CHAPTER 16

Outside, it was getting a little cool, and Mallow’s cloak was thin.

“If you’re getting a chill, Miss Mallow, I’ll lend you my jacket until your lady comes back.”

“Thank you. But I will be fine for now.” They heard the voices getting louder inside. “I think my lady is getting angry at your inspector.”

“And I’m sure he’s getting angry right back at her,” said Dill, with a grin. “Just between us, the inspector is under a lot of pressure. It was hoped he would make an arrest soon, and the chief constable has been asking for progress reports. We’ve been looking into local gangs, but they all have alibis.”

Mallow nodded encouragingly.

“In one case, he thought he knew who did it, only to find the gang was under lock and key in the next county on another charge when Sir Calleford was murdered. He was very angry at that, I can tell you,” said the constable. “But he still thinks it’s a gang. Although . . .”

Mallow looked up expectantly.

“I have also heard him mutter things about your lady’s friend, Miss Thomasina Calvin—that she may have a reason to wish Sir Calleford dead. I can’t see a quiet lady like that stabbing a man like Sir Calleford. I shouldn’t really say anything, but I’ve heard your lady knows important people. She was seen talking with that important inspector from London. If she has any influence . . .” He let the thought hang.

“You don’t like Inspector Bedlow much, do you?” asked Mallow.

Constable Dill looked over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being overheard. “I don’t seem to be getting on with my career doing this,” he said. “We’re going in circles. I’m up for sergeant, like I said, and I just found out there’s a watch supervisor position open. Again, Miss Mallow, just between us, helping Inspector Bedlow chase his tail isn’t going to raise my profile with the chief constable.”

“Well I’m sure that your skills will shine through,” said Mallow emphatically, and Dill seemed surprised and pleased with his compliment.

“Thank you very much,” he said.

At that point, Frances came out of the house walking very briskly.

“Come, Mallow, there is nothing more here for us.” She had that clipped tone that signaled great irritation.

Mallow quickly fell in line next to her mistress.

“That utter fool,” said Frances. “Too stupid to see the obvious, too stubborn to call in help. I never thought I’d say this, but I wish Inspector Eastley was back here. He’s stubborn too, but at least he’s intelligent and competent.”

“Yes, my lady.” She paused. “I did hear some information, though, from Constable Dill. He’s the one who interviewed me earlier.” She told Frances what she had heard.

“Very interesting, Mallow. That goes along with what Mrs. Blake told me earlier—they hate calling in Scotland Yard. I never thought it was a gang, but this does show that someone is getting desperate, and desperate people do desperate things. We have to watch carefully because Inspector Bedlow will likely arrest someone out of his own desperation. And we must be especially careful for Miss Calvin—she could easily become a scapegoat.”

“Yes, my lady.” She paused. “You won’t reveal that you found this out from Constable Dill, though? I wouldn’t want to get him in trouble.”

Frances smiled. It was not like Mallow to worry about a constable. As loyal as she was, she never liked getting mixed up with the police. Had this one caught her fancy?

“I’ll treat it as confidential, of course, Mallow. We wouldn’t want to mar a promising career, would we?” She shook her head. “Poor Mrs. Sweet. ‘More sinned against than sinning.’”

“My lady?”

“A quote from Shakespeare. I only meant that whatever sins Mrs. Sweet committed, she didn’t deserve this.”

“Of course not, my lady. I will say a prayer for her in church on Sunday.”

“Even though she was with a man outside of marriage?”

“I’m sure it’s not my place to judge her for that, my lady. And if she was a sinner, all the more reason to give her our prayers.”

Back at the house, Frances broke the news quietly, saying Mrs. Sweet had been murdered, but the police had no suspects yet. The accepted explanation, for now, was the “gang” that had supposedly killed Sir Calleford.

