CHAPTER 1

Hal took a step back to contemplate the flesh tones on the canvas, the lovely pinks and peaches of his model’s skin, the copper sheen of her hair lit to flame by the afternoon sun as it poured over the white robe that left one shoulder tantalizingly bare. He smiled in satisfaction and resumed painting.

“I know we’re going for a classical ideal, not historical accuracy,” she said. “But as I’ve said before, it’s hard to believe anyone thought ancient Greek shepherdesses would dress like this.”

“I agree. And speaking of ideals, Greek shepherdesses had modest, doe eyes—not your disconcertingly frank ones, my dear Franny, to say nothing of your impudent smile.” He grinned at her and she grinned back.

“My friends like you,” she said.

“Really?” he asked. She looked at him, his pale green eyes, the slightly ruffled hair that was usually slicked back to perfection, the wrinkled shirt splattered with paint.

“Yes, really,” she said. “You sound surprised.”

“I guess I am surprised. I didn’t expect . . .” He searched for words. “They are artists and poets and musicians. I didn’t expect them to like me—or for me to like them.”

“You’re an artist too,” she said.

Hal didn’t say anything for a while, but Franny didn’t mind. She had become used to the way Hal carefully thought about what he was going to say. On most days he was Henry Wheaton, Esq. Dressed in a black coat and gold-rimmed spectacles, he managed the legal and financial lives of some of the most distinguished men in London—including Frances’s brother Charles, the Marquis of Seaforth.

But on days like today, when she could lure him away for a short holiday, he was an artist—and a most devoted suitor.

“I’m not a real artist, Franny, although it’s sweet of you to say so,” he eventually said. “I’m a solicitor who dabbles. And my successes are due to a most lovely muse.”

“Flatterer,” she said. “But as a solicitor, aren’t you worried about what your fellow members of the Law Society would say if they heard you were painting Lady Frances Ffolkes—sister of a noble client—practically undressed?” She gave him a challenging look, but he didn’t get upset.

“Not at all, my dear. They’d slap me on the back and take turns buying me drinks.”

“You’re a beast. All men are beasts.”

“But you’re a very good model. And in a little while I’ll be done.”

“Can I see it then?” she asked, full of excitement.

“Of course.” He painted in silence for about another fifteen minutes, then stepped back. It was as good as he could make it.

“Come, Franny. Have a look.” She jumped off her perch, adjusted her shepherdess dress, and quickly padded over on bare feet to see what Hal had created.

“Oh!” she said, then fell silent as she stared. Hal smiled. Franny robbed of speech was a rare occurrence.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“Is that what I really look like? It’s just . . . marvelous. I’m . . .” She said no more, but gave him a kiss.

“It’s what you look like to me—as much as my poor skills can make it. I’m not quite at the level of Sir Joshua Reynolds.” He was the great portraitist of a previous generation, whom Hal much admired.

“Oh Hal, never mind Reynolds. I met the most unusual artist when I was last in Paris, a Spaniard, and I saw some of his creations. His way of painting—it took my breath away. I can’t even describe it. A completely fresh way of looking at people. His name was Picasso. Pablo Picasso.”

“I shall keep an eye open for his work in London and someday we shall travel to Paris and see his paintings together.”

“Of course,” said Frances, laying a hand on his arm. “But my point was not about following Reynolds or Picasso. I think you’re wonderful just as Hal.”

A second kiss was interrupted as the door flew open and a man entered the makeshift studio. As opposed to Hal, the visitor was very well dressed, even to the point of flamboyance.

“Sorry to interrupt you two,” he said with a mocking tone. Hal blushed.

“I was giving the hardest working artist here a congratulatory kiss for finishing my portrait.”

“You finished it? Good show, Wheaton. You must’ve been working on it before you came here.”

“I was posing for Hal in his home studio in London these past weeks,” said Frances.

“Really? I continually find you more outré than I expect, Wheaton.”

“I assume that’s a compliment,” said Hal.

“Gerry, stop teasing Hal. He’s been working today, which is more than you have. Anyway, what are you wearing? You look like Oscar Wilde. And that’s not a compliment.”

Gerry just laughed. “Well said, Franny. Anyway, we decided to go for a walk, build ourselves an appetite. Coming?”

