CHAPTER 13

The next morning, after a good breakfast, the next steps seemed clearer to Frances. She decided another visit to Scotland Yard was in order. It was time to get away from drawing room fencing for now—it all remained a muddle. It was like in school: when one paper wasn’t going well, she’d start on another. A break gave fresh perspective, and there were other avenues to explore in the meanwhile.

“Mallow, I have various calls to make this morning, including Scotland Yard.” She watched the expression on Mallow’s face. “I’ll be seeing Inspector Eastley again—it was his constable who brought me out the other night. He lacks good manners, but he’s treated me with respect, and I’m inclined to trust him.”

“Very good, my lady,” she said, indicating it was not “very good” at all. Yes, Lady Frances was unusual, but these continual visits with the police were a bit much. “I do hope they make some progress in finding out who killed poor Mr. Barnstable. He was a good man, my lady.”

“Yes, he was, Mallow. And I am confident his killer will be punished.”

“I am pleased to hear that, my lady. And may I ask if you have any evening plans? I will help choose and prepare an appropriate dress and jewelry.”

Perhaps dinner with Mr. Wheaton again? Or had she made up with Lord Gareth? He had very much upset Lady Frances, so Mallow would be keeping a sharp eye on him.

“Thank you, Mallow. My evening plans are uncertain at this time. But I expect to be back for lunch, and we can discuss evening dress then.”

“Very good, my lady.”

Outside, she quickly found a hansom.

“Scotland Yard,” she said.

“Beg pardon, miss?”

She sighed. Maybe someday a woman wouldn’t startle a driver by requesting transportation to Metropolitan Police Headquarters.

Meanwhile, she saw newspaper boys crying the latest headlines: nothing about a member of Parliament being attacked in the street last night. So Bramwell had not reported it. No doubt the circumstances would prove embarrassing: too many things to explain. But why had he been attacked? Someone hadn’t wanted him to talk about the Colcombe manuscript. But Frances herself had not been attacked—not now, not in the mews. Was she just lucky? Or was it by design?

There was the usual fuss at the front desk at Scotland Yard. They assumed that as a lady, Frances only wanted to report a crime, probably something very minor, that should be handled by a local station. But Frances was firm.

“I am here to see Inspector Benjamin Eastley with Special Branch. I have information for him and him alone.” Her high-class accent and expensive clothes cleared the way, and she was provided an escort to the inspector’s office. It proved to be a cramped room, not nearly as large as Maples’s office and not as well appointed. Inspector Eastley was sitting behind a battered desk with a wry smile. Frances raised an eyebrow at him.

“Excuse my manners,” he said, standing slowly. With an exaggerated flourish, he invited Frances to sit. “That will be all, Constable. Please close the door behind you and see we aren’t disturbed.”

Frances made herself as comfortable as possible in the hard, wooden chair. It really was too bad—none of Eastley’s clothes were in proper condition. There was a light stain on his shirt, and his collar was crooked. His mustache could use a trim. She would love to turn him over to Charles’s valet.

“So, my lady, you have some information of use to us?”

“Very much so, Inspector. I have had some thought-provoking discussions recently that may be of interest to you.”

“About the death of Private Alfred Barnstable?” he asked.

“And the death of Major Daniel Colcombe,” she responded. “Along with the theft of his manuscript.”

Eastley leaned back in his chair. “You mention multiple cases,” he said.

“I mention one. And if you’re going to be silly about this, I’m going to the commissioner. He’ll listen.”

“Will he now?” asked Eastley.

“He went to school with my cousin Michael, who’s now rector of St. Jerome’s. He will see me.”

Eastley looked amused. “I do believe he would. Very well. We do officially consider those various . . . incidents related. So yes, I am interested in what you have to say.”

“I knew you would be.” She took a breath. This was the hard part. “But this is something of a trade. I want to know what progress you’ve made.”

“And why do you want to know that?” asked Eastley.

“Because Danny Colcombe was a great friend of my family’s. And Private Barnstable—he was of great help to me.” Eastley didn’t respond. “I can always go to the commissioner,” she reminded him. And now he laughed outright.

