CHAPTER 10

When Frances awoke the next morning, the pain of what Gareth had done to her came rushing back. But she had been soothed by her late-night Soho visit, and she was determined to pour all her energies into the tasks at hand. She swung her legs out of bed: time for tea and eggs and toast and a visit with Mrs. Elkhorn’s—well, “friend” probably wasn’t the best word. “Colleague,” perhaps: Lord Ashton Crossley, the retired War Office powerbroker.

Social calls weren’t properly made until later in the day, but this wasn’t really a social call yet perhaps was something less than a business visit. Most of the political figures Frances knew were members of the Liberal Party, friends and associates of her brother’s and their father before him. Except for brief pleasantries at large events, she had never spoken with a Conservative politician.

Frances had Mallow dress her in the same severe dress she used for the Wheaton law office. The thought of Hal picked her up a bit. She hadn’t bothered to even open it last night, but a message from him had been waiting for her when she got home, fixing a time for the promised dinner at his house.

Well-breakfasted, Frances assigned Mallow some tasks for the day and then made her way to Lord Crossley’s town house.

His house was small but well appointed on the outside. The brass shone and the windows were clean. Frances knew the signs of a house that was owned by someone who cared for it and had money to spend.

A butler answered the door and accepted Lady Frances’s card. He showed her into the morning room and said Lord Crossley would see her shortly. It would seem Mrs. Elkhorn’s letter of introduction had done its work.

The room was perfectly decorated. Not an item was out of place, and there were enough interesting objects to keep visitors entertained. A maid had cleaned it carefully. It was almost like a stage set—Frances wondered if she was the first person to visit the room in more than a month. She was there for a fair amount of time. Usually, people of their class saw you right away or not at all.

But eventually the butler returned and said Lord Crossley would see her if she would follow him. Frances was a little surprised, believing that this little room would be perfect for a two-person meeting. Of course, if Lord Crossley was old-fashioned, he might want to receive her in a more formal drawing room.

But the butler didn’t lead her upstairs to where a drawing room would be. Rather, he led her across the hall to what was no doubt a study. He entered without knocking.

“Lady Frances Ffolkes,” he announced.

The study had the same particular smell of polished wood and old paper as Hal’s study. The furniture too was a little old-fashioned. But everything fell into the background at the site of the man behind the desk. His hair was completely white and brushed straight back to reveal a high forehead. Dark eyes took in Frances very quickly, and she felt as if he could see right through her. His face was lined, and his mouth was formed into a sarcastic smile. He’s already decided to laugh at me, concluded Frances.

She was shown to a large, comfortable chair facing the desk. But it was low, and because Frances was short to begin with, she had to look up to Lord Crossley. She felt like she did as a child, when she was allowed into her father’s office at Whitehall as a special treat.

The butler left and closed the door behind him.

“Please excuse my not standing, Lady Frances. It is a little difficult. My apologies.” He gestured to a silver-topped cane leaning against the desk. His voice was smooth and precise. Frances decided to match him for courtesy.

“Do not apologize, my lord. I should be thanking you for taking the time to see me at Mrs. Elkhorn’s request.”

“Dear Winifred. Do you know we see each other every Sunday? We both worship at St. Edmund’s. We have almost nothing in common politically, but the Church of England is one commitment we share. And barely that. I pray to God to release me from my pain. And she prays that God keeps me on earth until I can personally witness women get the vote. We view it as a popularity contest with the Almighty as judge. He’s the only authority Winifred respects. And some days, perhaps not even Him.”

Frances didn’t know what to say to that. But she realized Lord Crossley’s expression was not designed to mock her. It was a grimace of pain. This was not the comfortably tired old age of General Audendale. This man was in agony, with a body rebelling against a mind that she could tell was still sharp.

“Like Mrs. Elkhorn, I’m sure I would relish political debate with you. But I respect your time and come only to see if you can help me.” When he didn’t respond, she added. “This is a matter that goes beyond party politics.”