“That sounds delightful,” said Frances. “I’ll just run up and change and give Hal a chance to clean up.” She skipped out of the room, and Hal watched her retreat. In the Greek-style dress, with her unbound red hair flowing behind her, she really did look like some forest sprite.

Hal began cleaning his brushes as Gerry continued to study the canvas.

“You really caught our Franny,” said Gerry. “You’re a man of many parts.”

Hal just shrugged. The other guests, men and women, came by in a motley collection of outfits. They looked with curiosity at both the portrait and the man who painted it, while doling out compliments tinged with surprise.

But they all turned to stare when Frances came back.

“Well, how do I look?” she said. Hal and the rest of the company were astonished. Franny was wearing a pair of corduroy trousers, hiking boots, a man’s tailored buttoned-up shirt, suspenders, and a wide-brimmed hat. A rough hunting jacket, to keep her warm against the English autumn, completed the ensemble. She was just over five feet tall, so only her nicely rounded figure kept her from being mistaken for a young farmhand.

“So Wheaton,” said Gerry. “What do you think of your lady fair?”

“I think she looks far more fetching than she has a right to in that getup.” That provoked laughter from everyone.

“It is unbelievably comfortable and practical. I am deeply envious of you men for keeping such clothes to yourselves. I’m going to suggest clothes like this at our next women’s suffrage meeting.”

Hal laughed as she took his arm, and the company walked out the door and onto the hills. Franny liked the way the breeze ruffled his unruly black hair, which was usually slicked to perfection. In his office, he looked so . . . correct. Reading spectacles hid his liquid green eyes and made him look older, especially when he hunched his tall, lean form over his desk. Out here the years fell away, especially when a wide grin broke onto his fair face.

After about half a mile, their fellow house party members stretched into a long line, and so the two were mostly alone.

“Where did you even get an outfit like that?” Hal asked, as Frances walked boldly over the rough ground without worrying about full skirts and elegant boots more suitable for London streets.

“I came across donated boys’ clothes when sorting them for the poor box, and it occurred to me one could buy these new somewhere in London. My maid Mallow did the necessary tailoring. I told her that ladies were now wearing such clothes for country rambles, but she did not approve.”

“And speaking of clothes, does Mallow know you posed for me as a classical Greek shepherdess?”

“No,” said Frances, with a rueful smile. That would’ve been too much. “Oh Hal, look at me. Years of behavior that upset my mother, infuriated my father, horrified a slew of governesses, ruined any chance my family had of making an aristocratic match for me—and here I am afraid of offending my maid.”

Hal laughed. “Well, she is a wonderful and unusual maid. With a rather wonderful and unusual mistress. And I want you to know that there is a lovely room for Mallow in my house if her mistress were to become my wife.” Now he stopped and looked at her.

“Hal, if I don’t marry you, I will never marry. But there are a few things I still have to do before I take that step. Just a little patience.”

He said nothing for a few moments, and Frances was suddenly afraid she had pushed his patience too far. But then he smiled at her.

“Oh very well, there’s nothing I can deny you. I will wait. Now let’s walk briskly and work up an appetite, then we’ll cook some dinner. In this servant-free bohemian household, I understand you and I have been assigned to the kitchen detail tonight.”

Frances made a face. “It’ll be a disappointing evening. London solicitors and daughters of peers of the realm aren’t trained to cook.”

“You do yourself an injustice. I’ve seen you at work.” He had come once to the grim corner of London’s East End where Frances helped run a soup kitchen, slicing carrots and turnips and wrestling vats almost as big as she was. And when a pair of local toughs showed up to make trouble, before Hal could even intervene, she chased them off with language he couldn’t believe she knew.

“Ah, but our fellow guests will be expecting something better than a cauldron of stew.”

“Our efforts can’t be worse than the chicken Gerry and Nora cooked last night. Anyway, you’ll get your reward next week when you travel to Kestrel’s Eyrie. I hear it’s one of the greatest houses in England, and I don’t see the guests of Sir Calleford taking turns cooking.”

“That would be something to see. But no, everything will be just so there, I’m sure. However, this will be a working visit for us. Sir Calleford’s daughter Gwendolyn is making a visit home, so her great friend Thomasina and I are going with her, and we plan to find some quiet time to work on various suffrage projects.”

“Excellent. And Thomasina—that would be Thomasina Calvin, the young woman you call Tommie? I’ve noticed you never mention Tommie without Gwen or Gwen without Tommie, like salt and pepper.”