“I take your point, Lady Frances. Very well. Perhaps an exchange of ideas, a limited exchange of ideas. Now please, as a lady, you may go first.”

Unlike with Bramwell, this time Frances paused before talking. She had to trust someone at this point if she wanted to get anywhere, and she wouldn’t get anything from Eastley without giving something. And she was inclined to feel differently about him. Perhaps because he was a workingman and had no obvious connections to the men in Society she had spoken to.

Frances took a deep breath and launched into a summary of her meetings with Lord Crossley and Mr. Bramwell, individuals who she knew would never be forthcoming with Scotland Yard.

Inspector Eastley listened carefully and patiently as before, occasionally writing something down in a cheap notebook.

“I am sure all this has been rather prosaic, Inspector. But last evening, things came to a rather startling conclusion.” She described what happened in the coach—the attack on Bramwell and her quick retreat.

“You have no idea who it was? The attacker said nothing? Very odd, indeed.”

“Apparently, Mr. Bramwell never reported the incident.”

“Apparently not. Believe me, Lady Frances, I’d have heard.” He didn’t seem surprised, however. Had he heard of it unofficially? “I am glad you weren’t hurt. I compliment your succinct summary, my lady. Can you answer a question for me: are you really sure that no one to your knowledge has actually read this manuscript?”

“I don’t believe Danny—Major Colcombe—showed it to anyone.”

“And yet everyone seems to think it has something terrible in it for them. What terrible things did these people do to merit such concern?”

“I couldn’t say, Inspector. It may sound silly, but I see a lot of theater. I think I can tell when someone is acting. Someone is pulling the strings of a puppet show.”

She expected the inspector to laugh at her, but he just shook his head. “That wasn’t silly. You used your experience to draw a conclusion.”

“Well, then, thank you. And that’s all, Inspector. Perhaps you can now share with me what you know.”

“Ah yes, we have a deal. Very well. I can tell some things I know. But I can’t tell you why or how.”

“I understand procedures, Inspector. And I also understand that what you tell me is in confidence. I am my father’s daughter; I can keep a secret.”

Eastley nodded. “Thank you.”

This was going rather well, Frances thought. The inspector was being both helpful and polite, and she thought maybe she had misjudged him.

“I will tell you what I know and what I have concluded. That manuscript has resonated throughout much of London Society. For a work no one has seemingly read, everyone seems to believe it has something horrible in it about them. The Boer War wasn’t that long ago, and it seems many people have something to hide. The two people you told me about were not new to us—but what was interesting was that they clearly don’t have the manuscript. We thought someone in government had it—and that would lead us to the murderer. But thanks to your account, that doesn’t seem to be the case.”

“I am glad I could help. Now let me tell you my conclusion and see if you agree—I am wondering if we’re looking for two people. Or even two groups. A murderer and a thief.”

“Is that because you can imagine someone high in government stealing a politically sensitive manuscript—but not committing murders?”

Frances frowned.

“You seem doubtful, Lady Frances. You cannot imagine someone wealthy and influential would have reason to commit murder? Don’t you think that’s rather narrow-minded of you, to think only poor people kill each other?”

He was taunting her, but she refused to get angry. At least not openly. “Your conclusion is wrong, Inspector. Desperate people kill. Well-fed people with warm clothes who live in comfortable houses with plenty of coal are rarely desperate.” She thought of the people who came to the soup kitchen. Everyone there was desperate.

“And now you’re being naïve. Ask your brother, who occupies the great halls of power, how many times he has seen men desperate for power.”

“My brother is a good man, and he knows many other good men.” There was as much virtue in the mansions of Belgravia as in the tenements of Rotherhithe. She thought of what Colonel Mountjoy had said about men like Eastley, where they had come from. If there was any prejudice here, it was on his side. But he had a point. “Very well. Men in power kill. But shooting an obscure Australian soldier? Whom did he threaten? And the killing of Major Colcombe, while more understandable, was risky and poorly planned. It was just luck someone got away with that. It’s all so . . . sloppy. And I grew up among men of power. They can be selfish and greedy and even vicious. But this lacks their hallmark.”

She looked closely at Eastley to see his reaction, but he was unreadable.

