CHAPTER 5

Frances met Hal in front of Simpson’s. It was sweet the way he always seemed to light up at her arrival.

“Mr. Wheaton, are you sure you can take away time from your busy practice to romance a woman? What would the Law Society say?”

“But I’m not romancing a woman—not merely, I should say. I’m meeting with a deeply valued client of my law practice. But you, my lady—allowing yourself to be romanced when you should be working to get women the vote? How do you explain that?” He grinned.

“But I am working, my love. Today’s lunch is all part of my master plan to convert men to our cause.” And with that, she let Hal take her arm and escort her into the restaurant. The maître d’ nodded to Hal and led them to a quiet table in an alcove.

“How did we get such a good table?” asked Frances. Hal shrugged. “I bet I know. This restaurant is owned by the D’Oyle Carte company. I can imagine such a distinguished company turns its business over to your equally distinguished firm. They are only too willing to show you to the best table.”

“I am not allowed to confirm that, but . . . I can say that the Lady Sherlock is thinking along the correct lines.”

“I am glad you brought that up,” said Frances with more than a hint of pride. “Because I am about to become London’s first female consulting detective. But first we order—I am absolutely ravenous for roast beef and sharp mustard.”

She insisted on nothing but small talk until the food came. “Now listen to my story, dear Hal. I too have a client. A widow, whose late husband was a Foreign Office associate of my father’s, asked me to find her lost daughter. It seems my reputation, good and bad, has caught up with me.” She gave Hal a concise summary of the job she had been given and the results she had so far. But she decided to leave out the death of Mattins for now. The connection wasn’t proven, and there was no need to worry him.

When she was done, Hal didn’t say anything right away. He always thought before speaking. It must be something you learned while training to become a solicitor, Frances assumed.

“She must be a remarkable woman, this client of yours. She could’ve engaged any number of people in London. But she chose probably the only one in town who is both able and willing to truly help her.” She flushed at that. “You must keep your client private, as I do mine, but if you need any legal help, I am at your disposal.”

“I will call on you as necessary. But Hal . . .” Now Frances struggled for words. “I’m running all over town, associating with actors, smuggling boxes out of theatres. How could you introduce a wife like that to dinners at the Law Society?” She was half joking. Only half.

“Do you jest with me?” asked Hal with mock severity. “You’d be the most popular guest there. Come, Franny, you’ve met several of my friends from the legal profession. They’re not a bad lot, are they?”

“Of course not, they are a delightful group—”

“Don’t forget that I had to get you released from a police jail over that little mess at Kestrel’s Eyrie, and still I’m more than willing to marry you.” He smiled, and she returned it.

“But Hal, how can I do all this . . . while being mistress of a house, seeing the house is provisioned, meeting with the cook.”

“You know my housekeeper. She’d put Otto von Bismarck to shame with her organizational skills and heavy hand running the house. She’ll do it all happily.”

“But as lady of the house, people will expect me to run things. As they did my mother.”

“And since when did you ever care what other people think? You’re worried about what I would think, right?”

Now it was Frances’s turn to pause, and they ate in silence for a few moments. “Sometimes I wish I hadn’t fallen in love with such a perceptive man,” she finally said. “Oh, very well, I can’t shake the fact that once we’re set up as husband and wife, it just won’t—I mean, I can’t imagine myself protesting in the park, tracking down missing persons, and then returning to our townhouse.” It was hard to admit this to herself, and she felt the frustration building up inside her, her love for Hal and her commitment to everything else. “So, Hal, isn’t this where you tell me that if I really loved you, you and I would find a way of making it work?” She made the tone light.

“My dearest, I know you love me. I’m not going to ask you to prove it. I suppose it’s for me to prove it to you. Now, Franny”—he held up his hand to stop any further protests—“you wanted to use our engagement period as a test, to see if we could really merge our lives as husband and wife. I think we can. As a solicitor, problem solving is what I do. Now can I tempt you with some treacle tart?”

“What are you up to? You sound of subterfuge.”

“A solicitor? Dealing with subterfuge? You amaze me. But Franny, I don’t run one of the finest firms in London for nothing. Trust me. I have some ideas. You’ll see. We’ll have it all.” He reached over and squeezed her hand. “For now, I wish you success on your investigations.” The promised treacle tart arrived. It reminded Frances of nursery years; she absolutely adored it. She would let him be mysterious—for now.

“Ah, Franny, speaking of fellow solicitors, I assume you’re still joining me with my Law Society friends for dinner at my house? Or are you now too busy?” The man of affairs disappeared, and he looked shy and boyish now. It was important to him that she knew and liked those in his circle.

“I’m searching for a woman who disappeared thirty years ago. I don’t see how a dinner would matter. I might even get a fresh perspective.” He looked relieved, and she understood. Oddly, she had more freedom than he had. She was just “Mad Lady Frances.” Any kind of disgraceful behavior was expected of her, but no one had to be more correct than a solicitor. And yet he wanted her to be part of his life.

Which brought Frances back to her original problem. How could she live with him? How could she contemplate life without him? When this was over, she knew, that problem would have to take top priority.