Frances studied Hal’s face to see if she could find understanding there. “They are like two puzzle pieces that fit only with each other. They love each other very much.”

“Like sisters?”

“No. They love each other . . . like Gwen and Tommie.”

Hal nodded, and Frances saw that he did, in fact, understand. “How remarkable you are, Franny. Suffragist, muse, fashion pioneer—” she laughed at that “—and now, I see, philosopher as well.” They walked a while more and then Hal chuckled. “But I hope you can stay away from investigating another murder. The constables in rural districts tend to be conservative, and they may have less patience with the Lady Sherlock than Scotland Yard does.”

“Are you making fun of me?” she asked, peering from under her hat.

“Of course not. I was, and am, immensely proud of you. I just want you to be safe.”

“Is that advice coming from my solicitor, or my suitor?”

“Let’s say your suitor. If it was from your solicitor, I’d have to charge you a shilling. Now we’ll have to head back soon, to see if a distinguished man of law and a lady of the proud House of Seaforth can somehow figure out how to fry sausages and boil potatoes.”

Charles, Marquess of Seaforth and Undersecretary for European Affairs, slipped into his wife’s dressing room as Mallow was putting the finishing touches on his wife’s dress and making adjustments to her hair.

“You look lovely, Mary. Mallow, I daresay her ladyship’s maid Garritty would not have done better.”

Mallow blushed. There was little doubt in her mind that Lady Frances’s brother was one of the greatest men in England.

“Thank you, my lord.”

He watched his sister’s young maid work. She was helping out this week while Garritty was away assisting her niece with a new baby, since Frances had said she would be spending a few days with some “bohemian” friends in in the country and wouldn’t need a maid anyway.

This was a good opportunity. He knew that those soft brown eyes and face with a childlike prettiness hid detailed knowledge of everything his sister was up to. A lady’s maid knew all her mistress’s secrets. But how to pry them out of her?

“Mr. Henry Wheaton—you know, the family solicitor—dined here recently, Mallow. Lady Frances must see him quite a bit too, doesn’t she? I know they are friends. Do you know if he’s part of the house party Lady Frances is attending?”

Mallow didn’t turn a hair. She smoothed the pleats on Mary’s dress and then turned those quiet eyes onto his lordship.

“I’m sure I couldn’t say, my lord.”

“But then again, she’s probably been too busy with her political meetings to socialize much—women’s suffrage and all that.” He slipped into a jovial tone.

“I’m sure I couldn’t say, my lord.” Not the slightest trace of rebuke. Delivered as smoothly as if she had said it for the first time. He tried another tack.

“Lady Seaforth and I are patrons of the police widows and orphans fund. The commissioner of police will be dining here next week, Mallow. I know Lady Frances often has dealings with the police and I’ll give him her regards—if she’s been wandering the halls of Scotland Yard recently.”

“I’m sure I couldn’t say, my lord.”

At that point, Mary, admiring the results in her mirror, thanked Mallow warmly for her excellent work, and told her she could return to the servants’ hall until it was time to get her ready for bed at the evening’s end.

“Very good, my lady—and good evening to you, my lord.” Mallow curtsied and slipped out. Maybe it was his imagination, but Charles could swear there was a spring in her step and that she was holding her chin up—just the way Franny did when she had done something to make herself proud.

Anyway, as the door closed, Mary started to laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

“You! I just watched one of highest ranking diplomats in England stymied by his sister’s maid. You attempted to pump her about Franny’s romantic life, political activities, and police involvement and got precisely nowhere.”

“God knows what my sister is up to,” he muttered. “All I know is that she’s a most talented little liar and has taught all her skills to that maid of hers. When Franny still lived at home and our mother was alive, Mallow helped Franny sneak around a dozen rules. Mother knew but couldn’t prove anything against either of them.”

“I know—the most delightful mistress-and-maid pair in London. Stop fretting. Franny has always been able to take care of herself, and Mallow is always by her side. But never mind Franny, who I’m sure is fine. Have you had word from Kestrel’s Eyrie?”

At that, he brightened. “Yes. Sir Calleford sent a coded cable to my office this morning and a confidential clerk dropped it off earlier. Everything has been going smoothly.”

Mary arched one of her elegant eyebrows. She was a political wife and knew what was happening, what was at stake. Mary was also aware that there were things her husband couldn’t tell her, though he could give her hints.