“I have more to share with you,” he said after a few moments of silence. “With all these happenings, we took a fresh look at the original death. Major Colcombe was not killed with his gun.”

“How can you be sure?” she asked. She prepared to listen carefully, making sure the inspector wasn’t pulling some kind of trick.

“You may not know this, but different kinds of guns use different kinds of bullets.”

“I know a little bit about firearms, and that much is clear,” she said.

“Good. This is what we think happened. Someone shot Major Colcombe. Then he took the major’s gun, moved a heavy brass decorative urn, fired it into the floor, and covered it by moving the urn back. He assumed no one would look. The police would conclude Major Colcombe committed suicide.” But the inspector and his men looked. They found the bullet in the floor and the bullet that killed Danny. The one in the floor was from Danny’s revolver, which he kept in his desk drawer. The bullet that killed him was a different kind—it wasn’t from his revolver and no other ammunition was found in the office. But it was the same kind that killed Private Barnstable—a somewhat older but still useful type of bullet. “Possibly a coincidence, Lady Frances. But I don’t think so. I think someone is killing people connected with the manuscript. Someone was a little more careful than you may have thought. They were hoping there would be a verdict of accidental death. Or suicide. Did one person do that? To me, this looks like a conspiracy.”

“I will accept your conclusions on the firearms. Your technical staff is no doubt highly competent. But you’re guilty of extrapolation far beyond the facts.” She paused. “You may be interested to know that Colonel Mountjoy, your colleague from the other evening, thinks that if there’s any conspiracy, it’s at your end.”

Frances hoped to shake up the inspector a little, and she succeeded. He didn’t say anything for a few moments, just studied her, and she almost felt like an animal in a zoo.

“May I ask what your connection is with Colonel Mountjoy?” he asked.

“He and my brother are members of the same club,” she said, and realized that sounded a little weak.

“Yes, of course. The colonel is one of you, isn’t he?” His sarcastic tone was thick. Frances gave him what she hoped was a haughty look. How does one explain to someone like the inspector what that meant—that the colonel was indeed “one of us”?

“May I ask what Colonel Mountjoy’s connection is to you?” asked Frances. “I gather you two know each other but are hardly friends.” She was curious what he would say. Inspector Eastley no doubt knew the colonel was in the Secret Service—he didn’t know, however, that Frances knew that as well.

“The colonel, as many bachelors of means, has a lot of time on his hands and many connections in government and chooses to involve himself in areas beyond his sphere, to use your language, Lady Frances. He is a keeper of secrets. You must decide whom you trust,” he said, looking at her closely. “But you mentioned a conspiracy. Did he say the police were involved in a conspiracy?”

“Colonel Mountjoy seems to believe the interests of the police and the English people are not always aligned.”

At that, Inspector Eastley laughed, but there was no humor. “I suppose you will continue to look for the manuscript on your own? That is your right. But murder is police business.”

“But aren’t you going to warn me to be careful? Men keep telling me to be careful.”

“I am busier than the men you usually speak with. I will not waste my time giving you advice you will not take.”

She smiled. “I think there is a compliment there somewhere. Despite our disagreements, I thank you for being frank and forthcoming. You’ve been most helpful. And I forgive your lapses in manners.”

Eastley said nothing but gave her his wry smile in return. He stood, opened the door for her, and asked a constable to escort Lady Frances out of the building.

Riding home, she turned over the inspector’s information in her mind. The news about the firearms was intriguing—there was perhaps more thought to the killings than she had surmised. The inspector didn’t seem too keen on her idea of multiple motives. On the other hand, he had a point about being too trusting. How far would any of them go—including Colonel Mountjoy? Was he just being helpful? What part did the Secret Service play? Should she entirely trust the inspector, for that matter? You’d think he’d be more concerned about an aristocratic lady who was poking her nose into police business.

Eastley called Mountjoy a “keeper of secrets.” And Frances kept running against those secrets, not just the ones being kept, but those being revealed.

He certainly left her with some new avenues to explore. There were too many assumptions about the manuscript, and maybe some other people had an idea of what happened in South Africa—and who was willing to kill for it all these years later.

