Death Among Rubies Read Online Free PDF Page A

fashionable arrangement. Then Mallow replaced Tommie’s hat at an attractive angle.
    Mallow turned back to her mistress. “We are ready to go now, my lady.”
    Gwen’s great-aunt kept a coach, which took them to the train. Mallow saw the ladies settled on board, then Frances sent her to the dining car to get herself something to eat.
    “Was there a particular reason your father wanted to see you now?” Frances asked Gwen.
    “It wasn’t Father so much as Aunt Phoebe. Father writes me every week without fail, but never mentions my visiting, except maybe for Christmas. But Aunt Phoebe wrote to say at my age I should take a little more interest in the family estate.” She seemed confused by this, and Tommie laid a gentle hand on hers.
    “Your Aunt Phoebe—she’s your father’s sister?” asked Frances.
    “No, Phoebe isn’t really an aunt at all, or even a true relation, except by marriage. She was married to Father’s first cousin, Captain Jim Blake. He was great friends with my father, and after he died and mother died, Aunt Phoebe came to run things for him. Her estate was much smaller, and Christopher takes care of things there.”
    “Who’s he?”
    “Oh, Christopher. He’s Aunt Phoebe’s and Captain Jim’s son. He’s delightful; everyone loves him. When we were children, hewas my best friend, although a few years older. The estates aren’t far and he visited often. He was awfully kind; he let me play his games. But he also loved the Eyrie. Father always said that no one loved the Eyrie more than Christopher did. I always found it too . . . much. I liked Christopher’s house better, actually. It was . . .” she searched for a word.
    “Warmer?” suggested Frances.
    “Yes, Franny. You always know the right word.” She yawned. “Why do trains make me sleepy?”
    “I suspect it’s the rocking motion,” said Tommie. “We’ll be getting in rather late. Take a nap if you like.”
    “I think I will.”
    Tommie helped Gwen get comfortable, and by the time Mallow returned, she was peacefully sleeping.
    “I’ll keep an eye on her, my lady,” said Mallow, who produced her knitting and went to work.
    Tommie and Frances made their way to the dining car.
    “I’m not very hungry . . . perhaps just some soup,” said Tommie.
    “You are having something substantial,” said Frances. “You never eat right.” Her mother’s cook was too busy trying to get the fussy old lady to eat to prepare something for the self-effacing Tommie.
    She smiled softly. “You’re right. I’ll have the chicken cutlets and maybe even some dessert.”
    “And wine,” said Frances. “You look a little nervous.” Tommie may have been anxious about her first visit to such a great house.
    “It’s not the visit—it’s . . . Oh Franny, something so awful happened to me.” Her deep eyes looked so sad, Frances thought she might cry. “I don’t even know if I can talk about it.”
    But Frances pressed Tommie, and she related the story of the man in the cathedral.
    “But that’s . . . horrible. There can be no excuse for that . . . it’s appalling,” Frances said at last, watching her friend blink backtears at the memory. “Come, let’s put our heads together and figure this out. Tell me about this man.”
    With patient questioning, Frances teased the details from Tommie. It was something she had learned in college: careful exploration yielded results. The man had the clothes and manner of a gentleman and certainly looked English. Was it a London accent? At that, Tommie hesitated. She was a careful, detail-oriented woman, and even in her fear and horror she noticed small things.
    “I think so . . . but there was something odd about it, when I think now. Too exact, if it doesn’t sound strange.”
    “Perhaps like someone trying to create a London accent. Maybe to hide where he was from?” Frances frowned. That would bear thinking about. “Tommie, have you ever met Sir Calleford?”
    She grew