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

friends enjoyed intellectual combat.”
    “Her word was ‘combat’?” asked Inspector Eastley.
    “That’s the best translation,” said Frances. And he nodded.
    The inspector next asked what she thought of Sir Calleford. And that gave her pause. When she did speak, she chose her words carefully, and Frances gave a moment’s pause herself to find the best English words.
    “You hesitate, Lady Frances,” said the inspector with a smile. “Is your vocabulary not up to the task?”
    “My vocabulary is excellent,” snapped Frances.
    “My apologies for teasing you. You are actually much more fluid than our usual man in London.” He glanced at Constable Smith, who was writing furiously. “Smith has no problem keeping up with him, but you’re much faster.”
    “Thank you,” said a mollified Frances. “Anyway, Madame is an intelligent and thoughtful woman. She was choosing her words with great care so I want to make sure I choose the English words with equal care. She said she found Sir Calleford intellectual and always exceedingly polite—courtly, in fact. But he was reserved and did not discuss feelings or thoughts on his family. Well, what could you expect from the English?”
    “Lady Frances—that last bit. Was that Madame or were you editorializing?”
    “That was Madame—I did not add anything, as you instructed,” said Frances, a little affronted that she was accused of disobeying orders. But she had to add: “Nevertheless, I do agree. Her tone was not one of criticism.”
    Frances was dying to ask Mme. Aubert if Sir Calleford had said anything about his daughter—or if she had formed any opinion of Gwen herself. But there would be a chance for that later; she’d get her alone at some point before they returned to France.
    “There is one more thing, Monsieur le Inspector,” said Mme. Aubert. “One doesn’t like to tell tales, but as you probably already heard, people were stepping outside from time to time for fresh air. Indeed, I stepped out once myself.” She smiled. “Between following my husband’s and Sir Calleford’s intellectual discussion in French and forcing myself to speak my limited English with the other guests, I had developed a headache and wanted some quiet outside alone. It was a fine evening. I saw one of the other guests—Mrs. Bellinger—just along the walk.” She paused. “I don’t think she saw me. She was in a discussion with someone. I wouldn’t say it was an argument. But it was— animé .”
    Frances translated it as “animated.”
    “I didn’t want to pry, you understand, but I wanted to make sure she was all right. So I stayed in the shadows until I saw whom she was talking to.” She paused again, clearly struggling with her desire not be seen as an eavesdropper. “It was the Turkish visitor, Mr. Mehmet. But they were speaking in English, so I couldn’t understand them.”
    Inspector Eastley leaned back and looked thoughtful. Frances was poised for more questions, but he just said, “Thank you for being so frank. I will be discreet with what you have told me.”
    Mme. Aubert responded by saying that she and her husband mourned the loss of their friend and hoped the famed English police would spare no effort in finding the murderer. She thanked the inspector and Frances again, and on her way out, she said thatif there was a Catholic church nearby, she would say prayers for his soul.
    Eastley remained lost in thought for a moment, and Constable Smith quietly wrote in his notebook, the pen moving neatly in his huge hand. Frances had a dozen questions—but reminded herself to be patient. She would be able to ask them later.
    “Lady Frances, thank you very much,” said Eastley. “You saved us a great deal of time and bother. I will remind you, however, that your part in this investigation is over.” Without waiting for a response, he turned to Constable Smith. “I have to place a call to London. Then we’ll proceed with the next