship’s brother, would be very displeased with this.

But then again, trying to enter into Lady Frances’s enthusiasm, she did reason that this wasn’t a common police station. This was the headquarters of all the police, her ladyship had explained. And they were seeing someone very important—a superintendent, her ladyship had said, not a common bobby. He might even be a gentleman. Less a policeman, in fact, than “someone in government.” Mallow had only a vague idea of what it meant to be “in government,” except that Lord Seaforth was in government, and he was a marquess—perfectly respectable. So this might be acceptable. But she still hoped to leave as soon as possible.

The sergeant with the pleasant face came back to tell Frances that Superintendent Maples would see her now. He asked if he could get her a cup of tea, but she graciously declined. He turned to Mallow. “And you, miss? Would you like a cuppa while you wait?” Mallow was surprised and flattered that she was noticed and said yes, thank you, that would be very nice.

Maples forced a smile on his face and greeted Lady Frances as Cardiff showed her to a chair and then left, quietly closing the door behind him.

“A pleasure as always, Lady Frances.”

“My pleasure, too, Superintendent. You have been so helpful in the past, I knew I had to see you again.” She remembered the first time she had argued her way into his office: The streets around the mission where they set up their soup kitchen were so dangerous, some people were afraid to come. Couldn’t additional officers be deployed? A few weeks later, emboldened, Frances had returned. While organizing a peaceful political meeting in the park, she and her friends had been heckled and jeered. Couldn’t the superintendent read them the Riot Act? The third time she came, it was to complain that his officers were harassing beggars who had drifted too close to well-heeled areas looking for richer handouts.

“I’m not a lawyer, Superintendent, but I do not think it is actually a crime to be poor.”

And now she was back again—regarding a crime, it seemed.

“I understand you are here about a crime. I hope your ladyship has not been a victim.”

“Not at all, but thank you for your concern.” She smiled. “I am here about a family friend, Major Daniel Colcombe, who died in an accident about two months back. It seems an important manuscript of his was stolen from his house shortly after his death.”

So that’s what this was. And next, he’d be asked to help find the Duchess of Something’s lost lap dog. He vaguely recalled the Colcombe case—not something he was directly involved with, but a minor scandal nonetheless. Colcombe was a war hero, a member of Society. But it was just some clumsiness with firearms.

“It’s probably just missing,” he said. “After his family gets around to fully cleaning out his rooms, I’m sure it will turn up.”

“And that is exactly what I thought,” said Lady Frances brightly. She knew this was going to be an uphill battle, and on the way over, she had rehearsed in her mind exactly what to say to the superintendent, who could be, she had found, a little resistant to change.

She quickly launched into a description of the search they had conducted, the security situation at the house, the unlikelihood the manuscript had casually disappeared, and her theory that the thief had been someone who had shown up at the funeral. She produced a list. She was brief and to the point. “We put marks next to names of people we didn’t know very well. I wrote out two copies, one for me to hold and one for you.”

Maples looked at the list and frowned. This was not what he expected from a civilian. Lady Frances’s account was organized and coherent, and her procedure for looking for the manuscript and conclusions made a lot of sense. He reviewed the names.

“So you see, Superintendent, I believe that the manuscript was stolen and wish to pursue the theft with the correct authorities.” There. She had made a clear, concise case, and she flattered herself that Maples had been impressed.

“Have you thought about why someone would steal such a manuscript?”

“Perhaps he discussed things that other people did not want made public? But without seeing the manuscript, it’s just a guess.”

This was a more complicated problem than it had initially appeared—Lady Frances, he had to admit, had made a very good start. Fortunately, although it was a difficult problem to solve, it was also easy to get rid of. He could simply send her to the officer who was handling that case.

“Would you like to speak with the inspector who investigated the accident? He’d be the best person.”