“Calleford said everyone is being very cooperative. It bodes well for future plans.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” She glanced at the clock. “We should go down. The Kaiser’s ambassador is due soon. You know Germans are never late.” And arm-in-arm they headed downstairs.

Gwendolyn Kestrel loved Evensong, and her great friend Thomasina “Tommie” Calvin was pleased enough to go with her to St. Paul’s Cathedral. Gwen came particularly for the music and participated fully, while Tommie’s enjoyment came from contemplating the cathedral’s visual beauty. She also liked seeing how happy Gwen was. It took very little to make Gwen happy: Evensong, an occasional evening of theater, spending time with the dogs and horses at her father’s estate.

After service, they planned as usual for dinner at a quiet café nearby. Those were the times Tommie most cherished. There were so few places, so few situations, where she didn’t feel judged: wearing the wrong clothes, saying the wrong thing, enduring comments about when she’d get married. If only the whole of London could be like their suffragist meetings—probably the only group where Tommie felt comfortable.

“That was so lovely,” said Gwen. “The choir was in particularly good form. Can we stop for a few moments and tell the rector how much we liked it?”

Tommie smiled indulgently. “Of course. How about this—you tell him how much you enjoyed the music, then I’ll meet you out front. I’m going to go into the chapel and light a candle for my father.” It was one of Tommie’s last remnants of any religious observance.

She had the chapel to herself, but as she was finishing, she heard footsteps and turned around to see who it was. The light was dim, but she could see he was dressed like a gentleman. A man of middle years. Rather serious looking, clean-shaven with a roman nose and a high-domed head. She stepped away from the candles to give him room, but he turned to her.

“Miss Calvin? Miss Thomasina Calvin?”

She blinked. This man didn’t look at all familiar.

“Yes . . .” she said hesitatingly.

“I find it rather odd to see you and Miss Kestrel attending a sacred service in one of the greatest cathedrals in England. Your relationship is an affront to all decent Christian behavior.”

The words flowed out of him without any menace, as casually as if they were discussing the weather. She tried to speak, but nothing came out.

“You may not care. But Miss Kestrel’s father, Sir Calleford, is a wealthy and powerful man. I suggest you cease your corruption of Miss Kestrel while there is still time to save her. And if you cannot curb your base lusts, at least turn your attentions to a less well-connected young woman and don’t plan any visits to Kestrel’s Eyrie. Good day, Miss Calvin.”

He turned and disappeared as quickly as he came.

For a few moments, Tommie felt as if she couldn’t breathe—the horrible, disgusting accusations degrading her feelings for the person she loved best in all the world. Her legs started trembling, and feeling sick, she sat on the cold stone floor. Air finally came in great gulps. How could he—how could anyone . . .

She might’ve stayed like that for an hour or more, but the thought of Gwen made her pull herself together. If Gwen found her like this, there would be no explaining what happened or what the man had said. Gwen was incapable of understanding the baser emotions.

She took a deep breath and made a halfhearted attempt at straightening her clothes. Stop wallowing and think, she told herself. Who was that man? He definitely wasn’t familiar. So perhaps he was an agent sent by someone to frighten and intimidate her. How could someone hate her and Gwen so much? True, they were in the suffragist group, which had its vocal detractors to be sure, but even so, that wouldn’t explain that particular accusation. And men usually harangued them when they were speaking in the park, not by cornering them in churches.

Feeling a little steadier, she made her way back to the entrance, where Gwen was waiting for her.

“I’m so glad I stopped to talk to the rector. He seemed very pleased with my compliments. But Tommie—are you unwell?” It was one of the things Tommie loved best about Gwen: no one was more sensitive to the pain in those she loved—and she did love Tommie.

“I was a little overcome for a moment, thinking about my father. But I’m all right now, really. I think I’d just like some strong tea with sugar with our dinner.”

“You need to get away. I’m so glad you’ll be coming with me to Kestrel’s Eyrie—you and Franny.”

Of course, their upcoming trip came rushing back to her. She had been looking forward to it—and now that man had been very specific that she shouldn’t visit the Eyrie. But she wasn’t going to let Gwen go there alone.

And Franny was coming. She was absolutely trustworthy—Tommie could tell her what had happened. Franny would know what to do; Franny was well educated and so clever.

Franny was fearless.

