Now it was Violet’s turn to blanch. No wonder Sam was in shock. He didn’t realize . . .
She rose once again, sure that she was quite a sight with bits of clay and rock dusting her hair, face, and dress, but spoke as forcefully as her appearance would allow. “You are mistaken, sir. This man, Mr. Bayes, died prior to this. You are falsely accusing my husband of an unsafe procedure and you owe him an apol—”
LeCato clucked his tongue, which irritated Violet in its arrogance. “It is appalling that this experimental explosive is responsible for the death—no, murder—of one of the duke’s employees. Weren’t we to understand that dynamite was supposed to be safe? It is obviously as perilous a substance as any black powder ever used. I shall recommend to His Grace that all work on the skating rink cease immediately.”
“Experimental!” Violet was on the verge of exploding herself. “I’ll have you know that my husband—”
“Violet, enough.” Sam had found his voice once more, and it was deathly low. “Mr. LeCato is right. I have staked my entire reputation with Mr. Reed—and, ultimately, the duke—on the notion that dynamite is not just quick and effective, but perfectly safe. This is disastrous.”
She tried again. “Sam, you must listen to me. This has nothing to do with your blasting. Edward Bayes died yesterday. Or perhaps several days ago, I’m not sure. I found him yesterday buried under a pile of leaves, but he disappeared from the wooded area after I went to fetch help—then he turned up here. I don’t know how his body got here.”
Violet’s mind raced. Who had moved Bayes here? And why was he moved?
Her questions were compounding with each passing minute.
Sam, though, was studying her in curiosity, but whether it was because she had offered him a life preserver, or because she had gotten tangled up with another corpse, she didn’t know.
The estate workers who had gathered to view the blasting stayed back at a respectful distance, but Violet heard them muttering about trouble coming in threes and the third thing coming was sure to be the worst of them all. Some grumbled that the minute they’d heard the plan to dynamite out a tunnel, they knew no good would come from it.
Yet they had all come in a crowd to watch.
One complaint she overheard disturbed her above all the others.
“It comes back to the raven, don’t it? Its death spells doom for all of us ’ere at Welbeck.”
Violet wished she could shout from the rooftops that Aristotle’s death had been an accident, that the bird had simply ingested a shard from a glass eye, and that it wasn’t possible for a mere raven to determine the fate of thousands of people.
Instead, she sighed. Who knew? Perhaps at this point Welbeck’s superstitious workers had a better grasp of things than she did.
William John Cavendish-Scott-Bentinck, 5th Duke of Portland, captain in the Grenadier Guards, and renowned horseman, waited patiently as Pearson helped him into his overcoat. He owned six of them, all the same shade of trampled mud, all made by Mr. Henry Poole in London, whose family had founded Savile Row at the turn of the century.
Portland had Mr. Poole make one each year when the duke went to stay at his London residence, Harcourt House. Mr. Poole had received the royal warrant from Her Majesty this year and, in his newfound vanity, had attempted futilely to convince Portland to adopt the smoking jacket fashion the Poole house had created for the Prince of Wales.
Portland was loyal to his queen, but Poole’s suggestion that he begin wearing gaudy Japanese silk to prove he was worthy of lounging about in a London club like Victoria’s son was taking things a bit too far. Poole complained that Portland’s penchant for his unfashionably long and drab coats proved he was at least twenty years out of date in fashion.
Better that than to be a dandy, he silently retorted, suppressing the thought that there had been a time long ago when he would have enjoyed the admiring glances of ladies. Before Adelaide Kemble happened, of course. Portland swept the thought of her away, too, just as Pearson was now quickly running a brush down the sleeves of his jacket.
“There you are, sir, ready to watch that new Arabian gelding being broken. He must be nearly seventeen hands high,” Pearson said, stepping away and offering Portland a tentatively encouraging look. His valet was one of the few people—including George—whom Portland could tolerate having around him for more than a few moments at a time. Other people simply made him uncomfortable.