After their treacle tart, he dared risk giving her a kiss good-bye.

The Halliday Mission operated out of a genteel yet shabby two-room office filled with a couple of battered desks and a cabinet overflowing with papers. But there was nothing worn out about the mission’s secretary, Mr. Jellicoe. He was in his fifties, a bit portly, and bursting with energy and most welcoming.

“Lady Frances, do take a seat. May I get you some tea? Are you sure? You know, your name is familiar to me. Are you active in charitable circles?”

“Yes, I am, Mr. Jellicoe. I work extensively with the Ladies’ Christian Relief Guild.”

“Of course, that’s where I’ve heard of you. That’s a very fine group, one that I greatly admire. I applaud your good works, my lady. Your guild makes a great deal of difference.” He seemed genuine. She was used to many men who treated charitable work with an amused condescension, saying that it kept the ladies busy and gave them something useful to do.

“Thank you. I’ve heard of the Halliday Mission and your outreach work with actors. I am pleased to see someone with interest rather than contempt for them.”

“Thank you so much. Do you know, I’m glad to see someone understand. We are not here to condemn actors or glorify them, merely to help save their souls.”

You have set quite a task for yourself, thought Frances.

“But please tell me how I can help you.”

“I am actually hoping you can solve a little mystery for me. I recently came across an old handbill regarding the mission, but the address was in Maidstone, Kent. Were you once there?”

“Oh, that is a long time ago, my lady. That’s when Mr. and Mrs. Halliday themselves first ran the mission. They ran it out of their home in Maidstone at first, but eventually it was transferred to London, some twenty years ago at least.”

“Are the Hallidays themselves still alive?”

“No, they were called to God about five years ago, I’m sorry to say. It was shortly after I started here—first Mr. Halliday, and then his wife not long after. I knew them somewhat. Very fine people, deeply religious but free from judgment, always ready to help their fellow man. But your mystery, my lady—is it about the history of the Hallidays? Maybe you would like to call on their son, the Reverend Samuel Halliday.”

“So their son went into the ministry? Such pious people, who founded a mission, must have been very pleased with that.” Frances wondered if the boy had been given any choice. But that was not fair, she realized. Her brother had been delighted to follow their father into Foreign Office service.

“I know that they were very proud, my lady. Especially Mrs. Halliday. She didn’t live much longer after he was ordained—it was as if she had met her life’s goal and was ready to meet her maker. Anyway, I’ve met Reverend Halliday a few times as well. He is very busy in his own parish and did mission work himself in Africa. He’s vicar of Trinity Church in Wimbledon.”

“I will seek him out, then. I’m merely investigating a possible connection with my own family, some years back. Thank you, and good luck with your mission, Mr. Jellicoe.”

It seemed a thin enough clue—nothing really to connect the Halliday family with Helen or Louisa. (Were they the same?) But the flyer was in Mattins’s box, so it probably had some importance. And it was old because it had the Maidstone address.

So she found herself a hansom and soon was on her way to Wimbledon, a pleasant neighborhood now best known for its tennis. The driver dropped her off at the Trinity Church vicarage, a substantial mid-Victorian brick building, and she knocked on the door. It was opened by the vicar himself.

She was startled at first. Frances had never thought of vicars as handsome, but then again, why shouldn’t they be? He possessed well-formed features, welcoming eyes, and a shock of black hair over his brow. He also had a warm and cheerful smile.

“Reverend Halliday?”

“You have found him. Please come in, and let me know how I may serve you.”

“Thank you.” She stepped inside. “I’m Lady Frances Ffolkes. You will think I’m very forward, but in searching for an old family friend, I came across a connection to your late parents. I hope you may be able to help me.”

He chuckled. “Most intriguing, my lady. Do come through, and we’ll discuss it.”

He led her through the hallway into a study. She was reminded of Lady Torrence’s house because his home displayed examples of African art—no doubt mementoes of his time in the missions. The place was well-kept and the furniture modern and fine. Also, from the state of the house, he clearly could afford a good housekeeper and perhaps a housemaid as well. Mr. Jellicoe had said his parents had been well-off, so no doubt they had left their son a nice legacy, along with the mission endowment.

But she noted that he was not above answering his own door.

His study was also nicely appointed, with his papers well-organized and shelves of handsome leather-bound books. He showed Lady Frances to a seat and offered to ring for tea, but she politely declined and got to the point.

“I was doing some researches on behalf of a friend, and we came across a reference to your parents. The woman I was looking for was an actress, and I know your parents founded a mission to the theatre community. Did you know of a woman named Helen?”

She saw at once he did. The Reverend Halliday had a look of recognition and sadness.

“Yes, Lady Frances. My goodness, that was a long time ago. You were right; my parents did found a mission, and Helen was a woman that they helped. I’m afraid that many in the theatre community were not as receptive as my parents might’ve wished, but Helen was. I don’t know the details, but I do know she married.” He stumbled for a moment. “He died suddenly. And in her grief and confusion, she came to my parents for refuge. My mother was with child—me, as a matter of fact. So it was fortuitous, as my mother wasn’t in good health at the best of times, and apparently this Helen was a kind and useful companion. The plan was for Helen to stay on after I was born and help until she made some long-term plans. But it wasn’t to be. A week before I was born, she was hit quickly with a fever and died in two days. My mother was grief-stricken at the loss of her new friend, but as I was told, she recovered mostly with my birth—a healthy boy.”

