CHAPTER 12

Frances said her good-byes and retrieved her bicycle from the front desk. It had been a most odd process, but it had been worth it. She had gotten what she had come for—an exhumation order, something even a solicitor might’ve taken weeks to get. Would Hal have been able to get it more quickly? She was proud of herself.

Then she felt ashamed. Why was she making a contest out of this? Was she so determined not to be seen just as Hal’s wife? Hal had always told her that he fully expected her to live her own life after they were married. This struggle was in her own mind, but she’d have to come back to it later.

Frances mounted her bicycle, and thoughts of Hal and marriage left her. Checking to make sure the road was clear, she saw the soldier again, half hidden behind the corner of a building across the road. Seeing he was caught, he started walking rapidly away.

But I’m on the bicycle now, thought Frances and took off after him. It was a wonder. Although she was short, even a fit man at a brisk place was no match for her. She pedaled harder—oh, Mallow was right, it was like flying! The soldier practically started running, but he clearly didn’t want to: a running man in shabby clothes would be sure to catch the attention of a constable.

Frances was coming up to him and was dimly aware of people watching her. Ladies on bicycles had become a familiar sight, but they were supposed to ride at a sedate pace, not race along like they were in the Tour de France.

The soldier’s collar was up and his hat pulled down, and he glanced back at Frances as she rode. Now pedestrians were looking at him too as he bumped into them. He could’ve ducked into a building, but then he’d be trapped. A hansom or motorcar would be easy to outrun on the busy streets, but not a bicycle, and even turning down a narrow alley wouldn’t stop her.

“You there! Stop!” she called out as best she could while pedaling. She was almost ahead of him and thinking about how she could stop him when she came to halt so suddenly she thought she’d go over the handlebar. Unfortunately, while she was looking at the soldier on her right, a burly young constable had grabbed her from the left.

“Whoa, miss. You’re going to kill someone, and possibly yourself.”

“Constable, I was chasing someone. Now let me go.” The soldier glanced back and disappeared quickly around the corner.

“Chasing someone? That’s for sure.” The constable laughed. Frances wanted to hit him.

“A soldier has been following me, and I needed to confront him.”

“Ah, well, soldiers and pretty young ladies—it’s a common enough situation, but not illegal, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“I do mind you saying,” said Frances. “I do not have to put up with a man stalking me.” A crowd started to gather, men and women. Frances appealed to them. Why not an impromptu suffrage speech? “Do any of you women here appreciate a man pressing his attentions on you uninvited? How many of you really find yourselves flattered by that?” The women smiled and nodded. Frances wrenched her bicycle from the increasingly bewildered constable.

“Next time, Constable, I suggest you worry more about criminals and less about women on bicycles. Good day.”

She pedaled at a more sedate pace home. She had lost her stalker, but he wouldn’t take her by surprise again.

Frances got up early the next morning, excited about the impending exhumation and eagerly awaiting notification from Inspector Eastley. Everything was riding now on what she might find in Helen’s mysterious grave.

Mallow had proved a little anxious at first when Frances had explained that this was all approved.

“Begging your pardon, my lady, but is it . . . that is, I assume the church fully approves of this?” It had been Mallow’s understanding until recently that once you were buried, you stayed buried.

“Oh, quite, Mallow. A vicar attends to make sure that the deceased is treated with respect. In fact, my cousin, Michael Ffolkes, Archdeacon of Westminster, will be there. You no doubt saw him when he dined at my brother’s house.”

All doubt cleared from Mallow’s face. Not a mere vicar, but an archdeacon, and a member of her mistress’s family.

“Very good, my lady. Now, as you said it would be a nighttime event, I have chosen a warm dress, and I will take wraps for both of us.” She continued in a tone that indicated an important conclusion had been reached after a lot of thought. “I will make us tea and pour it into the vacuum flask.” To Mallow, the vacuum flask was even more of a marvel than a train. You poured hot tea into it, and it stayed hot for a long time. Frances’s patient explanation of how it worked, accompanied by a diagram out of a magazine, did nothing to dim Mallow’s amazement.

“An excellent suggestion. Make it good and strong to keep us awake. Now my brother’s assistance with the City, plus recruiting my cousin, the Venerable Michael Ffolkes, to attend the exhumation made me think of other relations who might help. So this morning, after breakfast, I’ll be calling on my great-uncle, Lord Hoxley.”

“Very good, my lady.”

Frances grinned. “Meaning, not very good at all.”

“I’m sure it’s not my place to comment on your ladyship’s family.”