“Indeed. How unusual. But I knew your father somewhat and your brother by reputation, so perhaps reasonableness is a family trait.” Frances thanked him. “Now tell me, and I’ll see if I can help. No, I misspoke. I’m sure I can help. The question is whether I want to. Are you going to behave like Winifred, racing around like a bull in a china shop, wrecking beautiful things in your zeal for a better world and leaving men like me to clean up the mess? Or can I count on you to show some moderation?”

Frances wanted to argue with him but stopped herself. It would be neither prudent nor profitable. She took his warning to heart and began. She spoke clearly and succinctly: “As you may remember, my lord, there was a war scandal involving the Empire Light Horse and the battle of Sapphire River. An officer, a man who led the troops in the battle, was writing a book about it. Now he is dead, and we don’t know how. His manuscript was taken. I want to find out who took it. And I want it back.”

“Talk of the Colcombe manuscript has reached even me in my solitude here. So if I understand you correctly, you want justice, my lady?”

Frances started to answer yes but stopped. He was looking so closely at her. He didn’t want that pat answer. That would be a naïve response, and Lord Crossley was not going to help an idealistic child in an unwinnable crusade.

“Justice is always a goal,” she said carefully. “But neither you nor I are in a position to dispense it. For now, I will settle for the manuscript.”

Frances met his eyes and realized she had answered correctly.

“Fools tire me. Winifred said you weren’t a fool, and I see she was right. I remember the scandal of the Empire Light Horse very well. Believe it or not, Lady Frances, I was too high up to know exactly what happened. As a member of a political family, you may know that men of power don’t always know what’s going on under them. I cannot tell you who was responsible for that debacle or who covered it up. Do you believe me?”

He flashed her that sardonic smile again, a mix of amusement and pain.

“Mrs. Elkhorn told me you might help me but that I couldn’t trust you.”

Lord Crossley allowed himself a laugh at that.

“Then you and I shall prove her wrong, and I cannot tell you how much satisfaction that would give me,” he said. “I no longer possess political power, and I am facing a meeting with my maker. The politics of yesteryear seemed petty. If I can help you, I will. Even my political colleagues deserve what they get, Conservatives, Liberals . . . we all do. But tell me, if this manuscript is so important, why would someone not have destroyed it?”

Another test, thought Frances. “Because possession of the manuscript is power. This is all about power, I am sure of it. To destroy the manuscript is to lose that control.” She gazed at Crossley, hoping for his approval.

He nodded and reached for paper and pen on his desk and started to write, consulting a small leather notebook as he did. When he was done, he folded it carefully, put it into an envelope, and then held it out to her. Frances stood to take it from him.

“I have written a name on that piece of paper. Many are responsible for the Sapphire River debacle, but more than anyone, he was the architect. Did he steal the manuscript to protect himself or destroy his enemies? I have no idea. But more than any man, he has the most to lose from its publication.”

Frances thought again about the mysterious fight she had witnessed in the mews and the police constable who wouldn’t give his name. She thought about Danny, who was no doubt murdered. She was getting close to some powerful people who were not used to be being casually thwarted.

“Mr. Davis Bramwell, member of Parliament.” Frances raised an eyebrow, and Lord Crossley smiled. “I see his name is known to you.”

“Yes. He attended Major Colcombe’s funeral. His name was on the list Kat Colcombe and I compiled.”

“Indeed,” said Lord Crossley dryly. “That is interesting. Mr. Bramwell was Parliament’s de facto policy liaison with the general staff during the war. He is a member of Parliament still, ambitious and obsessed with power, chaffing until the Conservatives are back in control and he can resume what he no doubt believes is his rightful place in the world.”

He leaned back in his chair, and his face was looking a little ashen. “You look concerned for me. I think Mrs. Elkhorn is concerned, too, but perhaps she is a better actress. Don’t worry. My butler will be in shortly with some relief. But since I’ve helped you, please indulge me and answer one question. What led you to the War Office?”

Frances told him she had concluded someone well placed was behind the theft because there were whispers among the aristocracy. She told Lord Crossley that she had been invited to a Heathcote event because, she suspected, someone in the group was curious about her and her connection to the manuscript.

