The Ring | Part IV | Chapter 26

Mrs French

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We’re now on chapter 26 of 38. This is the latest novel of the Muldoon series (book 2). Chapter 25 ended with Muldoon’s unsuccessful first attempt to find Mrs French. He returns for answers.

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“You must forgive me for the deception, Inspector,” Mrs French said, pouring out two cups of tea from an expensive looking floral teapot. “I receive many an unwanted visitor—journalists, insurance salesmen and quacks mostly, and as a woman living alone, it is best to proceed with caution.”

“I understand.”

“A woman of my age wants nothing more than to potter around, unbothered by all outside annoyances. Sometimes, however, I can be too suspicious, and unkind.”

She tutted and shook her head. Her hair wasn’t as grey as it had looked the previous day. Rather, it was silver around the front and dark brown everywhere else. It was an unusual, striking look, but suited her. The lace cap was nowhere to be seen—she was Mrs French today, and he was Muldoon. “If only you’d mentioned Mr Bowen, I would have invited you in on the spot. He’s a good tenant, and wouldn’t stitch me up if he suspected a nuisance.” Muldoon realised that if he’d have just been honest, and come in Bowen’s pony and trap, he would have met with Mrs French sooner. She offered him sugar with his tea, of which he declined. The lady of the little but well-kept house sat down in an armchair opposite her guest, and let out a deep sigh. “Well, then,” she said, her hands resting on the lap of her yellow dress. “Shall we get to it?”

“Two nights ago, Mrs French, while conducting an investigation, we found some articles of interest.” Muldoon pulled out the folded documents from his inside pocket. “My colleague and I discovered some letters and a cheque written by an E.French. They concerned the marriage of Ellen French and Hugo Perrier.” Muldoon creased his brows considering how to say the next part, and lowered his voice. “I can only assume that the Ellen the letter speaks of is your daughter.”

Mrs French didn’t move. The room, silent for a moment albeit for the chickens clucking in the back, waited for Mrs French to say something. The wind outside picked up momentarily, blowing whiffs of fresh lavender into the sitting room. A self-assured woman, Mrs French had aged with good fortune and looked beautiful in the morning sun. Muldoon could see the strong resemblance between mother and daughter, the latter also being fond of yellow. It was the colour of the aerialist’s costumes, and the colour Sophia was wearing when she died.

“That was ten years ago,” Mrs French said, looking over to the window. She seemed to lapse into a daydream. “So many years ago…”

Muldoon waited. “We’ve met Ellen, Mrs French,” Muldoon began, “and, a few things are strange to me. Firstly, at the time this letter was written, Ellen would have been seven years old. Not old enough to marry, certainly not in British law. The second thing is… she seems to believe you’re no longer with us.”

“That’s how it has to be,” Mrs French snapped, bringing her focus back to the inquisitive face of the Irishman. She glared at Muldoon with glassy, dark eyes about to shed their tears. “If that’s all she knows, then good.”

“And her father, Mrs French?”

“He is no longer with us,” she said.

“I’m sorry to hear that. What happened?”

“Disease of the mind.”

“That’s a shame. I was hoping to speak to Mr French while I’m here.”

“That’s not possible, I’m afraid.” She pulled out her handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. “Please excuse me. I haven’t spoken about either of them for so long.” Composing herself, she sipped her tea and looked directly at Muldoon, ready to tell more. “He served in Crimea. Not quite The Charge Of The Light Brigade famous, but he was stationed at the siege of Sevastopol. And since then, he hasn’t been the same. I spent five years waiting to hear from him.

“My father died, and left me everything, the manor and this cottage included. The inheritance caused me a lot of bother when the suitors started sniffing around his estate. It was such a lonely, long time without both of them. My father’s grave, I could visit. My husband’s however… I wasn’t even sure if he had one.

“Perhaps it was some unmarked heap in the Crimea… as was the case for some, I know. I tried not to think of his death and somehow, years passed this way and then one day, he turned up—right here.” She took a deep breath. “I thought he was dead. I received the letter—E French, 10th Royal Hussars. There’d been a battle in 1855. Seventeen hundred Englishmen dead, we later discovered—gone, just like that, and he was declared missing in action. Presumed dead. Probably dead if the Russians had him… Anyway, he returned to me, and he wasn’t quite the same.” She sucked her cheeks in for a moment and held her breath, thinking of what to say next.