After lunch, she told Mallow she’d be going out that evening in her soup kitchen dress.

“Very good, my lady, but I hadn’t realized it was your turn again tonight.”

“Oh, I’m wearing the dress but not going to the soup kitchen.”

Mallow froze. There was nothing that dress was suitable for except the soup kitchen.

“I beg your pardon, my lady. Perhaps I can find something more suitable for wherever it is you’re going.”

“I am going to a rather simple . . . tavern, I guess you could call it. I don’t want to call attention to myself.” She tried to be offhand about it, but she could tell her maid was about to explode. “I shall be just fine, Mallow.”

That was too much. “I beg your pardon, my lady, but you will not be just fine.” She bit her own lip, shocked at herself for so openly disagreeing with her mistress. “I know you go to the soup kitchen, my lady, but ladies do that, and I know constables keep watch. Any low tavern is dangerous, my lady. They’ll catch you out right away. The only women who go there are . . . I can’t even say, my lady . . .” She blushed.

Frances was surprised at the outburst, but then again, Mallow may have had a point. There was a line between brave and foolhardy, and she was about to cross it.

“I thank you for your concern. But it has to do with the Colcombe manuscript, so I simply must go.”

“If it’s your duty, it’s not my place to argue, my lady. But I’m going with you.”

“Mallow, I couldn’t possibly ask you to do that.”

“Nevertheless, my lady, I will go with you. That’s a neighborhood I know something about. And if I may be so bold, my lady, as soon as you start to talk, they’ll have you down as Belgravia. You can’t go alone.”

“You do have a point. Oh very well, we’ll both go. But you can hardly be my personal maid there. We’ll have to be friends. I’ll call you June, as I did when you were one of my mother’s housemaids. And you will have to call me Franny.” She got a mischievous look in her eye. “Let’s practice now so we don’t slip up. Give it a try—June.”

“Very good—Franny.” It almost stuck in her throat.

“We’ll work on that. Meanwhile, I’ll walk to the cab stand and reserve Mr. Tomkinson.” He was a cheeky young cockney who was very solicitous of Lady Frances when she was his fare. He appeared to be fit, and Frances had no doubt he’d be ready with his fists if need be. “I’ll have him wait for us right outside in case of any problems.”

“I heard you asked for me special, my lady,” said Mr. Tomkinson. He graciously helped Lady Frances into his cab and then helped Mallow as well. He winked at Mallow, but she studiously ignored him. “Glad to oblige. Now where may I take you two this fine evening?”

“Do you know the Red Kangaroo in the East End?”

“Beg pardon, my lady—you want to go where?”

“A tavern called the Red Kangaroo. I believe it’s on Hazlemere Street—”

For once, Mr. Tomkinson was not smiling. “I know the place, my lady; bent my elbow there more than once. Filled with Australians, a good lot, for the most part, but if I may be so bold, I don’t know if you’d find the place exactly to your taste.”

“Thank you. But I have some business there. You will wait around the corner and keep watch.”

He shrugged. “As you wish, my lady.” He climbed into his seat and they were off.

“June, what do you have in that bag?”

She pulled out a rolling pin. “Borrowed it from the kitchen. A very effective weapon, if need be.”

Frances instantly got a picture of Mallow—scarcely taller than her mistress and weighing about one hundred pounds—swinging the pin like a sword in the hands of an Arthurian knight and wreaking havoc among the hard-drinking colonials in the East End tavern. She coughed to hide her laughter.

There was no problem finding the tavern. Business was brisk and the noise carried down the block. Mr. Tomkinson stopped at the corner. Feeling a little nervous now that they were here, Frances steeled herself and walked down the block to the Red Kangaroo. She and Mallow squared their shoulders, pushed open the door, and entered another world.

The room was full of men talking, laughing, and yelling. They stood in groups or sat around rickety tables. These were working men in rough shirts with sleeves rolled up to reveal muscled arms that frequently were marked with tattoos. The cigar and pipe smoke lent a haze to the already dim room. She saw women, too, dressed in cheap, bright dresses. Most of them paired off with men, curling up comfortably against them or even, in a couple of instances, sitting on their laps.