“In your sojourns with that august company,” he said, “did you come across Lord Gareth Blaine? He’s deeply involved with them. Too deeply.”

Frances tried to control her reactions but felt her face grow red anyway. Crossley chuckled. “The answer is yes, I see. Don’t be ashamed of your feelings. He’s had the devil’s own charm since boyhood.”

“I take it you know him then?”

Crossley leaned back. “You are very bright, my lady. You are well suited to be Winifred’s protégé. But you are still a student and have made a mistake she wouldn’t have. Winifred would’ve checked connections beforehand. Lord Gareth is my nephew, son of my sister, the Duchess of Carrolton. He was in this very room just days ago asking what I knew about the Sapphire River debacle.”

Equal parts embarrassment and rage surged through Frances. Crossley was right—she should’ve done more research. Her favorite professor at Vassar would’ve roasted her over the coals for that omission. And Gareth should’ve told her his uncle was a powerful man in possession of key information. He was more deeply involved than he had indicated.

“That is very interesting, my lord. I have to say . . . I don’t know what to believe.”

“You must believe what you think is right, Lady Frances. And now, my lady, we really are done.”

There were beads of sweat on his brow, and Frances noted his hands were shaking. She was about to ask if she could ring for a servant when the butler entered with a tall glass. With great care and patience, he helped his master drink.

“Momentarily, I will become useless. If I did not inspire trust, I hope you can say at least I gave you something to think about.”

Frances stood. “You helped me immensely, Lord Crossley. I shall pray for your relief and that it should be immediate.”

“Not even a wait for suffrage?” he said.

“Oh no, my lord. I pray that will be immediate as well.”

And she heard him chuckling as the butler showed her out the door.

Back on the street, Frances breathed deeply. That beautiful, much-loved house had been filled with pain, both physical and emotional, and it had gotten into her too. She felt guilty for feeling relief to be away from it, because she knew what it had cost him to receive her, to talk with her. She hoped the morphine solution—for that is no doubt what he had been served—would provide him at least a little peace. Frances was not particularly religious, but she hoped the Almighty would take into account the good work Lord Crossley had done that morning.

She opened the envelope and looked at the address. Mr. Bramwell was just a short walk away. As an old governess had said, “No time like the present.” Parliament was not currently in session, which meant Bramwell might be working out of an office at home.

His town house was somewhat larger than Crossley’s and well kept, but without the elegance that came from someone who cared deeply about his house. The butler received her with more casualness.

“Do you have an appointment?” he asked. Frances raised an eyebrow and produced a calling card.

“No, but I was hoping Mr. Bramwell could spare a few moments. Lord Crossley, his colleague in the party, suggested it. And my brother, you may want to remind him, is the current undersecretary for European Affairs.”

This butler clearly wanted her to establish her bona fides, and this seemed to do it.

“Very good, my lady.” He showed her into a morning room, and again she saw the difference. This room was used heavily—furniture was not aligned and items were disarranged. Frances didn’t know if there was a Mrs. Bramwell, but at any rate, the house wasn’t being properly supervised. The morning room should look better, and as Frances knew, she looked every inch a lady; the butler should not have questioned her on the doorstep.

Maybe this said something about Mr. Bramwell.

The door opened, and a young man, neatly dressed, walked in. He looked not unkind but a little harried.

“I am sorry you were sent here to wait, my lady. Mr. Bramwell has been in the middle of important parliamentary business. I’m Arthur Appledore, Mr. Bramwell’s secretary.” He then apologetically asked if Lady Frances could describe the reason for her call.

She thought for a moment and decided to be oblique to keep Bramwell guessing and encourage him to see her in person.

“I am helping some friends named Colcombe. Daniel Colcombe, who was a major during the Boer War, died recently, and I am researching some actions that occurred toward the end of that war with his command, the Empire Light Horse.” She added that Lord Crossley had particularly recommended she speak with Mr. Bramwell.

