Free Death Among Rubies by R. J. Koreto Page A

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 oflong 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 Englishbut 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