“Firstly, while wandering somewhere on the east of the continent, he acquired gold teeth. Secondly, his eye was missing. Thirdly, he was mad about horses. He’d always been fond of horses, what with him being in a cavalry regiment, but… he had spent a lot of time with gypsies out there… It seems they taught him a few tricks. But all in all, he came home, and we were happy for a time. I loved him.” She shook her head, her pearl earrings swinging violently. “I could look past the eye, the teeth and the new habits because I loved him, and we’d been apart for so long that surely, surely people are likely to change when apart like that? We loved one another still, and I held on to that. Seeing his face in the morning instead of an empty pillow was the highlight of my day. What war had tarnished with time, we managed to gather up and make the most of. Then we had Ellen.” She smiled. “Everything was fine. Everything. A few years later, I let him convince me to come with him on the road. He wanted to run a circus, like the one he’d seen down south—Astley’s. Do you know it?”

Muldoon smiled. “I’d have been living under a rock if I hadn’t.”

She laughed slightly. He was charming company, and it had been a long time since she’d allowed a conversation with a stranger. “I think Lord Astley, who started the business, was like Edward—a horseman, injured or retired, I can’t remember—but, after his army days, he and his wife would do horse tricks. We very much ended up doing the same, only Edward wanted us to travel, so we did. For years, I pretended it didn’t affect me, and I kept my feelings to myself. I wanted to be here, with him, and with Ellen. I wanted her to grow up in the Welsh countryside, where she was born. But she soon became part of it, too.” Her face darkened.

“And then there was no getting out. It was my prison as much as it was my home.” Her mind wandered to the claustrophobia; the way things moved around when no one had been there, the secret meetings she heard, and the slow, sinking feeling of dread as the years went on.” She lowered her head. “He wanted her to become part of the show. Once you’re in the ring, you cannot get out. I couldn’t… Edward always got what he wanted.”

The elusive Mr French.

Muldoon seized the opportunity, and cleared his throat. “When did Mr French become ill, Mrs French?”

“When Ellen was about eight or nine. He worsened after that and then, all of a sudden, the man you married has vanished into thin air.”

“Hang on—eight or nine? Mrs French, there’s something you’re not telling me here.”

She paused, looking directly into his eyes. “I don’t know how I could tell you. How would you believe me?”

He’d seen enough surprisingly young faces at the circus to know something wasn’t right; he had every reason to just come out with it, but Daniel Muldoon wasn’t one for losing a witness through blunder. “If you knew me better, Mrs French, you’d know I’d probably believe you.” He smiled. She regarded him for a moment. His blue eyes offered nothing but friendliness, and warmth.

“I… I don’t know…” She put a hand to her mouth, the worry across her eyes showing her age. Muldoon, sensing her shutting down, steered off course slightly.

“Did he know about Ellen and Hugo, Mrs French?”

“Why? Has something happened?”

“No. I am simply putting the pieces together.” And at any moment, you could simply help me out here.

She nodded. “He didn’t know. Well, I think…”

“What?”

“I left soon after writing that cheque.”

“I’m not sure I understand… Ellen thinks you’re no longer with us, but she spends her winters here?”

“No.” Mrs French shook her head and bit her bottom lip. “She stays up at the manor house, on the hill behind us. This cottage was built for the groundskeeper in 1780, but I am rather fond of it and I don’t need that big, empty house to remind me of my pain.” She looked down at the floor. “I don’t need to see anything that will remind me of my pain, so I rent it out to travellers and in the winter—the circus staff and their animals stay. I make sure Fiora is on the other field—and I’m not ashamed to say I put a coat on her and dye her mane.” She raised her chin slightly. “I wouldn’t want them to notice her and… remember me.” The warmth of the room lessened, as though a dark cloud had obscured the sun outside. “Now, if you’d excuse me, Inspector Muldoon…”

He wasn’t ready to end it. Mrs French had given him nothing but the dusting on the cake. He needed to know more about Ellen, the family, and how Fontini ended up managing the circus. “Mrs French,” he said, rising with her from the chairs. “Can you come back to Liverpool with me?”

The question snapped her out of her sagging moroseness. Her face bored straight into his in disbelief. “I couldn’t.”

“It would settle things,” he offered, “once and for all.”

“I can’t go there. I can’t see that… that man.”

“Ezra Fontini?”

“Ezra Fontini.” Her hands shook with rage. “He ruined my life.”

“People are dead, Mrs French.”

And James Lacey is missing.

“I’m very sorry about that…,” she said, thinking, “but I… I couldn’t…”

“Would you do this for Ellen?”