And there were more than Englishmen and colonials. Two Chinese men, dressed in sailors’ clothes, hovered over mysterious drinks, and they also saw a dark man who might’ve been Indian or Malay.

Frances began to have second thoughts. She felt she might as well have the Seaforth crest emblazoned on her dress. Many were so involved in their talk or so much the worse for drink that they didn’t seem to notice her and Mallow. But a few of the women looked at them curiously, and some of the men appraised them.

Frances and Mallow threaded their way to the bar, where a tall, ruddy-faced man was pouring drinks with the aid of a pair of plump barmaids in clean aprons. Indeed, the place was well kept, Frances would allow that. The floor wasn’t sticky and there was no smell of stale drink.

The man gave them an amused look. “And what can I pour for you two?” His Australian accent gave him away as the proprietor.

They had agreed to let Mallow start the talk, as her accent fit in better.

“Your beer ain’t watered down is it?” she asked. The man just laughed.

“Hand on heart, absolutely not. But try a half pint of cider? It’s very good.”

One of the barmaids upstaged him by rolling her eyes. The man sensed it and turned around. “Do I pay you for your opinion?” he snapped.

“No, just for my beauty.” She winked at them and carried a tray to a table.

“Very well, we will try your cider, Mr.—”

“Davey, miss.”

“Mr. Davey.”

“No, just ‘Davey.’ It’s what everyone calls me.” He poured cider into glasses that seemed clean. Frances reached into her purse, but Davey stopped her. “I’ll run a tab. You two look good for it.” The cider wasn’t bad, and Frances was feeling better about this.

“Davey, I’m actually here to help a friend,” said Frances, trying to play down her posh accent. But Davey’s eyes narrowed.

“I didn’t think you were here for the company,” he said, sweeping his arm across the room.

“In a way, we are. I’m hoping you or someone here can give me some information about a man I knew. He died recently, and I believe he came here often. His name was Alfred Barnstable.”

Davey turned serious. “Aye, I knew him. A lot of us did. He came here when he first arrived in London, then headed to Scotland, but was back here in the weeks before he died. We drank to his memory.” He gave Frances a thoughtful look that made her feel very self-conscious, and then he grinned. “Alfie always had an eye for ladies, but that he’d know someone as presentable as you, miss—well, all I can say was that he was doing even better than we ever thought.”

Oh dear God—Davey thought she was Private Barnstable’s . . . girl.

“That was not our relationship,” she said crisply.

“If you say so,” he said, still grinning. Dear Lord, thought Frances. Why is a romantic attachment the only way some people can understand any kind of connection between a man and a woman?

“I am here because of another man who was killed, Major Daniel Colcombe, who was Private Barnstable’s commanding officer in South Africa. Both men are dead. And we have some questions.”

Now Davey looked at her with real consideration. She didn’t belong here, had a posh accent that spoke of Belgravia or Mayfair, and had some knowledge of murder that no lady should have.

“You’re not with the police?” he asked.

Frances gave him a cutting look. “Very well, Davey. My voice gave me away. But do you think Scotland Yard now employs young ladies with finishing school manners to investigate East End murders?”

Davey laughed. “Serves me right for asking such a stupid question. I think I can help you, Miss—I didn’t catch your name.”

“Miss Franny Ffolkes.” She decided to keep it simple. Her class was clear enough without admitting she was the daughter of a lord. “And this is Miss June Mallow.”

He reflected on that for a moment. “One moment, Miss Ffolkes, Miss Mallow. I want to make some introductions.” He turned to one of the barmaids. “Jock and Andy around?”

“When are they not?” she said. “Over there, at the table in the corner.” Frances saw two men in their early thirties amiably chatting over pints of beer and accompanied by a rather blowsy looking woman with a red face. Davey headed over to the table and started to talk to them. The two men looked at Frances with no little surprise, but the woman’s look was hostile. She probably wondered if Frances and Mallow were rivals.

Davey waved her over. They picked up their cider and made their way to the table.