Mrs. Blake accepted the news calmly. Gwen teared up, even though she hardly knew the woman, and quickly offered to pay for funeral expenses—although Frances knew of course that Sir Calleford’s substantial gift was sitting in the woman’s account. Tommie caught Frances’s eye—she knew there was more to this.

Christopher Blake accepted it calmly as well and said he would call the chief constable personally to see about his progress. But Frances could tell he didn’t believe the convenient fiction any more than she did.

“Mr. Blake. All of this has been so upsetting for Gwen. I know I’m being shockingly forward, but she speaks of you with such affection. Could you invite us for a day at your estate? I think Gwen would enjoy the change of scene and it would give your mother a day of quiet here.”

And most of all, it would give Frances and Mallow a chance to talk to Blake servants. They may have some insights into family workings.

“Splendid idea, Lady Frances. I’m sorry I didn’t think of it myself. I’ll make the arrangements. And there’s good shooting not far on a neighbor’s estate—that might give the gentlemen some sport while you ladies get a tour of my lands.”

“Thank you so much. And no need to tell anyone it was my idea. I wouldn’t want anyone to think I was being too forward.” No need for anyone to think Lady Frances was more curious than she should be, either.

Frances caught the Hardimans and Mr. Mehmet before dinner as well. The Americans offered conventional words of sympathy. Mr. Mehmet said, “I wish you solace upon the death of your friend,” and he seemed sincere.

But since no one knew her well, her death didn’t seem to cast much of a pall over dinner. Mrs. Blake asked the Americans if they had had a good tour of the grounds, and Miss Hardiman gushed about the extent and beauty of the Eyrie estate.

“The estate was a long time in the making,” said Mrs. Blake. “It was laid out more than three hundred years ago.”

“Imagine that,” said Miss Hardiman.

Mr. Mehmet said little, but Frances was not done with him yet. He was the one with an interest in the cottage right next to Mrs. Sweet. He was also the last of the dinner guests Frances still didn’t fully understand.

After dinner, Mrs. Blake said if anyone was interested, the usual after-dinner reception would be held in the drawing room for the first time since Sir Calleford had died. “Gwen and I thought it was time,” she said, including her niece—an acknowledgment of Gwen’s role as the new mistress of Kestrel’s Eyrie.

Frances thought this would be a good chance to speak with Mr. Mehmet again, and was disappointed to see him heading away from the stairs as the rest of the party walked up to the drawing room. She quietly stepped away from the stairs and into a shadow, to see him heading out the door. Was he hoping for a breath of air? It was quite cool outside. Frances thought for a moment, then quickly followed him out.

The cold air hit her, and she wished again she was in her male walking clothes and strong boots. From the little light leaking from the windows, she saw Mr. Mehmet head along the path to the widows’ cottages. Another visit with Mrs. Bellinger? It was very late for a man to visit an unattached woman in a home without a live-in servant.

Confident she knew where he was going, she followed at a distance. She knew he wouldn’t expect her to follow him anyway. Her heart beat faster and she forgot how cold it was. She’d catch him out now—there were no innocent explanations for this.

And suddenly he stopped, and she saw him with someone else, the shadowy figure of a man. Frances heard murmurings in a foreign tongue, probably Turkish. She heard the word “Kerem” more than once. They exchanged something, but she couldn’t see what, then there was more talking in Turkish. She clearly made out one English phrase: “our friend in London.” The second man disappeared into the darkness. Mehmet continued on his way.

They were almost there. There was a welcoming glint in the window of Mrs. Bellinger’s cottage and she saw more light as the door opened. So she was expecting him, even eager for him. Frances increased her pace—she’d catch them now, right on the threshold. What was going on here? Was the financially desperate Mrs. Bellinger working with Mr. Mehmet as a spy?

And then she felt an arm going around her and she was lifted from the ground. She started to scream, but a cloth was stuffed into her mouth. A man held her tightly and tucked her under his arm, immobilizing her hands. Craning her neck, she saw they were heading toward the still open door. They stepped inside, and she heard the door close.