“Ah, but it was my mother’s place. She always referred to him as ‘Uncle Scapegrace.’ The word ‘scapegrace’ means just that, someone who has somehow managed to escape God’s grace.”

“I’m sure none of us can, my lady,” said Mallow solemnly.

“A theologically sound statement, but Lord Hoxley certainly gives the Almighty a run for his money. Anyway, the timing of a visit to his lordship is tricky. It must be after he has breakfasted but before he has retreated into one of his clubs, far from the reaches of reforming nieces. And dinner is out—the Lord only knows whom he’ll be dining with or where. But my uncle knows something of the theatre and may know about Helen, or at least know someone who does. I believe he’s had dinner with every pretty actress in London for the last half century. It occurred to me I’m not getting a very clear picture of Helen, just from her mother and men who fancied themselves in love with her. Maybe my uncle can be more objective—or as objective as man can be about Helen. Now about our stalker . . .”

She told Mallow about her adventure on the bicycle, and her maid was indignant that the soldier was still following her. “And it should have been obvious to that constable, my lady, that you had the matter well in hand.” Mallow knew well that her ladyship always had the matter well in hand.

“Absolutely. And I have no doubt our stalker will try again. This may be darker than we think. I could tell it was an army uniform, but it wasn’t what we’re used to seeing on soldiers today, is it? It was worn by soldiers in the Sudan campaign years ago. And we learned from Mr. Rusk and Mr. Prescott that one of Helen’s suitors was in that campaign, and it was assumed he died, but no one knows for sure.”

Mallow’s eyes got wide. “Do you think he came home and is still looking for Helen, my lady?”

“I don’t know, Mallow, or why he’s following us. He does make me think of a Sherlock Holmes story, ‘The Crooked Man,’ about a soldier everyone thinks is dead but who shows up again many years later. It bears consideration—I’m not the only one who read that story. As Oscar Wilde said, ‘Life imitates art.’ But whoever he is, he won’t catch us again. We’re going to catch him.”

After breakfast, Frances got her bicycle out of the shed, and once on the street, she looked around for the soldier, but he wasn’t present. Perhaps he couldn’t get away all the time, or maybe she had scared him yesterday. If the latter, she assumed it would only be temporary. He wanted something from her—to know what she was doing or perhaps eventually to attack her. If he had seen her outside Scotland Yard, he knew that she was involved with the police.

Frances pedaled off to Lord Hoxley’s house, which wasn’t far. She parked her bicycle around the back and then rang the front doorbell. She was admitted by Lord Hoxley’s butler, Llewelyn, who smiled at her.

“It is good to see you, my lady, and I know his lordship also appreciates your visits,” he said with his musical Welsh accent.

“Thank you, Llewelyn.” Over his shoulder, she could see a maid carrying a tray. “Excuse me,” Frances said. “Is that tray for his lordship?”

“Yes, my lady,” said the startled maid. Frances marched over to her.

“Is his lordship unwell?”

“He confessed to being in perfect health,” said Llewelyn, “although I believe he was out late last night, my lady.”

“A gentleman should be able to make it down to his breakfast unless he is ill or infirm. And it’s too late for breakfast anyway.” She reviewed the tray. “Also, this is too much food for a man as inactive as his lordship.” Frances scraped what she felt was unnecessary food onto the toast plate and then took the tray from the maid. The girl looked up at the butler for instructions, but he just shrugged. “You take this plate back to the kitchen and may have it yourself if you want. I will carry the tray up to his lordship. Lead the way, Llewelyn.” The maid took the plate with the extra food and headed back to the kitchen, where she was looking forward to sharing gossip about another visit from his lordship’s niece.

Frances followed Llewelyn up the stairs, where he knocked on Lord Hoxley’s bedroom door and entered.

Lord Hoxley was sitting up in bed, wearing an elegant dressing robe. His white hair had been neatly combed, and a smile played around his pudgy face at the anticipation of breakfast. But he lit up even further at the sight of Frances.

“Franny! What a delightful surprise. As you are serving as a maid this morning, I take it you’ll be moving into my house and taking care of me from now on?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Uncle. I am far too busy to be your nurse or nanny or whatever you require, although it is a pleasure to see you.” She set the tray in front of him, while Llewelyn pulled up a chair for Frances and began opening the curtains.

“Llewelyn, this breakfast is . . . incomplete.”

“It was prepared as you ordered, my lord, but her ladyship believed it was more food than good health dictated.”