“Jock, Andy, this is Miss Ffolkes and Miss Mallow, friends of Alfie’s.” More knowing looks from the men. Oh well—at least any gossip here was unlikely to make its way back to London Society. “Jock and Andy served with Alfie in South Africa, Miss Ffolkes. And this here is Jewel—did I get that right, sweetie?” Jewel just gave Davey a sour look. “I’ll be back at the bar.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” said Frances, and she and Mallow sat down.

Andy seemed entertained by Frances’s presence. His cheerful face took in her dress, which was much simpler but still probably more expensive than what any other woman there wore.

Jock scowled at her, though, as if he expected a trap, and only looked at her furtively.

“Well? Davey said you wanted something. What is it?” said Jock.

“To help find who killed Alfie—that was it, right, miss?” asked Andy.

Jock, however, made it clear he didn’t believe that for a moment. Ladies didn’t come into taverns like this asking after murder.

“I am a very unusual lady,” said Frances.

“We’re respectable,” said Mallow.

“Are you now?” said Jewel. “Anyway, the red-haired one must’ve been special to have caught Alfie. He liked the ladies, and they liked him, but you must’ve been taken bad to try to find out who killed him. Well, I’ll say this for you—you have a sweet face and nice figure, Miss Ffolkes, but you don’t look like someone who would even know what to do with a man if you got one.”

Feeling Jewel’s contempt, Frances was about to snap back, but that hardly seemed appropriate and would not do anything to establish herself seriously with Jock and Andy, both of whom were enjoying Jewel’s comment.

“You’re right about that,” said Frances. “I doubt if I have anywhere near your level of expertise and experience with men.”

That made both men laugh, but Mallow looked appalled and Jewel got even redder. Frances was suddenly sorry. It was an unfair fight with a woman who had a hard life and would probably find herself taking a bowl of stew from Frances in the soup kitchen, if she hadn’t already.

“Be a good girl and take yourself off,” said Andy to Jewel. “Men’s business.”

“These two aren’t men,” snapped Jewel.

“I don’t know what they are,” said Andy so cheerfully, it was hard to take offense. “But if it’s about Alfie, I’ll listen. Oh come on, Jock, it can’t hurt us none to listen, and it’s better than listening to you complain. It’s the least we can do for Alfie’s girl—and her friend with the pretty face.” He winked at Mallow.

She might as well accept it, thought Frances. It’s the only way they could understand who she was.

Jewel took herself off with bad grace. Andy continued to smile and Jock to scowl—but she saw she had his attention too. She didn’t know how much Davey had told them, so she explained again how her brother and Major Colcombe served in South Africa together, how Colcombe had apparently been murdered, and how it seems Alfie had been killed the same way.

“I know things went very badly for you men at Sapphire River. And I know Major Colcombe was writing a book to tell what really happened. He was killed for it. Mr. Barnstable knew something about it too—and he was killed. I’m hoping Mr. Barnstable told you men something that you could tell me.”

“And you’re not with the police?” asked Jock dubiously. It was a shame, but the police were not popular in neighborhoods like this. “And if not, why do you know so much about how people were killed?”

“I’m not with the police, but I know people—important people who can do something. Now, we’re wasting time.”

Mallow, meanwhile, let her eyes rove over the room. This was not a drawing room. People got angry fast and took offense easily. She saw Jewel talking to a small group of men and women who were now looking at them. She and Lady Frances didn’t have many friends in this establishment, and Mallow was thinking it might be prudent to make sure they could make a quick exit before they made any more enemies.

The two men looked at each other, and then Andy spoke. “He was a good man, was Alfie, but a little bit wild. Had trouble settling down to army life, but Major Colcombe, well, he was a little bit wild too. So they took to each other particularly.” Indeed, continued Andy, they all took to Major Colcombe, and he looked out for them. “Alfie told you that the major got him a job? He got both of us jobs, too—right, Jock? Good jobs.”

And they never forgot what he did to save them.

“But there was a lead-up to your final battle, wasn’t there? Mr. Barnstable said there was a fight between Major Colcombe and some generals. Did you hear that too?”

Jock turned his head and spit on the floor.

“For God’s sake, Jock,” said Andy, “that’s an insult to Davey and to the lady.”

“No insult to them,” he grumbled. “That was for that bastard Audendale.”

That was a surprise. Barnstable hadn’t said anything to Audendale’s discredit.

