“I had hoped after our last meeting, you were done inserting yourself into crime and involving yourself with the police,” Inspector Eastley said. “I hate to think you’ve taken to following me. You weren’t here at the dinner party, were you?”
The officer standing next to him, Constable Smith, consulted a sheaf of papers, and in his heavy cockney accent said, “She’s not on the list, sir.”
“I wasn’t at the dinner party myself. Miss Kestrel, another friend, Miss Thomasina Calvin, and I came late that night.”
Inspector Eastley turned to his constable. “Smith? Isn’t Lady Frances somewhere among the interview notes that the local inspector, Bedlow, gave to you?”
Smith shuffled through the pages. “Here we go, sir. We had only worked our way through the actual party guests. Lady Frances is listed back here, along with anyone on the estate who was not actually at the dinner, sir.”
“Inspector Bedlow’s organization leaves something to be desired,” said Eastley. “Anyway, the question remains, Lady Frances. What are you doing here? How do you know Miss Kestrel?”
“Miss Kestrel, Miss Calvin, and I all know each other from the suffragist group.”
“That figures,” said Inspector Eastley.
“I fail to see how that ‘figures,’ inspector. But never mind. I am just here to support my friend.” His features softened somewhat, so she made her move. “Of course, if there is any information you can share, I know it would put Miss Kestrel’s mind at ease.”
“Absolutely not, Lady Frances. You should know better than to even ask.”
But Frances already knew something. Eastley and Smith were members of an elite Scotland Yard unit called Special Branch. They had responsibility for high-profile cases where the security of the realm might be involved. As Sir Calleford was a diplomat and several visitors were from overseas, it made sense they were present.
“Now, inspector, you did admit that I was of help to you last time.”
“I was desperate and you were lucky.” He held up his hand to forestall any further discussion. “We’re very busy, so if there’s nothing else—yes, constable?”
One of the local uniformed constables had entered the room, a young man who removed his helmet and stood at attention. His tunic was neat. Frances bet he had a wife—no, he was too young, probably a mother—who cared about his appearance.
“Begging your pardon, inspector. We just found out that several of the witnesses don’t speak English.”
“What? Morchester station should’ve passed that on to me before I left London. Another mistake. Who doesn’t speak English?”
“There are a Monsieur and Madame Aubert, sir, from Paris, France. They also have two servants. Madame speaks a few words of English, I ascertained, sir, but not enough for an interview. The servants speak no English at all. Monsieur speaks perfect English, but of course we can’t have one witness translating for another. I am based in the village, sir, and I know our doctor speaks a little French. He said was willing to try, but it’s been some years.”
“Thank you for your diligence,” said the inspector with a sigh. “But we’ll have to call London, and that means a day is lost. I hope the French guests were planning to stay for the funeral. I can’t hold them.”
“Excuse me inspector—”
“What is it, Lady Frances? You see I’m busy. Why are you still here?”
“No need to be rude, especially as I’m about to help you. I speak perfect French.” She just had to hope Inspector Eastley wasn’t going to be stubborn. But he was too intelligent to turn away such a good solution. “I was tutored as a girl, studied in college, and have been to France multiple times.”
She could see him thinking it over, trying to find a reason to reject her.
“There is a problem. You’re technically a suspect.”
Frances rolled her eyes. “Really, inspector? That’s ludicrous.”
“Sir,” said Constable Smith. “According to the interview notes, Miss Kestrel and Miss Calvin were just with each other for most of the evening. But Lady Frances was in the estate office with a pair of chartered accountants during the relevant period. They were absolutely sure Lady Frances never left.”
“We just have their word for it, I suppose?”
“They are from a well-known and reputable firm, sir. Inspector Bedlow said he saw no reason to question their statements.”
Eastley gave him a sour look, then turned back to Frances. “You’re really fluent?”
“I can almost pass for French.”
“And you don’t know the Auberts? I have to make sure there are no conflicts of interest.”
She assured him she knew none of the guests; the inspector sighed again. “Very well. I’m not happy about it but I see no other solution. Smith, make a note that Lady Frances Ffolkes is being engaged as an official police interpreter. And you, constable . . .”
“Dill, sir, Arthur Dill.”
“Dill, we’ll start with Madame Aubert’s maid.”
“Leonie, sir. I’ll send her up.”
Frances was thrilled. Not only would she possibly learn something, but this would be a new experience, and new experiences tended to be both educational and entertaining. Of course, it would be a challenge, too. It was one thing to know a foreign language, and quite another to translate rapidly from one to the other.
Inspector Eastley sat her down and gave her some strict instructions. She was only a translator. She was not to add questions or comments, or decide what was or was not relevant. And everything she heard was a secret; nothing left the room.