“Yes, that would be very helpful, thank you.” Frances felt very pleased with herself. She could see that Maples, in the course of their professional relationship, was beginning to respect her. As they had discussed in their suffragist meetings, many men would learn to respect women once they saw they could act reasonably, as opposed to the way so many men falsely assumed—merely emotional creatures, slaves of their whims.

Maples rang for Sergeant Cardiff and then told him to call the relevant station and find the inspector who had handled the Colcombe accident. When he left, Maples leaned back, feeling generous and expansive. No reason not to be complimentary and build some good feeling, especially as she deserved it.

“Your account and handling of the problem was very good, Lady Frances. Clean and organized.” Then he overdid it, to his regret. “I wish all my men were so well organized.”

“Really? How kind of you to say. I had wondered if perhaps there might be a place for women in the Metropolitan Police Service.” What an exciting concept! Imagine that—women police constables. “Can I make a formal proposal to open the police force to women?”

Oh God. “Actually, that’s out of my hands. Only the commissioner or even the home secretary can make such a radical change.”

“Of course, Superintendent. I will write them—and will be sure to mention your support.” Frances smiled at him—and rather enjoyed the look of horror on his face. “But then again, it might be best if I approached the officials on my own.”

Sergeant Cardiff returned again, clutching a piece of paper. If Maples didn’t know better, however, he’d have said that Cardiff was showing emotion again—he looked confused.

“Sir, I have the name of the inspector in charge.”

“Just give it to Lady Frances, then. I’m sure she’s quite busy and will want to be on her way.” This conversation had gone on long enough and was getting dangerous.

“I’d like you to look first, sir,” he said. He glanced quickly at Frances, then placed the paper in front of the superintendent. There was no missing the shock on Maples’s face. He mastered it in seconds, but too late for Frances’s quick eye.

“Are you sure about this, Cardiff?”

“Yes, sir. I called again to confirm.”

He was stunned. Could this manuscript theft be really serious? Or was there something else? Yes, Lady Frances had made a good report, but could she really have stumbled on . . .

Anyway, not his problem. Cardiff’s information made that much clear. The sergeant cleared his throat. “They did say, sir, that if Lady Frances would leave her card, they would contact her.”

Frances took in every word of the exchange and the tone. She would’ve given a lot to know what was written on the paper Cardiff had passed to the superintendent. But she knew it was time to take what she had and leave. She could always come back, and she told Maples she would, if the inspector proved unable to contact her. Maples, for his part, pretended the oddness hadn’t happened, and Frances let him pretend.

“I’m sure you’ll hear shortly. A pleasure, as always, Lady Frances. Cardiff, please see them out and help them into a hansom.”

Fancy that, thought Maples, when the women had left. No doubt they’d contact her. That amused him to no end. The thought of Lady Frances and that bunch . . . he chuckled himself back into good humor.

When Cardiff returned from seeing the women on their way, Maples had him fetch another cup of tea and a fresh bun.

“I think we’ve made very good progress,” said Frances on the ride home. “We should hear from the inspector in charge soon. I’m sure, with the resources of Scotland Yard, he’ll be able to track down whoever took it.” Of course, whoever took it might’ve destroyed it, but she was staying positive—perhaps they took it to blackmail someone or to study it in detail.

That last exchange between Superintendent Maples and Sargent Cardiff at the end of her meeting had been awfully strange. There was an odd secretiveness and confusion surrounding a seemingly simple process—looking up the inspector in charge. But the explanation would make itself clear later, no doubt.

“Will you still be going to the soup kitchen this evening, my lady?”

“Yes. It’s been a long day, but I don’t want to let them down. I promised.”

Miss Plimsoll’s had a phone in a small private parlor for residents’ use. She called Mary to tell her what had happened. Mary agreed poor Kat could use some companionship and said she would visit. Then Frances called Charles at his office and told him as well. He was a little alarmed that she had descended on a senior Scotland Yard official.

“Oh, we’re old friends, the superintendent and I,” said Frances. “He has been most helpful when I’ve called on him in the past.”