“Llewelyn, I pay your wages and the cook’s. Why are you listening to Lady Frances?” The butler didn’t respond. Lord Hoxley sighed and began eating. “I suppose Lady Frances is a force of nature,” Lord Hoxley added, answering his own question.

“If I may say, my lord, your metaphor provides an accurate description of her ladyship’s activities,” said Llewelyn. He bowed to Frances. “No offense intended, my lady.”

“None taken,” she said.

The butler turned back to his master. “Will that be all, my lord? . . . Very good.”

Alone with her uncle, Frances made herself comfortable in the chair.

“Ah, well, a visit from my favorite niece is compensation for the loss of some of my breakfast. The two black sheep of the family.”

“Oh, dear Uncle, it’s true that we have both upset many in our family, but I do it because I want to make the world a better place, and you do it because of your selfish pleasures.” He laughed at that. “But never mind. I’m here this morning to give you a chance to redeem yourself, in part.”

“By giving you money for one of your charities? I give all my nieces and nephews a very nice check on their birthdays, and that’s all. And at my death, I’m leaving everything to a home for fallen women.”

“Why shouldn’t you? You’re the reason half of them are there.” That provoked more laughter. “But no, this has nothing to do with money. I need your memory. You love the theatre as much as I do—and have done so for much longer. In the 1870s, there was an actress named Helen. Do you remember her?”

He didn’t have to say anything for Frances to see that he did. He was in midsip of tea when he put down his cup and stared into the distance. It was rather like when Gilbert Rusk thought back on her. This Helen must have been something, thought Frances wryly.

“My goodness. Helen. Beautiful Helen. That takes me back. She disappeared before you were born, my dear. Why are you interested in her?”

“I’m helping a friend who wants to find out what happened to her.”

“Is this more policing on your part? I’ve heard bits and pieces about your continual involvement with Scotland Yard—but never mind.” He held up a hand to forestall her response. “You want to know about Helen. She was an exquisitely beautiful actress. I saw her in several productions, and one night I sent her a bouquet of flowers and a dinner invitation.” Frances felt a thrill. Someone who knew Helen, outside of the Torrences and Helen’s theatre family! And she suspected her uncle, a lifelong bachelor, was too shrewd to actually have fallen in love with Helen or the scores of women he had dinner with.

“You dined with her?”

“Oh, yes. Flowers and a card with the family crest. As a viscount with a substantial income, I could get an actress to join me for dinner at least.”

“I’m not going to comment on what you meant by ‘at least’ and ask you to tell me about her. I assume you can distinguish her from all the others?”

“You think such horrible things about me. And yes, I do remember her well. And not just because she was exquisite. Not just. She knew her own mind. First, although I asked her to dinner, she responded that she was particular about where she dined and suggested an out-of-the-way place.” Of course, thought Frances. Nowhere she’d be in danger of being recognized as Louisa Torrence.

“Was she bright? Sharp?”

“Yes, and yes. Quite sharp. Refused to discuss her background. She was intensely focused on her future—odd for someone so young.”

“But wise. Actresses’ careers don’t last forever, and her face was her fortune. I heard that she had a good stage presence but was not necessarily talented.”

Lord Hoxley nodded. “A fair assessment, looking back. We spoke about the stage, and she was very emphatic about her life. I remember another actress—oh, what was her name—married a lord with a good income. His mother was incensed, never spoke with her daughter-in-law. But Helen said she’d starve before becoming the wife of a rich man—or worse, his mistress. She was not giving up control like that. That’s what she kept saying. She said she’d never let a man control her, never let a man dictate her life. I remember being fascinated.”

Frances leaned closer to her uncle. “What else? What did she want?”

“My goodness . . . what is this about? But you won’t tell me, and I’m not sure I want to know. We had dinner once more, and then she said that was all. She said I was amusing but nothing more. I saw her onstage again, some months later, and then, one day, she was gone.” He looked sad.

“Gone?”

Lord Hoxley shrugged. “She just left the stage. I asked other actresses what had happened to her, and all they said was that she’d gotten married to an accountant of all things and moved to parts unknown. It seemed odd. A bright girl. Marriage wasn’t for me . . . and I’m more progressive than you realize, dear niece. I accept that some women don’t want to get married either. So why not be mistress to a duke? She’d have been very well taken care of, for minimal work.”

“It is astonishing, Uncle. Just imagine, wanting to be an honest man’s wife rather than spending years as a nobleman’s whore.”

