Death on the Sapphire: A Lady Frances Ffolkes Mystery by R. J. Koreto Page A

mingled with poets and artists. Perhaps too fashionable: Frances had never been to a Heathcote event but had heard the rumors of behaviors that were never discussed in polite drawing rooms . . .
    “They are quite notorious. I did not know you were a member,” said Frances.
    “A member? You make it sound like being a member of a political party. It isn’t that formal. One simply shows up.”
    “My brother and late father said they weren’t to be trusted.” There had been whispers of papers stolen, secrets passed, scandals hushed up . . .
    “We’re just a lively group of friends assembling a little theater party with a reception beforehand. Don’t believe society gossip. Care to join us? Unless you’re afraid.” His eyes were inviting, but there was also a challenge.
    “I never said I was afraid,” she snapped back. She was not subject to her brother’s approval. “It sounds pleasant. I love the theater. I saw one of Mr. Shaw’s latest plays, Major Barbara . Very thought provoking.”
    “I agree . . . and I look forward to discussing it with you when next we meet. But I should tell you that this evening of theater will be a little different. May I reach you at your brother’s house?”
    “Actually, I now reside at Miss Plimsoll’s Residence Hotel for Ladies.” She tripped it off proudly. Lord Gareth raised an eyebrow.
    “How independent of you. This has been very interesting. Good evening, Lady Frances.”
    Frances made the rounds for the rest of the evening, catching up on gossip and enduring comments, sarcastic and otherwise, about her work with the suffrage movement. She found Mary as the party wound down. Charles was just finishing a conversation in another room.
    Mary smiled slyly. “You seem to have made quite a conquest this evening.”
    “I don’t know what you mean. Lord Gareth and I were talking politics.” But she reddened nonetheless.
    Coaches waited outside, but not for the Seaforths. Charles had traded in the family coach for a motorcar. Frances had never thought about the sound of iron-shod horses on pavement, but now it was startling to hear the hum of a precision engine instead of the clop of hoof beats. It was very smooth. Charles said that in twenty years, there wouldn’t be a horse left in London. It made Frances feel very modern to be in an automobile. She was sure the Heathcotes would approve. She suppressed a shiver at the thought of being at a Heathcote event. She felt guilty at not telling Mary, fearing her sensible friend would try to talk her out of it.
    They drove to Miss Plimsoll’s, and Charles got out with Frances, waiting until the night porter came to open the door. The porter grumbled as usual, and Charles gave his sister a kiss on the cheek and told her not to run herself down with committee work.
    The porter bolted the door behind her. Frances was looking forward to bed. She had told Mallow not to bother waiting up, but the loyal maid was knitting in the lounge and rose to greet her mistress as soon as she came in.
    “A good evening, my lady?”
    “Yes, thank you. By the way, would you like to live in Norfolk? Lady Moore seems determined that I become the next Viscountess Wellchester.”
    Before Mallow could respond, they heard the knocker on the door. Another resident at a late-night party? Through the heavy door, they heard a muffled voice. “It’s the chauffeur. Left something in the car, my lady.” Frances was surprised. She had her wrap and her little bag—there was nothing else.
    But the porter was already opening the door before Frances and Mallow could stop him, and it was barely cracked before a man pushed himself inside. He was tall and lean with an outdoor complexion.
    The women and the porter froze. The porter was neither young nor fit, and there was no one in easy call.
    The man gently closed the door. Then he grinned. He pulled himself up and gave a mock salute. “Private Alfred Barnstable, late of his majesty’s colonial force and