“My family has been in public service for generations,” she said, feeling a little patronized. “And I’m sure you will find me satisfactory.”
Leonie was darkly pretty, and even the rather shapeless black dress she wore, standard for a lady’s maid, didn’t completely obscure a lithe figure, much like a dancer’s. She didn’t seem nervous or excited. She took a chair when invited, and Eastley began asking questions while Smith took notes. If she thought it odd that a lady of quality was acting as translator, she said nothing.
Frances was able to jump right in, and found the simple questions and answers easy to handle: Her name was Leonie, and she had been with Madame for four years. Madame had told her to answer all the questions of the English inspector of police. This was her third trip to Kestrel’s Eyrie. She knew nothing about Sir Calleford, had only seen him in passing. She had heard him speak French to Madame—pleasantries, nothing more.
No, she had not heard anyone arguing at any time. Everyone seemed to be having a good visit. Madame never said anything about Sir Calleford, one way or another. Frances heard Leonie shut down at that. If Inspector Eastley thought he could get Leonie to pass along any confidences she held with her mistress, he was very much mistaken.
Leonie knew nothing about the murder until she heard it from her ladyship. Had she been in her room, all evening? Here, there was just a moment’s hesitation, and Eastley seized on that.
“Ask her where she was, and what she saw. Tell her if she wasn’t supposed to leave her room but did so anyway, we will not give her secret away to her mistress.”
Frances emphasized that the English inspector would be discreet, but Leonie wasn’t impressed or rattled. “It was stuffy in my room. I was outside for a few minutes for some fresh air. But I got cold and came back. I don’t know how long I was outside. I didn’t look at the clock.”
“Inspector, I think I know what she was up to—” started Frances.
“Lady Frances, you have been most helpful in the past, and I’ll be the first to admit that. But these are just simple statements right now, so let’s stick to the task at hand, shall we?”
“Duly noted, inspector,” she said, stiffly.
He had a few more questions, which yielded no useful information. Leonie had neither seen nor heard anything unusual. The inspector dismissed her and told her to send up Jean, Monsieur’s valet.
Frances used the break to dab her brow with her handkerchief.
“Difficult work, my lady?” asked the inspector, with a brief smile.
“Intellectually challenging,” she countered. When she got back to London, perhaps she could add her name to an official list of translators at Scotland Yard. She was always looking for ways to insinuate women into the police force, and this could be one route.
Jean was considerably older than Leonie, and had a world-weary, almost sardonic tone about him. He seemed curious at seeing Lady Frances, but said nothing.
He had been with Monsieur for nearly twenty years and had visited the Eyrie more times than he could remember. It was his understanding that his master and Sir Calleford were friends of long standing, but when Eastley pushed for details, he shut down just like Leonie had. No gossip here. He never discussed Sir Calleford with his master. During the evening, he said he played a friendly game of cards in the servants’ hall with three of the footmen—Benjamin, Adam, and James—he knew just enough English for that.
Jean was dismissed, and told to send the request that Mme. Aubert come, if it was convenient.
“So far, so good, Lady Frances. Thank you. It will be a little trickier now. Madame is the wife of a diplomat, and we don’t want to offend.” Frances wanted to add that she was used to talking to diplomats and their wives, in English and French, but decided there was no point in getting the inspector’s back up, especially when things were going so well.
“I will be very careful with my phrasing,” she assured him.
Mme. Aubert was an elegantly dressed woman in her late fifties, with well-coifed silver hair. When she was seated, Inspector Eastley thanked her for her cooperation, and Frances translated, as Mme. Aubert briefly smiled.
“She says she is happy to be of assistance—and also expressed surprise that the police employ ladies of quality to translate. I told her I was a friend of the family’s and volunteered to help. I assume that was satisfactory?”
“Yes,” he said dryly.
“Have you been to the Eyrie before?” asked Frances, on behalf of the inspector.
“Yes, several times, and my husband has been here by himself over many years. My husband and Sir Calleford were great friends, and had known each other through diplomatic channels for many years. No, there were no arguments during the evening or at any time. Intellectual disagreements of course, but nothing serious.”
“What happened during the course of the evening?”
“We had all gathered in the drawing room after dinner. During our stay, it had just been ourselves and a Turkish gentleman, Mr. Mehmet. I didn’t really speak with him, as he spoke English but not French. On the last night, many other guests were invited. Everyone was chatting, stepping outside for a breath of air—it would be impossible for anyone to keep track of who went where.”
Frances had already heard the Gibbon story from Mrs. Blake, and now she got to hear it again from Mme. Aubert: “Sir Calleford and my husband were in a playful discussion about something political—I become bored and moved on. And suddenly, I heard Sir Calleford laugh and say he’d prove his point and get his Gibbon.”
