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

the Empire Light Horse.” The twang was unmistakable—he was an Australian. Frances had never actually spoken with an Australian but had heard the accent, often mocked by Englishmen.
    “Sorry, ladies. Would you be Frances Ffolkes? Or know where she is? This is Miss Plimsoll’s, isn’t it? She left a note that she’d like to speak with anyone who had served under Major Colcombe.”
    Frances gathered her wits. “I’m Frances Ffolkes. And your entrance here is rather abrupt and unusual. How do I know you are who you say you are?”
    The soldier considered that. “How about this? The major had a scar on his left hand—a fencing accident, he said.”
    “That’s true,” said Frances.
    Then the soldier grinned. “I have one more. He liked to talk about his women. And if you’re Frances Ffolkes, he called you ‘Ursula.’ I got that right, didn’t I?”
    Frances was speechless, but Mallow jumped in.
    “Mr. Barnstable, this is Lady Frances Ffolkes. She is not anyone’s ‘woman.’ And when you address her, you will call her ‘my lady.’ Is that clear?”
    He didn’t look at all abashed. “Sorry about that. Now what might you be called?”
    “Miss Mallow to you. I am her ladyship’s personal maid.”
    “You have a pretty face, Miss Mallow. Would you be interested—?”
    “Mr. Barnstable,” jumped in Frances, “flirt with my maid on your own time. It’s late, and I sense we have a lot to discuss. Go sit in the lounge, and I’ll be along shortly.”
    “Right you are, my lady.” He bowed and headed into the lounge.
    “Well,” said Frances.
    “Well indeed, my lady,” said Mallow. “He’s Australian.” That explained everything.
    Frances turned back to the porter, who was looking a little stunned himself. “This man fought with my brother in South Africa. I don’t suppose you have any beer I could buy off you? I’ll pay you double what it cost.”
    A rare smile lit up his craggy face. “Quite all right, my lady. You can have them at cost.”
    “Thank you, that would be lovely.” She drank very little during the evening, but the thought of a beer was suddenlywelcome. The porter said he’d bring along the bottles while she saw to her guest.
    Private Barnstable had made himself very comfortable in the best chair. She doubted his lodgings had overstuffed leather chairs.
    “I am glad to see you settled here,” she said with a wry smile. “I thank you for responding to my note. But it is a little surprising to see you sneaking in like this at such a late hour.”
    “I’m sorry I startled you, my lady. And this one here, too.” He winked at Mallow, who did not give him the pleasure of a response. “But being in the war, being in that war, has made me a very cautious man, and when I tell you what I have to tell you, maybe you’ll see why. I’ll give it to you straight. Daniel Colcombe was the finest man I knew, and when I heard he died, I almost died myself—but what’s this?”
    The porter carried a tray with three bottles of beer and three glasses. He placed them on the little table between Barnstable and the women and made as if to pour.
    “You looked thirsty,” said Frances.
    “Well you’re a lady, no mistake—but don’t pour that out, man. No need to get a glass dirty.” He snapped the top off and drank from the bottle. “That’s good. But don’t mind me, ladies, go ahead and use your glasses.”
    And then, to Mallow’s astonishment, Frances snapped the top off her beer and took a drink. What would Frances’s mother have thought? But then, feeling there was nothing to do but follow suit, Mallow sighed, opened her own bottle, and took a sip herself.
    The porter shook his head and left. Barnstable took another swig and told his story.
    He had grown up in Australia and said he had learned to ride before he could even walk. Enlisting in the army was a way to get some adventure before settling down, and he found himself in South Africa. His skill on horseback had landed him