“What shall I lay out for you this morning, my lady?”
“Brisk and businesslike, Mallow.”
“One of the shirtwaists, my lady?”
“Perfect. I am calling on Inspector Eastley at Scotland Yard.”
“Very good, my lady.”
Frances detected the subtlest of tones, indicating that Mallow was not in complete agreement with her ladyship’s course of action.
“You don’t approve, Mallow?” Frances asked with a smile.
“I’m sure it’s not my place to approve or disapprove of your ladyship’s visits.”
“But you’re concerned that the inspector will not welcome a visit from me? He seemed pleased enough with the results of our work at Kestrel’s Eyrie.”
“Yes, my lady. I believe he also strongly suggested that you and I travel to America for an extended stay so you could share your detecting skills with the New York City police department.”
“I interpreted that remark as a compliment, Mallow.”
That was not Mallow’s interpretation, but she dropped the subject.
“Anyway, I’m just asking for a little advice, not involving him in a case. Not yet, anyway. And I’ll be taking the bicycle. I’m sure the constables will be pleased to watch it while I meet with the inspector.”
So after breakfast, Frances hopped on the bicycle and pedaled her way to Scotland Yard. Another advantage of bicycling: not having to face the confusion of every cab driver who couldn’t believe a lady wanted to go to police headquarters.
The constables now recognized Lady Frances, but the bicycle was new. “Could you please see if Inspector Benjamin Eastley is in?” she asked the constable at the front desk. “And I assume it won’t be inconvenient if I leave my bicycle in this corner? Very good then.”
By leaning over the desk, she heard half of the constable’s telephone call to the inspector’s office, even though he turned away as far as possible. “Lady Frances Ffolkes, sir . . . she didn’t say . . . I would say more cheerful than upset, sir . . . very good, sir . . .” He hung up the phone and offered to accompany Frances.
“Thank you, but I know the way.” She walked briskly to the Special Branch suite and saw Eastley’s huge assistant filing papers.
“Hello, Constable Smith,” she said.
“M’lady,” he said, betraying no emotions. He must be an excellent card player, Frances thought.
Frances knocked on Eastley’s door, heard a weary, “Come in,” and entered.
“Inspector. It is good to see you again. You are well, I trust?” Sitting behind his desk, he was wearing his usual poorly ironed suit. He didn’t bother getting up but waved Frances to one of the two visitor’s chairs.
“Well enough, Lady Frances. And I hope you are doing well too?”
“Very well, thank you. But you’re probably wondering why I’m here today.”
“Consumed with curiosity, my lady. Perhaps you want to help me with one of my current cases?” He waved his arm over the folders on his desk.
“Actually, that’s not why I came . . . although I’d be happy to offer my assistance in any way I can.” She got a thin smile in response. “Oh, very well then. I’m actually just here for advice. A friend of mine has a relative who died some years ago while estranged from the family, and now my friend wants her exhumed to be buried in the family plot. I assumed that no one would have more insights into the people with whom we ought to speak than you.” She gave him a hopeful smile.
Eastley looked back and studied her. She had known in advance that he wouldn’t just give her a name and say good-bye. He’d be as difficult to trick as her brother.
“My lady. You have family solicitors to consult. Why come to a Special Branch inspector for a question like that?”
“Well, there’s a slight wrinkle in the situation. The deceased was buried under an assumed name, so there is no immediate connection to her actual family. However, I have a photograph of a portrait of the woman, which those who knew her under her assumed name will swear is her. So perhaps that will allow us to overcome any difficulties. I also have a letter authorizing me to act as my friend’s agent in this matter.”
Eastley listened and nodded when Frances was done. Then he leaned back in his chair. “In all honesty, I am sure there is a long and fascinating story there, my lady, and had I more leisure, I would like to hear the full tale.”
“It’s rather simple, actually.”
“No, it’s not. If it were simple, a solicitor would be in the office of some Home Office undersecretary. Instead, the daughter of a marquess is sitting in the office of a Special Branch inspector. Convince me, Lady Frances, why I should help. Give me a little more.” His smile became broader.
Oh, very well, thought Frances. He was giving her a chance. And Inspector Eastley would give very few women—or men, for that matter—such an opportunity.
“Some thirty years ago, the daughter of a well-born family ran away to join a theatrical company, acting under the name ‘Helen.’ I showed a photograph of the missing girl to her former theatrical colleagues, and they confirmed Helen and the missing girl were one and the same. After she left her brief theatrical career, she moved in with another friend and died in Maidstone. There is a tombstone that says ‘Helen,’ and the dates are right.” It wasn’t the entire story, she knew, but enough to get the inspector to help her while avoiding awkward questions. Frances hadn’t forgotten that she had stolen her main clues from Mattins’s room.
Eastley nodded. “Do you have this photograph?”
She produced it and handed it to him.
“She’s a beautiful girl,” he said. “Girls like that often have a story about them.”
“Why, Inspector, that sounds almost poetical,” said Frances.
“Not at all. I don’t know this Helen. But I know men and what they would do for a face like that. Anyway, this friend of yours—does she have any family?”
Frances was surprised at that question. “Yes . . . a younger daughter and two grandsons.”
“Then have her say her good-byes at Helen’s grave. Leave some flowers. And spend the rest of her life and energies with the family she has left.”
“That’s not what she wants, Inspector. She wants her daughter buried with her own people, under her true name, not forgotten in Kent.”
“I don’t know what you did to find a woman who disappeared thirty years ago, but I am impressed that you brought your investigation to a successful conclusion. And yet, that isn’t enough. You want—how should I say—a more complete solution. I don’t know of any detective inspector who would need that.”
“Is that a compliment or an insult, Inspector?” He seemed a little amused, and Frances didn’t know if that was a good sign.