It was only a few sentences, but by the time she was done, the secretary had gone from harried to deeply anxious. It seemed way of out proportion to her story. Unless, of course, Mr. Bramwell had already had words with him about this manuscript.

“Yes . . . ah . . . thank you, my lady. Let me just discuss this and see if . . . if this is something he can address right now.” He almost stumbled out of the room, closing the door behind him. Frances’s curiosity was roused beyond control. She gave Appledore a few seconds to return to his master, then she left the morning room herself. Sounds from a door along the hall gave away the location of the office. No servants were in view, so she decided a bit of eavesdropping was not amiss. One voice rose to the point where there was no need to put her ear to the door—and she guessed that was Bramwell having a talk with his soft-spoken secretary.

“. . . Well why didn’t you just get rid of her . . . Yes, I am very much aware she’s the sister of a marquess . . . I don’t bloody well care; that’s the last thing I want to get involved with . . . Look, Appledore, maybe I’m not making myself clear. I have no intention of addressing this with one of Winifred Elkhorn’s lapdogs. Now get the Seaforth bitch out of here.”

Frances felt the two red spots on her cheek that she always knew appeared when she was infuriated. She beat a retreat to the morning room so Appledore wouldn’t find her outside the door. Frances had composed herself when the secretary returned, but he looked somewhat the worse for wear.

“You must excuse me, Lady Frances, for the delay. Something . . . rather urgent came up.”

“I’m sure,” she said coldly.

“Another time, perhaps, he may be more, ah, available,” he said. He escorted her out of the room and toward the door. They were in the middle of the foyer when Appledore said, “Meanwhile, he assures me he will give the problem his full attention.” That final ridiculous lie was too much. Before Appledore knew what was happening, Frances spun on her heels and was striding down the hall to the office. Without knocking, she entered.

“Did you get rid of her?” said Bramwell without looking up. He was tucked into his desk, absorbed in his papers. He was only of middle years, saw Frances, but already portly and jowly. He enjoyed food and drink.

“He did not,” said Frances. A few seconds later, a terrified Appledore followed her into the room.

“What the devil—” said Bramwell.

“During my demonstrations in the park, I’ve been called bitch. And worse. But at least those men had the courage to say that to my face. I came here to discuss a heroic British soldier. Now are you going to help me?”

With some effort, Bramwell stood, his face drained of color. “You forget yourself, Lady Frances. You’ll play no games with me. Appledore, get her out of here at once.”

“Don’t you dare touch me, Appledore,” said Frances. She had learned that being imperious was a powerful technique in situations like this. It only postponed the inevitable, it was true, but sometimes a postponement was all that was necessary. “I want to let you know I will see to it the Colcombe manuscript is published—and don’t insult me by pretending you don’t know what I’m talking about. You will regret your behavior.”

“I have nothing to say except that there are libel laws in this country, even for the aristocracy. Now you will leave or I’ll have my servants remove you.”

“With men like you in Parliament, is it any wonder that women want the vote? Good day to you, sir. I will see myself out.”

And feeling triumphant, she left the office and the house. She had hoped to get more out of him, but what she had learned was actually very helpful. Mr. Bramwell was beyond angry. The tone of last sentence wasn’t rage—it was fear. Mr. Bramwell was frightened when she mentioned the manuscript, and Frances found that enlightening.

It wasn’t even lunchtime—it had been a very profitable morning.

Back at Miss Plimsoll’s, she looked at the rack of letters and messages, half-hoping and half-fearing one from Gareth, but there was nothing. She shook her head as if to clear it. No point in brooding, she reminded herself. Meanwhile, she had some time to change before another committee luncheon, then she’d be able to rest in the afternoon until it was time to go to the soup kitchen.

She found herself looking forward to the evening. The hard, difficult work would be a refreshing change from the intellectual complexities of government ministers and, yes, from lingering thoughts of Gareth.

Indeed, as the crowds of the hungry flowed through the door that night, all other thoughts left her. By the end of the evening, she was weary in body but at peace in mind. She bid good night to Eleanor at her house and then continued in the cab to Miss Plimsoll’s, looking forward to her bed. The night porter let her in, and usually he said nothing more than “Good evening,” but tonight he said, “A visitor, my lady.”