Oh, and that Mrs. Harper, she was strangely comforting, although what Mr. Poole would have to say about her own fashion, one could only wonder. She was almost as careless in her dress as he was. Well, perhaps not careless, she just didn’t seem to value any societal opinion on her appearance. Perhaps that was why he didn’t mind having her around. She was a kindred spirit.
“Thank you, Pearson,” Portland replied. “Yes, I do believe that horse will prove to be a good—” His words were interrupted by a deafening boom and the rattling of the window panes. Even the covers of the room’s gas lamps vibrated and threatened to break.
“What the—?” He hardly had those words out when, as if in delayed reaction, a few small chunks of plaster fell from the ceiling to the carpet beneath their feet. One piece struck him in the shoulder, sending white chips and dust down the arm of his jacket, which had just been brushed so carefully.
“Your Grace, I believe the skating rink area has just been dynamited,” Pearson said, retrieving his brush and going back to work on the jacket as though nothing startling had just happened. It was the mark of an excellent servant, and Portland appreciated him all the more. What he did not appreciate, however, was hearing the term “dynamite.”
“What did you just say? What do you mean that the skating rink is being dynamited?”
Portland regretted his sharpness, for now Pearson looked nervous, although he didn’t cease grooming his master for even an eyeblink. “Well, sir, Mr. Reed hired Mr. Harper to come in and demonstrate the use of dynamite for excavating the skating rink, instead of how they’ve been doing it, with pick and shovel.”
That was quite a liberty Reed had taken. “You knew of this plan?”
“Yes, sir.” Pearson’s eyes were downcast. “Word moved around quickly that there was to be an explosive used on the estate.”
“And yet no one thought to consult me and obtain my permission?” Again, Portland regretted the sting of his words to his valet, who was not responsible for what had just happened. Reed, though, would be smarting soon from his unconscionable actions. If only Portland were of a mind to fire workers who angered him, but he liked the reputation he enjoyed among the Worksop townspeople, that a position at Welbeck meant security for life.
However, that didn’t mean Portland wouldn’t tongue-lash Reed severely. The estate manager enjoyed great autonomy in running many aspects of Welbeck and Harcourt House, but inviting a man in to—
“Wait. Did you say it was a Mr. Harper who brought in the dynamite?”
“Yes, Your Grace. He’s the undertaker’s husband.” Pearson stepped away to assess his master’s clothing once more. Satisfied that all was neat and tidy, he put the brush away in a grooming kit.
Portland, though, was incredulous. “The undertaker is married to a dynamiter?”
“No, sir. I mean, yes, she is married to him, but I believe he is the newest colliery owner in Nottingham. That is what I’ve heard downstairs, anyway.”
This is outrageous, the duke fumed. The undertaker had brought in her explosives-handling husband, and together they had convinced Reed to employ it at Welbeck Abbey? Was Reed mad to have entertained the idea? Everyone knew that dynamite was very dangerous. The queen herself was repulsed by it and had announced it publicly.
The household staff must be upset. Kirby must be informed of the dynamite—although he probably already knew of it—and sent to calm them all, especially the women. Portland himself had more important things to do.
“Pearson, my hat. I must see for myself what has happened. Someone will be out o
n his—or her—ear today.”
Violet saw the look of grim determination on Portland’s face, and wondered how word of another body being found had traveled so quickly up to the man’s quarters. She was prepared to tell him that this was the same body she had mentioned last evening, but Reed not only bested her by speaking first, he changed the subject entirely away from Bayes’s body.
“Your Grace, I must apologize if you have been disturbed. I had no idea the sound could be heard so far away.”
Apparently, Portland had not yet seen the corpse that lay behind Reed and Violet, and also must not have heard about it, for he launched into a castigation of Sam over the employ of dynamite at Welbeck Abbey. It was a long and rambling speech, full of accusations and recriminations for the utter destruction of this part of the estate and the near demolition of the house itself, as well as his overcoat.