“Now, Jock, we don’t know anything for sure,” said Andy.

“The hell we don’t. You know damn well it was Audendale. The major was doing fine, and then the bastard Audendale changes everything. You think the major got us into that mess?”

“So you think it was Audendale’s fault? Did Mr. Barnstable? He never said anything to me about him. Do you think General Audendale wanted the book stopped?”

“That’s a lot of questions,” said Andy, laughing. “Anyway, we all thought that maybe Audendale didn’t, well, didn’t do right by the major and by us. But who knows?” He shrugged and drank some more. “It’s all above the heads of a couple of Australian privates. But Major Colcombe said he didn’t want anything said against Audendale, so we took that serious. Most of us did, anyway—” He glared at Jock. “Still, if you’re thinking General Audendale killed anyone—well, I can’t see him doing that.”

Jock muttered something.

“Let’s think more recently,” said Frances. “Did Mr. Barnstable say anything about men he was afraid of? Anyone threatening him or asking him anything about the book?”

“As I said, miss, Alfie was a bit wild, and he and the major took to each other well. So Alfie felt it special when the major died. He knew better than any of us that the major had promised a full accounting, when the time was right, and he wanted it, for the major’s sake, for all our sakes, right Jock?”

Jock sighed and began speaking, as if it were an effort. “Alfie told me some men were bothering him, but he wasn’t worried.”

“Men—you mean more than one?” She leaned over the table, and even the surly Jock seemed startled with this short woman all but grabbing him by his shirt in her excitement.

“Yes, miss. Now how did he put it? ‘But I don’t care if it’s a toff or one of us,’ he said, ‘they could all go to hell.’”

“By ‘one of us,’ did he mean another Australian?”

“Could be. Or just any working man—you know, not a toff.”

“Toff” was a nickname for anyone from the upper classes. So Private Barnstable was up against both his own kind and a gentleman.

“But no names? No further details?”

“No, miss, no names,” said Jock. “But he laughed and said he’d be aware of the men who rode by night.”

“It’s what we called the Boers—they often traveled after dark,” explained Andy. “But who’d be afraid of the Boers in London? Still, after he died, we wondered.”

Frances remembered that Dorothy Tregallis had mentioned Danny Colcombe had said it in his sleep—the “men who ride by night.” Was it a joke? Or did Colcombe mean something by it, something that Barnstable didn’t pick up, at least at first? She felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck. Keepers of secrets. Men who rode by night . . .

The four were lost in their own thoughts for a few moments. Frances caught the eye of one of the barmaids. “Please serve Mr. Jock and Mr. Andy another drink. Davey has a tab for me,” she said.

Andy grinned, and even Jock managed a pleased look. When their fresh drinks were served, Frances said she just had a final few questions.

“I want to know about the night Mr. Barnstable died. Was he here drinking with you? Was there anything odd about him that night, anything unusual?”

“Yes, he was drinking here, but no more than usual. He was laughing, talking with everyone—flirting with the ladies. No offense, miss,” continued Andy, still thinking Frances was Alfie’s girl.

“Not at all,” she said dryly.

But nothing odd that night. They didn’t even hear the noise. Someone just stumbled over his body, lying flat on his back, halfway down the block. No one had seen anything. Frances was a little disappointed. She had hoped that someone had knowledge they hadn’t wanted to share with the police but would share with her.

“But I will tell you this, miss. Do you know anything about firearms?” asked Andy.

“Just a little.”

“I don’t want to upset you, but I’ve seen lots and lots of bodies killed by guns. It looks different when it happens up close. And with Alfie, it was up close. Someone was right near him when he shot him, I’ll stake my life on that. This place being loud and all, though, we heard nothing.” That was what the inspector had said, too.

They all lapsed into silence again. Frances couldn’t think of any additional questions to ask and was about to thank them and take her leave when she became aware that others had joined them. Jewel was standing over them, looking smug, along with another woman and an angry-looking man.

“What the hell do you want, Mickey?” asked Jock. His scowl was worse than ever, and now even Andy lost his smile.