“Thank you for telling me that story. I grieve for the loss of your mother’s friend, but I’m pleased that your mother came through. I was wondering—do you have a likeness of Helen?”

The vicar shook his head. “No, but my mother once mentioned that she was uncommonly beautiful, with the bluest eyes and blackest hair. She was a practical woman, my mother, and she once mentioned that had Helen lived, she would’ve had no trouble finding a new husband, as lovely as she was, and still so very young.”

There could’ve been more than one actress named Helen, but Frances knew the men at the Emerald Theatre had recognized her description of Louisa. The vicar had just described Helen as Louisa. Helen had played Juliet in the program that Mattins had so carefully saved alongside the Halliday flyer that had led Frances here. So it seemed that Louisa was dead, without ever having seen her mother again. Frances had known that this was a possibility, but still she felt the sadness hit her hard. She had so wanted to effect a family reunion. She couldn’t be completely sure yet, but it seemed like her search had led her to an unhappy end.

“Thank you, reverend. It’s a sad story, but I appreciate the truth. I am acting as an agent for an elderly friend and will break the news. But tell me, I don’t suppose you know Helen’s surname, either her maiden or married name?”

He shook his head. “I don’t ever remember my parents telling me. She went by her theatre name, just Helen.”

“But surely there were some papers—a death certificate for Helen or her marriage license?”

“Yes, there should’ve been. When my mother explained this all to me when I came of age, she told me that any papers relating to Helen had been deposited with their local church, St. Mark’s in Maidstone. But not long after, there was a fire due to a bit of clumsiness from the priest, who was elderly. About a year’s worth of records were destroyed, I’m afraid.”

“Do you have any siblings who might remember that time?” asked Frances.

“No, I was my parents’ first and only child.” He smiled sadly. “There was a tragic irony about it all. My parents had so hoped for a child and had not been blessed. My mother was thirty-seven and had long been in poor health, as I noted. And yet she survived the birth and delivered a healthy child. But the young and robust Helen died. An example of ‘In the midst of life, we are in death.’

“Anyway, there’s not much more I can tell you. My parents saw Helen buried at St. Mark’s. I’m sure the vicar or sexton there can help you, if you or your friend would like to visit.”

“You’ve been so kind. I was wondering, though—did your parents have any servants or nearby relations who might have a memory of Helen?”

“No one still with us, I’m sorry to say . . . but I know someone who might be able to help. As I said, my mother had been planning to keep Helen with them. But when she died, after my birth, she and my father sent for another woman to be a sort of companion. Aunt Em, I called her, although she was not a relation. She lived in Shrewsbury, I believe. I think her family had known my mother’s family many years before, although I can’t recall the details, if I ever knew them. She was with my mother for a while, and they were very close. Aunt Em never met Helen, of course, but my mother may have shared memories with her. Later, my father introduced Aunt Em to a carpenter friend of his, and they married and had a daughter. She was widowed a few years ago, as her husband was a bit older. We assumed she’d sell the business, but she was determined to run it. She promoted her late husband’s most senior assistant as head carpenter and designer, but Aunt Em is very much in charge. A sharp lady, she is. I visit them about once a week. She has a shop on Bond Street. Be sure you mention I suggested you speak with her.”

Frances raised an eyebrow. “A carpenter on Bond Street among all the fine shops?”

“Oh, they’re not a typical carpentry firm. Emma’s late husband had a sideline making fine jewelry boxes, cigar boxes, and so forth. Aunt Em saw the possibilities there and encouraged him to work on those full time. The shop has continued to prosper under Aunt Em’s management and has become very fashionable, I hear. It is called Lockton’s. She was born Emma Bradley but after her marriage became Emma Lockton, thus the name of the shop. I daresay you’ve passed it.”

“I’m sure I have and look forward to visiting her.” She stood. “I cannot thank you enough for your kindness and assistance.”

“My pleasure. I just wish I had better news about Helen. Just one thing, my lady, if I may. My mother asked me, before she died, not to discuss this story widely. As you seemed to know about it already and appear to be the type of person to keep a secret, I didn’t mind filling in the details, so to speak. But I would be grateful if you would help me keep my mother’s wishes.”

“Of course. My only goal is to help reconnect friends and relations with Helen, not to reopen old wounds.”

“Thank you for understanding,” he said. He walked her to the door, and Frances turned before making her final good-byes.

She had seen Reverend Halliday stumble over the death of Helen’s husband. He hadn’t wanted to discuss it. “One more piece of information—Helen’s husband. Was it an illness that took him?”

He grimaced. “I’m afraid nothing so common. He was killed by a robber, it seems, although again, I don’t know the details, just a chance mention from my father once. He was stabbed, my parents told me. No one was ever arrested.”