Cheer and laughter dominated the drawing room at Kestrel’s Eyrie. Phoebe Blake had ordered a fire, which chased the autumn chill from the large, old-fashioned room. Despite the cool weather, the guests slipped out briefly for some fresh air and a glimpse of a particularly beautiful moon.

Everyone had an after-dinner drink: brandy for the men and cordials for the women. Mrs. Blake had understood that Mr. Mehmet’s religion prohibited intoxicating beverages, but he had taken a little wine at dinner to make a toast, and now sipped some sweet sherry.

“I thank you for catering to my needs, Mrs. Blake,” he had said earlier. “But some believe that Allah permits small amount of the fermented grape. It is drunken behavior only that offends him.”

Mrs. Blake had no interest in the fine points of Islamic theology, so she just said something noncommittal and moved on. She spoke briefly to the doctor and his wife. Sir Calleford thought it was kind to invite them to these events, and they always accepted, even though they were completely overawed.

Mr. Mehmet looked around the room. Everyone seemed deeply involved in one conversation or another, so he decided it was a good time to slip out. He had already noted a side door that seemed little used at the end of a hallway lined with storage rooms, and made sure no servant saw him leave.

Mehmet walked quickly around to the side of house, where there was only a little moonlight. He peered until he saw a spark of light in a knot of trees bordering the lawn, then headed toward it.

“Kerem, you smoke too much. It’ll be the death of you,” he said in Turkish, laughing quietly.

“You want one?” He lit a fresh one and handed it to Mehmet. “And what have you for me?” asked Kerem.

Mehmet reached into his pocket for an envelope, which he handed to Kerem, who in turn handed Mehmet another envelope.

“It’s questions and information from—”

“No names, not even here,” said Mehmet, and Kerem nodded.

“From our ‘friend in London,’” he said, using English for that one phrase. “I assume this is your report, which I will give him on my return. But what do you really have for me? I’ve been standing out here for nearly an hour.”

“I can’t help it. These English parties—it’s not easy to slip away. But here—” He produced a silver flask and handed it to Kerem. “It’s brandy.” Kerem took a deep drink.

“The Prophet would not approve of drinking so much, so quickly,” said Mehmet.

“The Prophet never experienced an English autumn,” said Kerem. “I have a very practical view of religion. Just as well I became a soldier, not an imam.” They both laughed again. “But when are you coming back to London?”

“I’ll be here a while longer,” said Mehmet. “There is more work I can do, more people to meet.”

“Much longer and the pasha will start wondering. He suspects you and dislikes you anyway. Meeting Englishmen for fun or for advancing the family business is acceptable, but there will be questions if you don’t return soon.”

“If I go back to London, the pasha can find a way to kill me there.”

“If he believes that you, Sir Calleford, and our ‘friend in London’ are in league, he’ll kill you wherever you are. Come, Mehmet, I’m not just your friend—I’m your cousin. There is something else, isn’t there? If you can’t trust me, you can’t trust anyone.”

Mehmet peered at Kerem. There was concern there—what they were doing could get them killed.

“You worry too much. The pasha trips over his own two feet and the sultan is all the way in Istanbul.”

Kerem turned and spat at the mention of the sultan.

“I know,” said Mehmet. “Anyway, I’ve been gone too long. Take the brandy and I’ll keep you notified of any change of plans. Where are you staying tonight?”

“A simple inn near Morchester.” He grinned. “I told the waitress there I knew the secrets of the sultan’s harem. She was entranced. Perhaps tonight . . .”

Mehmet chuckled. “You’re incorrigible. You know nothing of the sultan’s harem.”

“And neither does the English girl. Thank you for the brandy, and be careful.” He disappeared into the dark. Mehmet finished his cigarette and headed back to the house. He quietly opened the forgotten side door again, stepped in, and bolted it behind him before heading along the hallway back to the drawing room. Mehmet didn’t expect to see any of his fellow dinner guests and was particularly surprised by whom he saw outside of Sir Calleford’s study. But on second thought, perhaps it wasn’t such a surprise. What was that useful English word? He thought there might a . . . liaison. He stepped behind some decorative Greek statuary until he was alone, then leisurely returned to the drawing room.

