Frances and Mallow took their seats on the morning train to Maidstone, which was only about a one-hour ride. Her ladyship was in one of her thoughtful moods, observed Mallow, and not inclined to talk, but she would when she was ready. Meanwhile, Mallow produced some knitting to keep herself busy while the train headed into Kent.
“There’s too much that’s odd, Mallow,” Frances finally said. “Helen’s husband killed by a knife in an apparent robbery, and now Mr. Mattins killed the same way—and someone wanted to search his room. I called the local police station yesterday—no one has been arrested yet. And any trace of Helen disappeared in a fire. Then, the moment Lady Torrence quietly does a little research, the entire company is purchased without any negotiation, and her permission is revoked. And I’m lied to about Helen at the theatre. Finally, I hear that Mrs. Halliday’s companion, Emma Lockton, is from Shrewsbury, where the Torrence family is from. Any one of these things happening is coincidence. But all of them happening together are very improbable.”
Mallow nodded. “So we are going to look at Helen’s grave, my lady?”
“Yes. But I don’t know why. I just need to see if anything else is wrong, if anything else is just too coincidental.”
They soon arrived at Maidstone station, and Frances saw Mallow look around approvingly. Her maid thought any town in England—or in the world—had to be second best to London. If you sought food, transportation, or accommodation outside of the capital, you did so at your own risk. But Maidstone was prosperous as a center for beer brewing and papermaking, and if it was nowhere near as grand as London, it was far from the sleepy country towns and villages that they had visited in the past.
“Shall I see about getting a hansom—or something similar, my lady?”
“Thank you, but when I looked on a map, St. Mark’s was only a quarter mile from this station, so I think we’ll walk.”
Many of the commercial buildings they passed were new and in good repair, but when they headed around a corner to the appropriately named Church Street, they saw an older part of Maidstone.
“That is a beautiful structure,” said Frances on seeing St. Mark’s, and Mallow agreed. “I’m guessing fourteenth century. I don’t wonder that the Hallidays were moved to religious devotion with such a building to inspire them,” she continued. “The churchyard doesn’t look very large, however, so I imagine we’ll be able to find Helen’s grave. And if not, we’ll look for the sexton.”
The iron gate to the churchyard opened easily, and Frances and Mallow wandered among the rows of tombstones, some so faded they were hardly legible anymore. The graves were for local aldermen, businessmen, veterans of wars that were mostly forgotten, and their wives and children. Many stones were touched with moss, and Mallow stopped to brush a stray twig from one. A maid’s desire for order and cleanliness twinned with Mallow’s reverence for holy ground. But overall, the place was well-tended, with the grass and bushes neatly trimmed.
Frances thought Helen’s tombstone would be modest. It had been kind of the Hallidays to see to the burial of a woman whom they hardly knew, so she studied the small ones, keeping in mind it would still probably be in good condition, as she had died only about thirty years ago. But when they turned the corner around the back of the church, they both instantly noticed one of the most imposing stones in the graveyard:
Frances wondered at the epitaph. The wording seemed odd. What had God heard? Was this a peaceful end to a difficult life? However you considered it, there was more here than met the eye.
“If I may say, my lady, that was a very Christian act from Mr. and Mrs. Halliday, seeing Helen buried like this.”
“Yes, it is, Mallow, but I wonder. Look at the other large stones. The only ones we’ve seen that are this impressive belong to a member of Parliament and a general who was knighted for service under the Duke of Marlborough. Monuments like this are very expensive. Would the Hallidays have spent that much when all that was needed was a simple stone?”
Frances frowned. It was too odd. But she admitted that there was a little thrill inside her too. Supposing this was Louisa Torrence—the years were right. Yet there was more mystery here. She peered at the grass growing over the plot, as if she could look underground. Did Louisa/Helen literally take something to her grave?
Her next plan was to seek out the sexton to see if he knew something, but he had already found her. A man in his sixties, dressed in work clothes, was approaching them. He had an outdoor complexion and the wiry build common to those who did physical labor.
The man gave them a welcoming smile. “Find what you were looking for, miss? I saw you from inside the church and came to see if I could help. Jethro Brent, sexton, at your service.”
“Thank you, Mr. Brent. Lady Frances Ffolkes and my maid, Miss Mallow. I think we have found what we were looking for, the last resting place for Helen. But perhaps you can answer some questions about her. Were you sexton here back in 1876 when Helen was buried?”
She watched him closely. Brent had been openness and smiles, but now he frowned and looked a little cautious.
“Well, yes, m’lady. Been here since 1860. But I didn’t know this Helen.”
“I would have imagined that she’d been someone important, though, to merit such an impressive memorial. I spoke recently with the Reverend Halliday, and he told me that his parents paid for it. You must’ve known them. I understand they were prominent members of this church.”