“Part of me wonders about the many details you no doubt left out, my lady. Do you have another reason for requesting this, other than your friend’s sentimentality?” She didn’t respond, and it was very quiet in the office for a long moment as they just looked at each other. “Did you not understand my question?”
“I assumed your question was just a rhetorical device,” she shot back.
He laughed dryly. “Oh, very well, my lady. What exactly do you want?”
“The connection between my client and Helen is clear to me and any thinking person, but the situation is not legally perfect. If I handed this over to solicitors, my request would be bounced from one department to another for weeks and months, because no petty bureaucrat would want to take responsibility for signing an exhumation order when the case is not entirely solid. I need to reach the right person. And who would know more about the inner workings here than a Special Branch inspector?”
“Thank you,” he said. “So you assume that I could cut through these functionaries? That I would know the one correct department?”
“No. Not the department. You know the one right person, and I’d like you to introduce me to him. We’re a political family, and I’ve learned that, for all the talk of Parliamentary groups and Ministerial committees, decisions like this tend to come down to one person.”
“That, if I may say, is a surprisingly shrewd comment.”
“Oh, and you are surprised because a woman made it?”
“No, I’m surprised that anyone who doesn’t hold a position in government realizes that. Oh, very well, my lady. You want my trust. But will you give me yours? And that question is by no means rhetorical.”
He was serious. And she matched him with a grave look. “Yes, Inspector. I will.”
“Then let me see your letter of permission.” She would have to trust the inspector with Lady Torrence’s secret—to a certain extent. There was no other way. She handed it over, the inspector read it, and then he handed it back to Frances. He stood.
“Wait here, my lady. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“Where are you going? Can’t I come?”
“None of your concern, and no.”
The inspector left quickly, leaving the door open. Frances was momentarily nonplussed, pleased that she seemed to be getting what she wanted but irritated that she was being left in the dark. There was another advantage to this, though—the inspector had left what were no doubt fascinating case files on his desk.
But a moment later, Frances realized that the inspector was no fool. He had left his door wide open in full sight of Constable Smith and other officers. There was no way to quietly shut the door or secretly consult the files. Oh, well. She sat back on his chair and waited for him to return, musing about the case in the meantime. She might need continued help from Eastley and other Scotland Yard inspectors. It wasn’t just Helen’s fate she had to investigate—who was still so concerned about her queries that he had killed Mattins?
Eventually Frances became impatient, and she was considering striking up a conversation with the constables in the outer room when Eastley returned. His face was unreadable, but he had a sheaf of papers.
“Good news, Lady Frances. Despite the somewhat thin evidence you gave, I was able to convince a senior clerk to sign off on the necessary documentation on my authority. Lady Torrence will receive a notice and will be responsible for the costs. She can attend the exhumation herself or name a solicitor as her agent. I assume you will fill that role, of course.”
“Of course,” said Frances. “I do want to thank you for your help and trust. I am grateful. I would be even more grateful if you could tell me how you got these papers signed when it would take weeks or months through conventional channels.”
Eastley chuckled. “How so like you, my lady. Your joy at getting what you want is trumped by your irritation at not knowing how. There are people here you don’t know about with powers you aren’t aware of. And we’ll have to leave it at that.”
But Frances knew in broad strokes what had happened. In any group, there were always insiders—friends and associates who could get things done by working around the rules. Whether it was Charles and the other aristocrats in their Pall Mall clubs or secretive Special Branch men among deceptively obscure Whitehall suites, it was all the same. Social classes may differ—but women were always excluded. That would have to change. But then she saw the paper in Eastley’s hands and was reminded that it was already beginning to change. Someday, women too would have not only the vote but the even more important access to the halls of power, where the real work of London, the real work of the Empire, was done.
“I have some arrangements to make, Lady Frances, but we should be able to proceed shortly. This will be done at night in order to not excite curiosity. A Home Office representative needs to attend, and I will fill that role myself.”
“Really? I wouldn’t have thought that a mere exhumation required a Special Branch inspector.”
“With you, my lady, there is no ‘mere’ anything.” Again, Frances didn’t know if that was compliment or an insult. “So I will be there with Smith. A pair of diggers. A Home Office physician to review the remains, as required by law. Oh, and it’s holy ground, so we have to have a vicar.”
“Wouldn’t the St. Mark’s vicar be the obvious choice?”
Eastley smiled. “Ah, but we are trying to keep this quiet. I don’t want the local vicar slipping and discussing this with his flock.”
Frances nodded. That made sense. “I suggest you see about the sexton too. I sensed a slyness about him.”
“Thank you. A word in the bishop’s ear will mean the vicar will be invited to a dinner party at the diocesan residence. This means the sexton will get a couple of days off, and he won’t be hanging around. We’ve done this before, my lady.”
“Of course. My apologies. So you need a cleric you can trust. I suggest my cousin, Michael Ffolkes. He’s Archdeacon of Westminster and, like all in our family, can be trusted to be discreet. He would do his duty and show up no matter how late.”
He thought that over. “What would he think about his cousin involving herself in something like this?”
Frances laughed. “He’ll be horrified. Almost as upset as when I joined the suffragist club.”
“That sounds delightful. Very well then; I’ll arrange for the archdeacon to join us. Quite a jolly party.”
“And Mallow. She’ll be with me.”
Eastley rolled his eyes. “Your maid? You’re dragging that long-suffering maid of yours to a midnight exhumation?”
Frances looked astonished. “Inspector! Have you learned nothing about Society during your career? Do you know how inappropriate it is for a lady in my position, daughter of a marquess, to attend an exhumation without her personal maid? What would people say?”
Eastley just looked at her with amazement. And then laughed and wagged a finger at her as Frances grinned. “Very good, my lady. I deserved that. Fine, Mallow too. Yes, it will indeed be a jolly party.”