“You and your friends—” He glanced at Frances and Mallow. “—insulted Jewel here. And I think you owe her an apology.” The new arrival—Mickey—had an English accent.

Jock told the men to get lost—and did so with language so foul, even Jewel and her friend, who were more used to it than Frances, winced. Mallow glared at him.

“I see you Aussies need to learn some English manners,” said Mickey.

“Now see here—” said Andy. He stood up, and Jock stood too.

“This is an Australian bar and you and your English tarts can go elsewhere,” said Jock.

And then Mallow stood. “You, Miss Jewel, can watch your mouth and take your friends elsewhere. My—Franny and I are respectable girls and won’t be threatened here.”

Frances had never seen Mallow like that. There was steel in her eyes, and Frances was reminded again of just how tough Mallow must’ve been to grow up where she did.

Jewel looked thunderstruck, and even the two men with her looked a little stunned. Then Jewel suddenly turned to Frances, maybe seeing an easier target, and as if in a dream, Frances saw the woman’s arm go back. My God. She’s going to hit me.

Mallow quickly grabbed a glass and threw the beer into Jewel’s face. She shouted, and the Australians stood to face the Englishmen. Voices fell, replaced by the sound of chairs pushed back violently as Englishmen and Australians squared off.

But Mallow had bought them some time. As quickly as everything came to a boil, it ended. Davey, who was several inches taller than Mickey, suddenly showed up to grab him by his shirt collar. “This is the last problem you’re causing for me,” said Davey, and he quickly dragged the protesting man across the floor, finally flinging him out the door. Anger dissipated in laughter, but Mickey had the last word.

“You can go to hell! To take the side of some stuck-up lady from Belgravia.”

His words sent a chill down her. It was time to go before something else blew up.

Andy looked hard at Frances. “Miss, I don’t know what this is all about, but if you can help find what happened, you’ll have my gratitude. And Jock’s too—right, Jock?”

“Yes, miss,” he said, still a little sullenly.

Frances stood, thanked the men for their trouble, and headed to the bar, while Mallow scowled at anyone who dared look at them.

“Thank you for standing up for me, Davey. I’ll pay my tab now.”

“Not at all, miss. I hope we could help—but as pleasurable as it was to see you, you and your friend might want to do your drinking elsewhere.” He said it with a smile, but the meaning was clear.

“Davey, does Jewel have a tab here?”

Davey sighed. “She does. She used to have men pay it, but that doesn’t happen so much anymore.”

“I will pay it in full. On one condition—you tell her some man paid it.”

Davey said nothing, just nodded and presented the total bill. Frances pulled out her coin purse and settled, adding gratuities for the barmaids.

“God bless you, my lady. Can you see yourself home safely?”

“A hansom cab with a driver known to me is around the corner—thank you. And good fortune follow you, Davey.”

While she had been paying and talking to Davey, a couple of men had left—and now one came rushing back in, shouting.

“Davey, it’s Mickey, who you just threw out. He’s been worked over real good.”

Davey swore, and after telling the barmaids to keep an eye on the place, he raced out with Frances, Mallow, and several other patrons right behind. Not far from the entrance, they saw Mickey laid out flat. For a few sick moments, Frances thought he had been killed like Alfie, but then the man sat up, groaning. He was bruised and would have a black eye in the morning, but he didn’t seem seriously hurt.

“A great big bloke,” said one witness. “Only saw him from the back. Did it for no reason.”

Frances heard horse hooves and saw Mr. Tomkinson’s cab approaching. He must’ve seen the commotion and become concerned. His arrival was most welcome; Frances didn’t want to stay around and see if she and Mallow, as strangers, somehow took any blame for the attack. The cab barely stopped—Mallow opened the door and the two women jumped in. Before they even sat, Mr. Tomkinson cracked the whip, and they headed home at a brisk pace.

Frances gathered her thoughts. It had been a frightening experience, but she had learned something.

“Mallow, I’m sure you noted that Private Barnstable had been talking about the major and manuscript. And he said two men had been bothering him—a toff and another, probably a fellow enlisted man. I told Inspector Eastley that I thought we might be faced with both a thief and a murderer.”

“Do you think they are working together, my lady?”

“Not if they want different things,” said Frances.