Back in the drawing room, an American, Mr. Hardiman, was talking with Mrs. Blake. In her elegant dress and perfectly styled hair, she was not his idea of a farm wife—at least not the farm wives from back home in western New York. But a casual query about local agriculture proved she knew a great deal about the estate’s farms. He bet she knew every dime (no, shilling, he reminded himself) that went in and out of the lands, and wished etiquette didn’t prevent him from asking for a full account.

As she spoke, amused at her guest’s curiosity, she noted the heavy chain that led to his large gold pocket watch, which he consulted from time to time. Like everything else Mr. Hardiman seemed to own, it was vulgar—and very, very expensive.

His daughter was not discussing farming. Miss Hardiman was engaged in a lively talk with Mrs. Blake’s son, Christopher. A tall, striking girl, she was laughing—a little too loudly—at a funny story Christopher was telling. He had a cheerful, handsome face made for smiling, and clearly enjoyed making the young woman laugh. Once or twice, she gently rested a gloved hand on his arm.

“I do envy you, growing up in this magnificent house,” she said, looking around.

“I actually grew up on a neighboring estate,” he said, “but I was always a favorite of my uncle’s, Sir Calleford, and I spent much of my time here.”

“So your uncle owns it?” she asked, looking at him closely.

“No one really owns a house like the Eyrie,” said Christopher. “The family is merely its caretaker.”

Miss Hardiman wrinkled her nose and said, “But I don’t understand . . . I thought . . .”

“My ancestors have lived here for more than three hundred years.” He waved a hand carelessly and grinned. “But I’m speaking in riddles. Has anyone really shown you this house? I’ll give you a detailed tour tomorrow.”

Miss Hardiman clapped her hands together and said that would be delightful.

“Meanwhile, may I escort you outside to see the moon? It’s particularly fine tonight.”

Across the room, the lord of the manor, Sir Calleford, was speaking in French with M. and Mme. Aubert. The two men were having an animated talk about history, voices rising, but in amusement rather than anger. Sir Calleford said Gibbon’s classic history The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire held the answer to their disagreement, and M. Aubert laughed and said he doubted it. Sir Calleford was threatening to fetch it from his study.

Mme. Aubert became bored and headed over to the two widows, Mrs. Bellinger and Mrs. Sweet. They were usually with each other at gatherings like this. They were single women past their first youth, with little money and no property, so few ever bothered to ask their opinion or try to impress them. But although her English was weak, Mme. Aubert thought stumbling through a discussion of gardens was better than listening to intricacies of Roman history.

Although they were lumped together as “the widows,” they were really not at all alike. Mrs. Bellinger looked like she had been carved out of beautiful marble, with a pair of cool eyes that seemed to look down on everyone. No actress could possibly fake such an aristocratic attitude. Mrs. Sweet, on the other hand, lived up to her name, with cheeks that dimpled when she smiled. Her dress was good, but a fine eye would catch the minor repairs that had been made over time. They both managed to admit Mme. Aubert to their talk—Mrs. Sweet with cheer, Mrs. Bellinger with condescension. The Englishwomen talked about how nice it was outside, and Mme. Aubert agreed, although she had a typical French prejudice against drafts.

Mrs. Blake had to step out of the room periodically to have a few words with the servants, including a reminder to the head housemaid to make sure rooms would be readied for Gwen and her friends, who would be arriving later that night. She’d have to talk to Gwen—it was time the girl settled down, found a suitable husband, and prepared for the day when she would be mistress of Kestrel’s Eyrie. Mrs. Blake had no illusions about Gwen’s ability to run a household like the Eyrie, but she would stay and guide her. Hadn’t she made the manor what it was, done what Sir Calleford’s late wife had not been capable of? She took great pride in her work. But it was time to begin reminding Gwen of her future role in life. Men never think of these things, she thought ruefully.

She’d sit down privately with Gwen, where they wouldn’t be disturbed. She’d have to get her alone, of course. Get her away from that rather odd friend of hers, Thomasina. Of course, Gwen was a little odd, too. And Lady Frances Ffolkes as well—between her suffrage work and rumored police involvement, she was making quite a reputation for herself. But Mrs. Blake was confident; she had handled worse than this.

Later, no one could agree on the timetable, who left the drawing room, and when, and for how long. But at some point Mrs. Sweet said she would be heading home and wanted to say good-bye to her host. The last thing anyone remembered was Sir Calleford laughing with M. Aubert, saying he’d prove he was right, and dashing off to his study.

But no one would ever see Sir Calleford alive again.