“I’m sure,” said Charles dryly. “But do remember that this is now a police matter, and they don’t appreciate amateur interference.” Then he laughed. “Consider how Inspector Lestrade resents Sherlock Holmes’s interference.”

“Very funny, dear brother.”

“I thought so. Now, before this happened, I asked you to come to the party at Sir Lytton Moore’s. Lady Moore always asks after you; she’s known you since you were in short dresses. I know it’s not your favorite type of event, but do say you’ll come.”

“Very well,” she said. It would please Charles and Mary, and Lady Moore was a good soul. Also London Society was really quite small, and this would be a political event. Frances assumed she would speak with the mysterious inspector before the party and that she could convince him to share some names of those possibly involved in the Colcombe case. One or more of those “names” might be at the party. She’d reach into the back of the closet with Mallow and pick out a suitable evening dress.

But for now, she had Mallow lay out her plainest dress and a pair of solid shoes that were unfashionable but comfortable. She’d be on her feet most of the evening. They had lunch at Miss Plimsoll’s—Mallow in the servants’ hall and Frances in the dining room. Mallow had told Frances that the food was not quite as good as at the Seaforth house, but it was acceptable. And better yet, servants sat according to the rank of their mistresses, and as Lady Frances was a marquess’s daughter, that gave Mallow a perk downstairs, which pleased her immensely. As Frances’s mother had said, no one was more snobbish than a superior servant.

In the main room, Frances sat at a table for one and had brought a novel, as she always did when dining alone. Afterward, she took a little nap; it was going to be an active night.

The East End after dark was no place for a woman to walk alone, especially one who wasn’t raised to be aware of the grim neighborhood’s many dangers. So she met her friend Eleanor, and they shared a hansom together to the mission.

The mission soup kitchen had been the first charity she had become involved with after returning from America. It was a typical choice for progressive-minded young women, and she had originally joined because her mother’s friend had been involved with the charity. But the first time she had gone, she barely finished the evening. The lines of sick, hungry people in their ragged clothes both frightened and disgusted her. She had been put right on table duty, and with a trembling arm, she served bowls of stew from a cauldron in the mission hall. The steam soaked her face and sweat poured down from her brow, stinging her eyes. After half an hour, the smell of the greasy food began to sicken her, and the lines never seemed to end.

But she had finished the evening before collapsing on a wooden bench, and Mrs. Ellwood, who ran the mission, put a comforting arm around her.

“You did well this evening,” she said.

“How can . . . I never knew . . .” Frances responded.

“It’s a hard question. And I stopped asking it long ago. It happens, and that’s all I need to know. All we can do is try to make it better.”

Mrs. Ellwood didn’t expect her to return again—and in fact, she almost didn’t. She sat in her room, thinking about that hall and the sounds and smells of desperation. All your lofty ideas, she thought bitterly, just that. Just ideas. Ring for the maid, put on a better dress, and let her brother find her a husband. And that’s really what had done it in the end. The only thing she wanted to do less than go back to that soup kitchen was to live with the idea that she couldn’t stomach the thought of the soup kitchen.

So she went back. And each time, it was a little easier. That was a lesson, she told herself with no small satisfaction. Everything gets easier the more frequently you do it.

The people were no longer an endless line of misery to her, and she was ashamed of herself for having seen them like that. An old charwoman with no family who was too infirm to work. A woman whose husband had died young, leaving her with three small children. A middle-aged man who had lost his job to a younger, fitter one. She could see the hunger and fear in all of them.

But some were so afraid that they found it hard to even get in the line, pacing in the shadows in the back, until they could bear it no longer. Frances wiped her forehead on her sleeve, as unladylike a gesture as she had ever made, and scanned the rear of the room for these most fearful. Sometimes, she could take a break and talk with them; she was getting better at that, guiding them to a hot meal with a gentle hand on an arm.