“At this hour?” No one would call unless it was an emergency—something about her family? The porter jabbed a thumb at the lounge. As tired as she was, Frances suddenly felt awake and practically ran into the room. But it wasn’t family or one of their servants: it was a large figure in a loud, checked suit—Constable Smith, Inspector Eastley’s right-hand man. As before, he was looking around the room in wonderment but focused on Frances as soon as she entered.

He bowed to her and, in his heavy East End accent, said, “Good evening, my lady. The inspector requests your immediate presence. I am to take you there.”

“Why? What has happened? It can’t wait until tomorrow?”

“The inspector wants to see you tonight, my lady. He will explain.”

Curiosity won out over fear.

“Very well, if he insists. Let me tell my maid, and I will be back down in one minute.” She raced up the stairs, her mind spinning. Inspector Eastley hadn’t seemed to want to see her again, but now he was asking for her at night.

Mallow was stalking the small sitting room in high indignation.

“Good evening, my lady, I am very glad you’re back. I must tell you that a police constable had the nerve to call on you and demand your presence. He actually asked where you were. Of course, I told him nothing except that you were expected tonight.”

“Thank you, Mallow.” Frances hid a smile. “I saw him downstairs in the visitor’s lounge.”

“He was bold enough to wait here, my lady?” Mallow couldn’t believe it—the lounge was for gentlemen visitors.

“I’m afraid the police don’t observe typical proprieties, Mallow. But thank you for handling this. Now, I will be going off with him—I am sure I will be fine, but I wanted to tell you so you wouldn’t worry.”

“Very good, my lady. I shall wait up for you.”

“Thank you, Mallow.”

Back downstairs, she told the constable she was ready, and they headed out the door. Smith said there was a cab waiting just around the corner. He helped her in graciously but said nothing to her or to the driver, who clearly had already been given his orders. The whip cracked and the horse took off.

As she watched the neighborhoods pass by, she realized they were headed back to the East End. Indeed, when they finally stopped, she figured they were no more than a ten-minute walk from her soup kitchen.

The street, like so many in that area, was narrow and dimly lit. Frances made a mental note to find out which London bureau handled street lighting and make a case for more illumination. As they stepped out of the cab, Frances saw a knot of men gathered on the sidewalk. One of them separated from the group and walked over to her—Inspector Eastley, again in a suit in need of an ironing.

“Your man practically kidnapped me. Do you care to tell me why?” she asked.

Eastley raised an eyebrow. “Constable, did you kidnap Lady Frances?”

“No, sir. I told her you requested her presence, as you said, sir.”

“I’m glad we cleared that up,” he said. “But I do owe you an explanation. A man was murdered here this evening, my lady. There were no witnesses, but he was identified by an acquaintance.”

Frances knew it was a dangerous neighborhood. She was determined to not appear shaken and then faint, as might be expected of a woman, and she told the inspector she was not surprised there was a murder here.

“No surprise at all, my lady. Except for this.” He produced a card from his pocket. “Not many men in this neighborhood carry with them the calling card of Lady Frances Ffolkes, sister of the Marquess of Seaforth.”

At that, Frances paled. She looked over the inspector’s shoulder to where uniformed constables were guarding what she could now see was a body covered by a sheet. She knew who it must be: Private Alfred Barnstable, formerly of the Empire Light Horse, to whom she had given a card at their meeting.

When the local inspector saw a lady’s calling card in the dead man’s pocket, he had brought in Special Branch. Inspector Eastley told Frances he thought it too much of a coincidence: Lady Frances Ffolkes’s card in possession of a man soon identified as having served under the late Daniel Colcombe. He had been found near a bar owned by an Australian and frequented by his countrymen—the Red Kangaroo.

“If he had your card, I assume you met. I’d like to know about it.” His voice was silky, but Frances sensed the command, and she instinctively fought against it.