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Muldoon read his paper in the front room of the guest house. He lifted his eyes to glance at the clock on the wall. He would be leaving for the train in thirty minutes. He returned to the pages and, deciding that he was too preoccupied to absorb anything, folded it and placed it on the settee beside him. The street outside was as unremarkable as it had been all day. No one by the name of Mrs French had called at the guesthouse, nor had any dour-looking housekeeper for that matter. Mrs Bowen came and went with trays of tea and coffee, and her signature Bara Brith that she insisted Muldoon try. He did, and it seemed he had given a convincing enough reaction to warrant her stuffing a freshly baked loaf into his bag, along with a wedge of Caerphilly cheese. He smirked; Gill would have had something to say about Muldoon’s way with older women.

“I think I’ll stroll over,” he said to Mr Bowen at the front desk.
“Are you sure, sir? I’ve got the pony…”

Muldoon raised his hands, “Thank you, Mr Bowen, but I’m just clock watching while I sit here. I’ll stroll on over and take my time. There’s a lot of scenery here I won’t see again for a while. It’s not far, is it?”

“Well, no, sir. It’s just a left down Chester Street and a right when you see the chapel.”

“Thank you, Mr Bowen.” Muldoon reached for his hat and placed it back on his head. “Thank you for having me.”

He strolled past the shops and pubs, eyeing the contents of the windows. Part of him was sad to be leaving such a green, sleepy haven in favour of the bustling, soot-covered streets of the city the Irishman called home for the time being. Shop windows displayed little Welsh dolls and beautifully carved furniture, all put there for tourists, he didn’t doubt. He thought of Elsie Bryant and her doll collection, and of the lovely Sarah Jones, who spent a lot of her time tidying it up. The Bryants and their governess weren’t far from here, but he was on work’s time, and James Lacey was still missing. He’d have to wait until he was on leave.

The calling card he’d left with Mrs French told her exactly where he would be, and at what time. He waited at the station, expecting only the train. As far as he knew, the four o’clock to Liverpool was running as expected. He looked up at the station clock. Ten minutes to go.

If she didn’t join him, he’d have to come back. His unanswered questions were burning, tensing his jaw as he thought about them.

He heard the clacking of her shoes on the platform first, then he saw the wide-brimmed straw hat with navy ribbons. She carried with her a modest carpet bag. She let Muldoon take it for her.

“Mrs French,” he said, tipping his hat. “Glad you could join me.”

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Andrew Gill approached the front steps of his home in Park Place, followed by his wife, Lucille. At dinner, she was talking a great deal about the fundraiser she’d organised for the orphanage. Gill, happy to hear anything that wasn’t about work, nodded along then just as he nodded along now, rummaging in his jacket for the keys. He’d hardly been home the previous two evenings, and by way of apology, took Lucille out for dinner on the second night. The questions had been asked; the suspects were still where he’d left them, and there was no sign of this mysterious black beast tonight. He’d waved Muldoon off at the station that morning, and after searching through countless bags and boxes of circus-related junk, called it a day at six o’clock the same evening.

He was exhausted. There was a brandy with his name on in the front room, and Lucille would probably make herself some tea and retire to bed, leaving him to enjoy it in silence. Their daughters, Helen, Bethany and Rachel—all fine, grown girls as their mother constantly liked to observe—were staying with their uncle and his young family for the weekend. For a moment, he could rest and recover until the search for James Lacey continued.

“Oh. It’s open,” Lucille Gill said, tilting her head in bafflement. “Perhaps Mrs Collins has… well she is getting on.”

Gill put his hands on his wife’s arms and guided her back toward the front gate, gently. “It could well have been Mrs Collins forgetting to lock up, my dear, but I’d like you to stay here just in case it’s not.”

She gasped, the excitement rising in her whisper, “What are you saying?”

Gill, with a stern manner that she’d loved the moment she set eyes on him, lowered his face to look straight into hers. “Lucille, just do as I say,” he said.

She relaxed her shoulders and nodded, knowing no further word was required. She watched him slowly push the front door open and disappear into the dimly-lit house.

He was gone for at least ten minutes before the urge to follow him set in. She found him in the kitchen, his back to her. The last thing Gill heard was Lucille Gill screaming at the top of her lungs, and dropping to the floor.

Would you like to know more about my writing process and some insight into the novel? You can join the Muldoon Book Club where I publish a bi-monthly newsletter with my own voice over so you can also listen at leisure. It’s never too late to join, and I always warn if there are spoilers. Here’s what’s already out from behind the scenes at the Muldoon Book Club:

Episode 1: Ominous openings.

Episode 2: Getting the ball rolling. Lacey’s first case.