Violet’s husband stood stoically, taking the verbal punishment over his audacity in bringing his faith in dynamite to Welbeck like St. Stephen enduring a stoning for his religious faith.
A brief flash of Sam’s eyes, though, told Violet that he wouldn’t endure Portland’s rhetorical beating to the death. She hoped the duke would be done soon, lest her husband put on an equally vigorous defense of his faith in dynamite, and then the true explosions would begin. Sam shared Violet’s unfortunate habit of speaking his mind, even when it was inconvenient and improper.
However, this was the most animated Violet had ever seen the duke, and she realized from his words that his greatest concern was for the safety of his workers, an admirable trait in a person of power, considering how many people were mangled and mauled in coal mines alone each year. And once the duke realized a body was involved in this incident, she couldn’t imagine his response.
Which made Violet shudder once more as she considered Sam’s new venture.
The duke wasn’t finished, though, and once he was done with her and her husband, he turned the tirade to Ellery Reed, who wasn’t nearly as impassive as Sam, and immediately leapt to his own defense.
“Your Grace, I again offer a thousand apologies. I didn’t speak to you ahead of time because I did not wish to trouble you with an affair I assumed would not be as . . . astonishing . . . as it proved to be. You must believe that my only goal was to bring efficiency to the digging out of the skating rink.”
Violet felt sympathy for Reed, whose position was in grave jeopardy, and hung on which breeze Portland might follow in the next few moments. However, how daft was Reed to have authorized this without having ever talked to the master of the estate?
Fortune followed Reed, however, as Portland visibly calmed down. “Right. Well. Mind your post and your responsibilities from this point forward.”
Reed accepted his acquittal with a deferentially bowed head.
By this point, Violet was becoming agitated. Portland had given over his spleen regarding the explosives, but no one seemed willing to address what lay behind her. Why hadn’t the dead body received attention first? Now it was Violet’s turn to enter the fray. “Your Grace, as unsettling as the dynamiting was, it pales in comparison to the discovery of Edward Bayes’s body.”
Portland furrowed his brow. “Bayes, you say? Is this one of my workers, Reed? Found where?”
Violet, Sam, Reed, and LeCato all moved aside so that Bayes’s body was visible. In his shock, all of the color drained from Portland’s face and he instinctively took a step back from the now-battered Mr. Bayes. “M-Mrs. Harper, is this—is this—the body you referred to yesterday evening?”
“Yes, Your Grace. He had certain identifying marks on his body that proved to me he is one and the same. Mr. Reed identified him as one of the workers here.”
Portland’s gruff manner had completely disappeared, and he was once more the shy and eccentric peer she had first encountered on the estate. “How—how did this happen?” He took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead, tilting his hat precariously backward.
Reed opened his mouth to speak, but Violet jumped in once more. “We aren’t sure, Your Grace. I believe when I discovered him yesterday that he was already dead, but if Mr. Bayes was in his cups, as you suggested, perhaps he woke up, walked away, and once more passed out, this time in the vicinity of the blasting site. But the condition of his body was such that—no, I am quite certain he was dead.”
There was another point to be made, too. “Besides, Sam and his men would have easily come upon him while clearing the blasting site, wouldn’t they?”
“Obviously not,” Reed commented drily, but Violet was not deterred.
“Furthermore,” she continued, “if the man were alive a few minutes ago, how could he possibly have been so deeply asleep that he wouldn’t have heard the clearing horn?”
Reed laughed without mirth. “You clearly have little experience with estate workers, Mrs. Harper, who are capable of consuming gallons of spirits in their free time. It doesn’t strike me as odd whatsoever that Mr. Bayes could have drunk himself into an insensible stupor. Wouldn’t you agree, my lord?”
Portland nodded slowly. “Yes, I can see how this would be so. Nevertheless, it is a terrible thing, terrible. How his family will long for him, no matter how reprehensible his behavior might have been. Heavy drink kills a man quickly or kills a man slowly, but it always kills the man.”