“Mr. Barnstable seemed to me to be a fine man in our short acquaintanceship. I shall mourn him. But surely this is just a simple robbery. I can’t see what it has to do with our talk.”

“You have an unpleasant habit of questioning police methods, Lady Frances.” He was more menacing now. “You haven’t asked how Mr. Barnstable died. I will tell you. It was a gunshot to the chest at close range, just like Major Colcombe, but he wasn’t cleaning a weapon here.” He went on to list a range of ghastly ways violence was meted out in the East End—knives, clubs, garrotes—and Frances strove not to look queasy.

“But the local criminals and gang members generally don’t use guns. They’re expensive, heavy, and make a lot of noise. So we don’t think he was killed by a common robber. And in the police, we don’t trust coincidences. Tell me what you discussed and don’t make me ask you again.”

“Very well. It is late, and I am tired too. However, there’s no need for discourtesy. Mr. Barnstable came to me because I had posted a note at the Soldiers and Sailors Club asking to speak to anyone under Colcombe. He told me the major had been a great hero but that the debacle had been covered up by politicians and War Office bureaucrats.”

Inspector Eastley was a careful listener, she’d give him that.

“But no names came up?”

“None. He had no idea, and Major Colcombe would hardly confide something that important to a private soldier.”

“Of course,” he murmured. “But tell me, my lady, have you made any progress in your quest for the manuscript?”

She could tell the inspector about the attack in the mews, the mysterious constable, and her connection with Lord Crossley. But she hesitated.

“Do you ask out of curiosity? Or is that the subject of your investigation?”

He smiled. “I do apologize, Lady Frances, but as I said, the police don’t answer questions. They just ask them.”

“Of course,” she said and smiled back. “But perhaps one specific question. How close was the man who shot him? You can tell that, can’t you, by looking at the wound, at least approximately?”

He looked surprised. “I can tell you that, Lady Frances. The shooter was no more than a foot or two away.”

“Thank you, Inspector. And now, I will be frank with you. Private Barnstable was a very cautious man who stayed alive in a difficult war. He would not have let someone he didn’t know get that close to him.”

Before the inspector could comment, they both turned at the sound of a hansom arriving on the quiet street.

It stopped, and a well-dressed man alighted. Colonel Zachery Mountjoy. He walked as quickly as he could without losing dignity. The hard set of his mouth, clear under his mustache, showed he was angry. The inspector greeted him with a thin smile, and Constable Smith stepped back to let the colonel into their little circle—but never took his eyes off him.

“You are most welcome, Colonel. Did you hear about this particular incident? Or do you just frequent this part of London?”

“I have no use for your impertinence,” said Mountjoy. “I heard about this the same way you did. What I couldn’t believe is that you dragged Lady Frances down here. Her brother is a marquess—a crown minister and a member of several prestigious clubs. Have you completely lost your senses?”

“Lady Frances is here voluntarily. We uncovered a connection between her ladyship and the victim. I wanted to discuss it with her as soon as possible.” His voice was crisp and level but in no way apologetic.

The colonel turned to Frances. “Were you able to help, Lady Frances? Or was your unfortunate trip here a waste of your time?”

“Thank you for your concern. Only the inspector knows if it was worthwhile, but I don’t think we have anything further to discuss.”

Inspector Eastley sighed. “No, Lady Frances, I think not. I was hoping for a name . . .” He glanced at the colonel. “But we will proceed without it.”

A uniformed constable approached and saluted. “We spoke to the customers at the Red Kangaroo, sir. Except for the man who found the body, no one saw or heard anything.”

“Thank you, Constable. No one in this neighborhood ever has anything to tell the police, it seems.”

“If you’re done, Inspector, I’d like to take Lady Frances home,” said the colonel. “With your permission, my lady.”

“Or I can send you back with one of my constables,” said Inspector Eastley.

Frances considered the two offers. Both were acceptable, but she wanted to talk to the colonel. She thanked Inspector Eastley but said she didn’t want to take any of the constables away from their duties and would accept the colonel’s offer. The colonel looked triumphant.