“Was it Sir Calleford’s idea to get the Gibbon? Or your husband’s?”
Madame shrugged. “I couldn’t say. I wasn’t paying close attention. It was something that happened frequently. The two old friends enjoyed intellectual combat.”
“Her word was ‘combat’?” asked Inspector Eastley.
“That’s the best translation,” said Frances. And he nodded.
The inspector next asked what she thought of Sir Calleford. And that gave her pause. When she did speak, she chose her words carefully, and Frances gave a moment’s pause herself to find the best English words.
“You hesitate, Lady Frances,” said the inspector with a smile. “Is your vocabulary not up to the task?”
“My vocabulary is excellent,” snapped Frances.
“My apologies for teasing you. You are actually much more fluid than our usual man in London.” He glanced at Constable Smith, who was writing furiously. “Smith has no problem keeping up with him, but you’re much faster.”
“Thank you,” said a mollified Frances. “Anyway, Madame is an intelligent and thoughtful woman. She was choosing her words with great care so I want to make sure I choose the English words with equal care. She said she found Sir Calleford intellectual and always exceedingly polite—courtly, in fact. But he was reserved and did not discuss feelings or thoughts on his family. Well, what could you expect from the English?”
“Lady Frances—that last bit. Was that Madame or were you editorializing?”
“That was Madame—I did not add anything, as you instructed,” said Frances, a little affronted that she was accused of disobeying orders. But she had to add: “Nevertheless, I do agree. Her tone was not one of criticism.”
Frances was dying to ask Mme. Aubert if Sir Calleford had said anything about his daughter—or if she had formed any opinion of Gwen herself. But there would be a chance for that later; she’d get her alone at some point before they returned to France.
“There is one more thing, Monsieur le Inspector,” said Mme. Aubert. “One doesn’t like to tell tales, but as you probably already heard, people were stepping outside from time to time for fresh air. Indeed, I stepped out once myself.” She smiled. “Between following my husband’s and Sir Calleford’s intellectual discussion in French and forcing myself to speak my limited English with the other guests, I had developed a headache and wanted some quiet outside alone. It was a fine evening. I saw one of the other guests—Mrs. Bellinger—just along the walk.” She paused. “I don’t think she saw me. She was in a discussion with someone. I wouldn’t say it was an argument. But it was—animé.”
Frances translated it as “animated.”
“I didn’t want to pry, you understand, but I wanted to make sure she was all right. So I stayed in the shadows until I saw whom she was talking to.” She paused again, clearly struggling with her desire not be seen as an eavesdropper. “It was the Turkish visitor, Mr. Mehmet. But they were speaking in English, so I couldn’t understand them.”
Inspector Eastley leaned back and looked thoughtful. Frances was poised for more questions, but he just said, “Thank you for being so frank. I will be discreet with what you have told me.”
Mme. Aubert responded by saying that she and her husband mourned the loss of their friend and hoped the famed English police would spare no effort in finding the murderer. She thanked the inspector and Frances again, and on her way out, she said that if there was a Catholic church nearby, she would say prayers for his soul.
Eastley remained lost in thought for a moment, and Constable Smith quietly wrote in his notebook, the pen moving neatly in his huge hand. Frances had a dozen questions—but reminded herself to be patient. She would be able to ask them later.
“Lady Frances, thank you very much,” said Eastley. “You saved us a great deal of time and bother. I will remind you, however, that your part in this investigation is over.” Without waiting for a response, he turned to Constable Smith. “I have to place a call to London. Then we’ll proceed with the next witnesses.”
“Yes, sir,” said Smith, and without a look back, Inspector Eastley left.
“I have something for you, m’lady,” said Smith. He handed her a piece of paper. “This is a voucher. Submit it to Metropolitan Police Headquarters to be paid for your services.”
“Constable—” said an astonished Frances. “I did this to help, not for money.”
If Constable Smith saw anything odd in paying the wealthy daughter of a powerful aristocratic family, he kept it to himself.
“I have to give it to you, m’lady. It’s the rules,” he said, and Frances took the paper authorizing His Majesty’s Exchequer to pay Frances Ffolkes for providing translation services to the Metropolitan Police Service. Imagine that—getting paid! She had no intention of submitting it, but as soon as she got back to London she’d have it framed.
“Thank you, constable. And good day.” She stepped into the hallway. First things first. That French maid was lying, but Frances had no illusions about being able to get her to admit it. She was far too self-possessed for that, and as Frances was not her mistress, there was no leverage. But footmen were another story.