Lord Hoxley turned red. “For goodness’ sake, Franny. Language like that. I’m still eating. And don’t look at me like that. The actress Nell Gwynn was mistress to Charles II. Their son was made Duke of St. Albans. Everyone went home happy.”

“I’m very happy for Nell Gwynn and her son the duke. But what of this accountant? What do you know about him? What kind of person was he, and where did they live?”

“Good gracious, Franny. I wasn’t invited to their wedding. Another actress mentioned that some man who had helped keep the theatre’s books had proposed, Helen had accepted, and they were moving out of London. That’s all I know, I’m afraid.”

Frances suddenly thought of another woman who had made sure that she’d never be the prized wife of a great lord—herself. She loved Hal, surely, but she had never considered that part of her attraction to him was equality. As successful as he was, he was middle class—someone, perhaps, that she could be a helpmeet to instead of just a decorative lady of the manor. Was that what Helen had thought? Times were even harder for women back then, and a marriage alliance with a rising professional was the perfect balance between independence and security. Louisa may have had jewelry to pawn for her own money, and if her uncle was right, she was smart—someone who could be of true help to her husband, not just an entrancing doll. A man who didn’t just love her but needed her. And what do I want?

Lord Hoxley broke into her thoughts. “Woolgathering?” he asked with a smile.

“You gave me something to think about. A lot to think about. Self-determination. That’s what she wanted?”

He nodded. “That’s what she wanted.”

“So not mere comfort, but some measure of independence too.”

“You’re the philosopher, my dear. I will accept your conclusion as fitting the facts. But indulge me. There’s a box of chocolates on the little table there—”

“Uncle, you’re not going to finish your breakfast with candy!”

“Of course not, my dear. It’s unopened. A present for a . . . friend. Just fetch it, and look at the cover.” Frances did. Like many chocolate boxes, it displayed a picture of a lovely young woman with cherry lips and raven hair falling over her shoulders.

“Chocolate-box prettiness—that’s the phrase,” said Lord Hoxley. “Beautiful, idealized, yet doesn’t always age well.”

Frances thought about that. “Was that Helen—just chocolate-box prettiness?”

Lord Hoxley just answered with another question. “Have you spoken to any women who knew Helen? I am well aware of the limits of my sex. Call on a woman who knew her. You’ll get another point of view, certainly more accurate.”

“I agree. I’ll do that.” She thought of the gossip Mallow had picked up about Sir Arnold’s mistress. Perhaps she had known Helen without realizing that Helen was her paramour’s daughter.

“But speaking of marriages, how are wedding plans with your young man, the solicitor? And this is something on which we can agree: I haven’t met him, but from all accounts, he’ll be a fine partner for you and a fine addition to the family.”

“Well said, Uncle. I’ll keep you apprised of our plans. And maybe you can give us dinner some evening.”

“Excellent idea. And here’s a thought—Marie Studholme is a friend of yours, isn’t she? Bring her along, and perhaps we’ll make a foursome of it?”

Frances just rolled her eyes. “I won’t even bring it up. You’re old enough to be her father. And she’s independent too.” She leaned over and gave her uncle a kiss on his cheek. “Be good. Take care of yourself, and I’ll visit again soon. And maybe, just maybe, I won’t tell Llewelyn to give me all your port, which I can auction off for charity.”

She headed downstairs, and Llewelyn showed her out after thanking her for visiting and raising his lordship’s spirits. Her mind, meanwhile, was a jumble of thoughts. What had driven Helen? It seemed to be less a love of theatre than a love of independence. Frances had upbraided her uncle, but he had a point: a mistress to a wealthy man—especially back then—would have been given great comfort and a large degree of independence, but Helen hadn’t wanted to be at some lord’s beck and call. Frances felt full of admiration for the woman.

The clatter of a hansom cab brought her out of her reverie. A man clambered inside. It was a soldier, her soldier, entering the hansom. How had he found her there? She hadn’t seen him when she left Miss Plimsoll’s. The cab drove off quickly, and Frances knew she’d never catch it on her bicycle. But she smiled. She knew something now. This man was a little afraid of her. He no doubt had the cab ready, knowing she could—and would—follow.

But that wasn’t the most important thing. She had been sure that the soldier hadn’t been waiting at Miss Plimsoll’s. Did he have a confederate spying and reporting back? Or perhaps he had multiple disguises; it had been a busy street—he might’ve been dressed as a dustman or laborer or clerk. And yet, here he was, back as a soldier outside her uncle’s instead of trying another disguise. Whatever else he wanted, he needed Frances to see him as a soldier. That was interesting. Very interesting.