They were all silent, waiting for what the duke would say next. Violet wasn’t about to offer her opinion that drink had had nothing to do with Bayes’s death.
Finally, Portland sighed in resignation. “Mrs. Harper, you will of course take care of things . . . ?”
“Yes, Your Grace. I will visit whatever family he has right away.” Violet was certain that behind his words was an unspoken request for her to look into Bayes’s death.
“I will spare no expense on a third-class funeral for him,” Portland added, which was a contradiction, given that a third-class funeral was always a very simple affair for those who could not afford better and were not entitled to the trappings of a first- or second-class service.
“He has a wife, Margaret,” Reed said to her. “She lives in town in a cottage just down from the telegram office and not two blocks from the priory. You cannot miss it, for the front door is painted orange. Sir,” he said, turning his attention back to Portland, “I presume you will . . .”
“Yes, yes.” Portland nodded much more vigorously, and Violet was certain his top-heavy hat would come crashing to the ground. “Mrs. Bayes and her children can be settled into whatever empty cottage is available on the estate. And now, I must return to my rooms. This has all been . . . exhausting . . . to say the least.”
Portland turned away and took just a few halting steps before stopping, tilting his head, and returning. “In all of this distress, I believe I failed to ask: What was the outcome of the dynamite experiment? I see dirt and rock everywhere, but was it effective?”
LeCato spoke for the first time since insulting Violet prior to the duke’s arrival. “Your Grace, if I may say so, the experiment was an utter failure. Your entire staff was disrupted for the morning”—he waved a hand to indicate the workers who had started dispersing the minute Portland had shown up—“and the grounds have been irreparably harmed. It seems to me the entire project has been halted as a result of its use, and should perhaps remain halted until we can be sure there have been no other workers harmed. Or killed.” LeCato’s voice suggested a man who was practical in the extreme, although Violet would not forget his earlier insult.
An expression passed over Portland’s face that Violet couldn’t read. “How interesting of you to say so,” he replied coolly. “Mr. Harper, perhaps you can show me what you did. You, as well, Mr. Reed.”
Violet knew that the rest of them were dismissed, which was perfectly fine with her, for she needed to complete the sorrowful task of talking to Mrs. Bayes. First, though, she wanted to inspect the holes under the birches again.
She sought out Mr. Kirby and asked if she might have the use o
f a wagon and driver for her solemn task of carrying Bayes’s body to town. Learning that the equipage would be brought around in about fifteen minutes, Violet returned to the scene where she first had found Mr. Bayes.
She needed no more than a few moments to realize that there was no dynamite planted anywhere. Why, then, were the holes there? Another thought struck her. Were they markers? If so, what did they mark? Violet stood back in an attempt to see some sort of pattern in the holes, a nearly impossible task with all of the leaves on the ground. Weren’t holes dug to mark foundation areas for homes? Perhaps the duke planned to build some cottages here.
Yes, perhaps it was that innocent, and Violet was worked up because she had found them near the colonel’s glass eye and poor Mr. Bayes’s body. It was time to put that concern to rest, and concentrate on the rest of her day, which would no doubt include a grief-stricken widow and dazed, confused children.
Mrs. Bayes, however, was anything but grief-stricken.
13
Mrs. Bayes was shocking, both in her appearance and in her speech. Dressed in glaring bright colors—making her a near perfect match for her orange front door—the new widow’s first response upon seeing her husband lying in the wagon was to shake her fist at him and screech a string of obscenities at him.
“You bleeding oaf, you ’ad the wits of a stupid goat and you smelled like one, too” was the most polite phrase Margaret Bayes used. The tirade went on for several minutes in the now-familiar Nottinghamshire dialect, with the scarlet-faced woman not even stopping to take a breath.
Violet directed the driver to help her move Mr. Bayes into the house before the neighbors spilled into the street to see what all of the commotion was. The undertaker was already seriously questioning whether the corpse would be safe in the Bayeses’ dining room, a small, crowded affair with nine chairs set around a table meant for six.
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