Jean, the valet, said he was playing cards with three footmen. A house of this size would need at least four. At least one was not at the card game. And Frances knew how to find out without raising anyone’s suspicions.
With a few false starts, she found the dining room, and as she suspected, maids were already setting the table in preparation for dinner.
“Excuse me, but I was wondering if you could help me?”
“Of course, my lady,” said one of the maids, young and wide-eyed. Good—she looked naïve and wouldn’t think too much about Frances’s questions.
“The footmen were very helpful with our luggage today. I wanted to make sure I gave them all the proper thanks.” Tipping servants in a country house, especially when they had been helpful, was common.
“Of course, my lady. There are four, Mark, Adam, David . . . and Owen.” She blushed at that last name. “He’s still new, my lady.” Another maid snickered, but quickly covered up. Well, that made it all clear.
“If you’re looking for them, they might be in the drawing room. Mrs. Blake likes the furniture set up special for after dinner.” Frances thanked them, but didn’t say it was unlikely anyone would feel like gathering after dinner tonight.
As Mrs. Blake had said, it was larger than the solar. Few houses boasted a drawing room like this, which served as the main social room for all gatherings smaller than a full-fledged ball. Indeed, you could even set up a small orchestra right in this room.
Two footmen were working on the furniture.
“Excuse me, is one of you Owen?”
“Yes, my lady.” His accent, like his name, showed him to be Welsh. His handsome features showed why the maid blushed at his name. He stepped over to Frances.
“I understand that all of you, and you in particular, were both helpful and careful with my luggage, and I want you to know that I will remember that when I depart.”
“Thank you, my lady.”
“Also, since you’re here, I have a quick question. I know you have been keeping company with Leonie, Madame Aubert’s personal maid, and while I have no interest in your personal life, I would like to know if you saw anything during your evening tryst.” She smiled.
Frances rather admired him for not buckling immediately.
“I, ah, my lady . . . I am not quite sure I understand what you mean.” Unlike Leonie, he was a very bad liar.
“Now, Owen, I have no intention of reporting anything to Mrs. Blake, Miss Kestrel, or to Mme. Aubert. Or the police, for that matter. But I do have a need to find out what you saw that evening. It may have to do with your master’s death, and as a friend of Miss Kestrel’s, I am asking a few questions. This is a family matter, Owen.” She was counting on his loyalty to the Kestrels for cooperation, and his respect for authority to not inquire why a lady was asking these questions.
Owen nervously slid his finger around his collar. “Well, if you put it like that, my lady, I will admit that I did take an evening walk with Leonie.”
I bet it was a lot more than a walk, thought Frances.
“However, we didn’t see anyone that night. We, ah, paused, by the gardener’s shed near the formal gardens, my lady, but we had the place to ourselves.”
“Are you absolutely sure?”
“Yes, my lady.” She studied him—he wasn’t lying outright, but there was something he was nervous about. She wasn’t going to give up. Frances just kept looking up at him, and eventually he spoke again. “But the night previous, my lady—the night before the dinner party that ended in the master’s death—that evening, Leonie and I did see two people in the gardens.” He took a deep breath. “It was the master, my lady.”
“I take it this was unusual?”
“Unheard of, my lady. The master was very regular in his habits. He’d have a last cigar and brandy in his study and then straight to bed. He never went out after dark. His schedule was so regular you could set your watch by him, my lady.”
“And who was he with?”
“Mrs. Sweet, my lady. She’s a widow who rents a cottage on the estate and was also a guest at the dinner party the following night. She’s been here for dinner before, with all what we called the local worthies, my lady—squires, the vicar, solicitor, doctor and so forth. But they’ve never been out walking.”
“Did you hear them say anything?” At that, Owen became uncomfortable. This time, she was asking a servant about eavesdropping—and repeating a master’s conversation was a major sin below stairs. But of course, the master was dead.
“Just one thing, my lady. I was distracted.” As he realized what he said, his cheeks flamed. Leonie’s sultry face and supple body—of course Owen was distracted. “I beg your pardon, my lady. But I heard Sir Calleford say one thing to Mrs. Sweet. He said, ‘It won’t always be like this.’ Or something very close to that. But if she said anything, I didn’t hear it.”
Frances nodded. “Thank you, Owen. You’ve been very helpful—you may go back to your duties.”
“Very good, my lady.”
“One piece of advice—do be careful. You’ve begun what could be an excellent career in service in a great house—you don’t want to complicate it. And thank you again for being careful with my luggage.”
Frances turned and left. Owen might’ve stood there the rest of the afternoon gaping after Lady Frances, but the other footman said, “Hey! I could use a little help here.” And so he shook his head and went back to work.