From time to time, they got old soldiers in worn-out remnants of their uniforms. Sometimes they carried obvious wounds, limps, or hands that couldn’t hold anything. Frances found others with wounds in their minds, injuries that were less obvious but worse than the physical ones.

The old man who was presently last in line was one of the latter, with deep-set eyes that seemed to look without seeing.

“Where did you serve?” asked Frances.

He smiled gently. “India. The Mutiny.” That would be 1857. The so-called Sepoy Mutiny, which had resulted in unparalleled savagery on both sides. Frances had heard about it, as she had heard about so many other things deemed “inappropriate” for young girls, by eavesdropping when her father was speaking to friends.

“I’m sorry I reminded you,” said Frances.

“That’s the thing, miss. I can’t forget. Our sergeant, our captain, our colonel. Every man, every minute burned into me forever.”

That was nearly fifty years ago, Frances realized. And he was still haunted.

“You may have served in India, but your accent is Manchester.”

He grinned. “Right you are. Born and raised, but things, well . . .” He shrugged. “I thought I’d try my luck here.”

Frances produced a card from a pocket in her dress. “Here’s a card for the Soldiers and Sailors Club. Perhaps they can help you find some work and a room.” Although, she sadly thought, not many would hire a man of his age.

“Thanks, miss. You have a good evening.” And he took his plate to a table.

Then another wave of the hungry came in, so Frances tucked a damp strand of copper hair behind her ear and started serving again.

By the time they packed up, Frances was exhausted. The day had started early, and the settee in Kat’s room had not been an ideal bed. But dear Mallow was waiting for her, sewing in their little sitting room. She helped Frances undress and get into her nightgown.

“Do you know any soldiers, Mallow?”

“Certainly not, my lady,” she replied, a little affronted. Soldiers were just out to take liberties with innocent serving girls, Mallow well knew.

“I don’t mean out walking with them, Mallow—maybe a servant who had been a soldier.”

“I see, my lady. Yes, I know a footman who was in the Royal Navy and a valet who was a soldier-servant in the Coldstream Guards. They don’t much like to talk about it.”

“But I imagine they don’t forget. It’s just that I met an old soldier at the soup kitchen tonight, and he said he remembered everything from half a century ago. I wish I could meet a soldier from Major Colcombe’s company. He might know something that can help us. Of course, I sent the old soldier to the Soldier and Sailors Club. We’ll put a notice up there.”

“Very good, my lady. Shall I hand you your book?” Mallow looked at the title: Kim by Rudyard Kipling. Mallow didn’t read much, but she knew Kipling was very famous, and her mistress once had dinner with Mr. Kipling and his family. Lady Frances knew everyone.

“Yes, thank you.” But she said it absently, staring out the window, looking sad.

“Is anything wrong, my lady?”

“I miss him, Mallow. Danny Colcombe. He was so much fun. He was in school with my brother and from time to time would spend school holidays with us. He called me Ursula.”

“I beg your pardon, my lady? Ursula?”

Frances blushed. “It means ‘little she-bear.’ I was always chasing after the boys, demanding they let me play with them. Danny said I was like a little bear cub, small and fierce.”

Mallow laughed, imagining her mistress as an angry little girl.

“Yes, it was funny, I’m sure. But oh, when I made my debut, Danny led me out for my first dance. He was in his uniform—a lieutenant in the 17th Lancers. All the other girls were so jealous that I was partnered with a handsome cavalry officer, and he was such a marvelous dancer. He leaned down to me and said, ‘You’re the most beautiful girl here, little Ursula.’”

It was a side of Lady Frances that Mallow didn’t see often, dreamy and sentimental.

“We have a busy day tomorrow and should get some sleep. Good night, Mallow.”

“Good night, my lady.”

With the lights out, Frances forced herself to think of the future: she was a daughter of the House of Seaforth, and Seaforths didn’t wallow in sentiment. Not even the women.

Especially not the women.