Frances watched him think. Oh, he knows what I’m talking about, but there’s some secret here, something he doesn’t want to discuss.
“Well, yes, of course, m’lady. Knew them well—very fine people. This Helen was a friend or relation, I think. I can’t be sure. They saw her buried here and ordered this stone. Took some months, of course.” It would, a marker that impressive. “That’s why the vicar comes every month to visit. He said he promised his mother that he would.”
“Was Helen’s funeral well-attended? A woman so deserving of such an impressive remembrance must’ve had many attend her funeral service.”
The frown deepened. Brent was unhappy with where these questions were going, and Frances watched him struggle.
“May I ask if you’re a relation of Helen’s, m’lady?”
Frances felt Mallow stiffen next to her. Frances knew her maid was dying to upbraid the sexton. How dare you question the motives of the daughter of the Marquess of Seaforth? She was keeping quiet because she knew Frances was questioning a witness, which was very important.
“No, but I am acting as an agent for someone who is, an elderly friend who cannot travel. The Reverend Halliday gave me some background but of course was too young to remember her himself. He suggested I come to you for details.”
Now that stumped him, Frances saw. Brent didn’t know what Halliday himself knew or what he had told Frances. If he lied, he could be caught out. But if there was a secret, he didn’t want to reveal it. Loyalty to the senior Hallidays, perhaps augmented by some extra coins, was keeping him closed-mouthed.
He sighed. “It was a long time ago, m’lady. If I remember right, and I can’t say I do because it’s been thirty years, Helen got very sick, and Mr. Halliday was worried about illness spreading, with his own wife expecting a child. When Helen died, Mr. Halliday woke me up in the night and had me dig a grave at first light. I had a couple of local boys help carry the coffin, the vicar said his piece, and that was that. That’s all I know.” He was positively truculent at the end, as if daring Frances to push him further.
“The vicar. I don’t suppose he’s still with us, is he?” The Reverend Halliday mentioned that he was elderly thirty years ago.
“That would be the Reverend Uplands, m’lady. He passed away the following winter, and we’ve had two vicars since then. No one who remembers.” He was gathering himself to leave, but Frances wasn’t quite done.
“I’d like to see some parish records, but I heard there was an accident—the Reverend Uplands accidentally set fire to some of them?”
“I remember the accident, m’lady, but I have no responsibilities for the church records. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to see about my duties.” And not waiting for a response, he left.
“Well,” said Mallow. “I must say that he could’ve been more polite.”
“I’m sure, Mallow, but I had put him in a hard place. There are secrets and more secrets here. The gravestone is odd enough—but last-minute burials at dawn? It’s ridiculous. And the Reverend Halliday didn’t mention he visited regularly. Why omit that? Oh, there is something here, Mallow. Something deep. And we cannot forget that this isn’t just about Helen. Mr. Mattins is dead, and he’s part of our investigation too.” She stared at the grave for a few more moments, then suddenly roused herself.
“Come, Mallow. There’s a London train in thirty minutes, and I have much to do.” They walked briskly back to the station, and Frances didn’t speak until they were seated on the train.
“I am going to need to speak with Mr. Rusk at the Emerald Theatre again, but I want to know more before I do. Who bought the theatre and the Green Players? We need to talk to someone in the City—the financial center. I bet my brother can help us.”
“Very good, my lady,” said Mallow. But Frances heard something in her maid’s tone.
“You don’t think that a good idea?”
“I’m sure it’s not my place to comment on your ideas, my lady, but if I may be so bold—his lordship has not been inclined to help your ladyship in such matters.”
“You’re right there,” said Frances ruefully. “Perhaps I need to work on my delivery. Regardless, he should be home for tea this afternoon, so we’ll see.”
Soon they were back in London, and Frances was pleased to see that the photographer had delivered a print of the Louisa Torrence portrait.
“Even without color, it’s clear how beautiful she was,” said Frances, showing it to Mallow.
“Very lovely, my lady.”
Frances watched her maid’s eyes focus on Louisa’s dress. “I am sure this was the height of fashion when the portrait was painted, although it seems so dated to us. It’s all about change, Mallow. A Greek philosopher named Heraclitus said that the only constant is change. That is, we can never step in the same river twice. As we look back thirty years, we should remember that.”
“Very good, my lady. Now do you wish to change before visiting his lordship and her ladyship?”
Frances declined, and when tea time came, said that she would take the bicycle.
“Has Mr. Cumberland adapted to your arrival on bicycle, my lady?”
Frances laughed. “Slowly, Mallow. Slowly.”
“Perhaps, my lady, you should tell him what that Mr. Heraclitus said about everything changing.”
Frances thought that was an excellent idea.