“Just one favor, Inspector,” said Frances. Eastley raised an eyebrow. “I do not know what happens with such men who die so far from home with little money and no family. I would be in your debt if you would tell whatever authorities are responsible that the Seaforths will see Mr. Barnstable gets a proper Christian burial.”

The colonel and the inspector both were temporarily rendered speechless by Frances’s observation that Barnstable was more than a police case—he had been a person.

“Thank you, Lady Frances,” said Eastley eventually. “I give you my solemn promise the body will be released to you.”

And with that, Frances let Colonel Mountjoy lead her away.

“That was a very kind gesture,” he said as he helped her into the cab. “If I may say, typical of the very best women. Men don’t think along those lines, and I mean that as a compliment.”

“I take it as such,” said Frances. She had the ride back to Miss Plimsoll’s to see what she could get out of the colonel and was determined to get off on the right foot. “I am grateful for your arrival, but I can’t imagine how you knew.”

Mountjoy stroked his mustache. “Well, I do have contacts in the Home Office,” he said. “And we’ll leave it at that.”

“What a coincidence. Lord Gareth Blaine, whom you met earlier at the theater, has a position in the Home Office.”

At that mention, Mountjoy frowned. “It would be most bold for me to tell you how to choose your friends, Lady Frances, but I think it only fair to warn you that the Heathcotes—and their circle—can be a rather dangerous lot. Involved in things that are, well, not quite nice.” He made it sound as if nothing could be worse than “not quite nice.”

“Thank you for your warning,” she said, fighting the urge to tell him to mind his own business.

“My, ah, contacts at the Home Office mentioned you were brought there because the deceased had your calling card. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” said Frances, planning her response carefully. “The man had heard my name in the soup kitchen when he was looking for a friend down on his luck. He asked if I was related to an officer he knew in South Africa, Major Charles Ffolkes. I told him he was my brother and gave him my card so he could find me again and perhaps even meet my brother before going back to Australia.”

The story seemed plausible to the colonel.

“Did he mention anything about the manuscript, Lady Frances?” He looked at her closely. “If he knew your brother, he might well have known Major Colcombe too.”

“Very likely. But it didn’t come up. I think he was homesick and was tickled to find someone he knew—or the member of a family he knew.”

“So nothing about the manuscript came up when you spoke with Barnstable? Don’t be alarmed if you didn’t tell the inspector. He can be rather—official. But with me, since I’m not official, it might be easier to talk.” He looked closely at her.

“I very much appreciate the distinction. But at your advice, I have not been seeking the manuscript actively and did not discuss it with Barnstable.”

The colonel frowned again. “I don’t want to seem forward, but this could well have to do with the manuscript, even though you didn’t discuss it with him. Please be careful. Don’t even mention it. There are people in government—but I don’t want to say too much or scare you. Again, it may eventually surface, but meanwhile, you don’t want to upset people.”

“Of course not.”

“For now, we’ll keep this among ourselves, but let’s be a little more circumspect in the future, shall we?”

“An excellent suggestion. But just one question. Can you tell me why Inspector Eastley has been so unpleasant? I’ve known so many men in government, and all of them have been polite.”

The colonel gave her a condescending look, which made her blood boil, but she had asked for it, and it was for a purpose.

“Policemen are not gentlemen. Oh, in the very senior ranks, yes, but a mere inspector—certainly not. Did you know that many hadn’t even wanted England to have a professional police force, and they have only been around for less than a century? There was a feeling that it was giving too much power to the wrong sort—men who had different allegiances from the aristocrats and military elite who had run the country for centuries—like your family, Lady Frances. They could easily become tools of grasping men, would-be despots who needed a force to bring them to power. In France, Napoleon had used a secret, national police force to stay in power—what more proof do you need?”

The neighborhoods got better until they were on familiar streets and pulling up to Miss Plimsoll’s.

“Thank you so much, Colonel, for both your rescue and your information.”

She made her way upstairs to a very relieved Mallow, who helped her change into her nightgown. She gratefully slipped into bed—but not before saying a prayer for a soldier who had died far from home.