Death at the Abbey

by Christine Trent

  “Will the baron be joining us?” Violet asked politely. “I would be honored to meet him.”

  The older woman’s eyes lit up. “Yes. He is being dressed. He’s had a busy day, I’m sure, so he’s a bit late. I hope Cook was able to keep the veal warm and moist.” A shadow passed over her face, so quickly Violet almost missed it, to be immediately replaced with that forced smile.

  “What shall you do with your additional time here in London?” The baroness asked the question while lifting her own wineglass to her lips.

  Presuming this was an attempt to divine how much time Violet would spend inside Harcourt House, she assured her hostess, “I have many visits to make, to a dear friend of mine, as well as to my shop. I expect I will be quite occupied until I meet with Mr. Gladstone.”

  “Yes, we will all be eager to know what he has to say.”

  What did that mean?

  “I am surprised that Lord Howard de Walden is not married,” Violet said, changing the subject and hoping she wasn’t being too forward, “given his stature and pleasing looks.”

  The baroness sighed. “He is quite handsome, isn’t he? It’s why he’s the only bachelor of my children, despite being the oldest. I’ve picked out a lovely girl for him, but thus far he has been too high-spirited and distracted to consider marriage.”

  Violet understood this to mean that he probably spent his time gambling, racing, and being obsessed with a myriad of other lofty pleasures. “Perhaps the lady has not captured his heart.”

  “I don’t see why not. Blanche Holden’s family may not be quite peerage, but Frederick would do well to have their Palace House in Lancashire among his holdings.”

  Violet had no time to contemplate the virtues of Miss Holden and her residence, for Frederick Ellis, the current Baron Howard de Walden, made his dramatic entry, a valet on his heels attempting to put a jacket on his master, which the baron shrugged impatiently away. The valet slipped away, jacket in hand, as the discreet footman hurried to pour wine into the baron’s glass, which Frederick first sniffed and then drank a long gulp of before sitting down.

  “You must be the undertaker I’ve heard so much about,” he said without preamble, looking at Violet curiously as though she were a newly discovered insect waving its feelers from under a bell jar.

  The baroness cut in. “Mrs. Harper was unable to meet with Mr. Gladstone today, so she will be with us several more days, until Tuesday at least, Frederick. We’ve been chatting about your bright prospects in the marriage market.”

  Frederick turned to Violet and rolled his eyes so his mother couldn’t see. “Has Mother been telling you about Miss Holden? I told you, Mother, she has that one ridiculous tooth that juts out sideways. Imagine what little goblins our children would look like. And she isn’t even the daughter of a peer.”

  The baroness’s expression was one of mortification. “Frederick, please. We have a guest. . . .” She nodded at Violet, a sign that he shouldn’t speak so plainly before company, much less before a mere undertaker.

  Frederick grinned wickedly and took another swallow. A few drops landed on his shirt, unnoticed. Perhaps this wasn’t his first glass today. “Of course, Mother. Mrs. Harper, you should know that I am very marriage-minded, just not in the manner expected of me. Perhaps if I’m to be forced into a marriage I don’t want, I’ll choose to remain a bachelor.”

  “I hope you don’t follow in your uncle’s footsteps regarding marriage, my son,” the baroness said.

  Frederick laughed in derision. The rawness of his outburst was like a pistol shot in the room. “You think I’ll end up like the mad duke, Mother? Not likely. I can hardly think he allowed himself to imagine he would marry an opera singer, of all things.”

  The baroness reddened at her son’s exposure of a family failing but explained, “My brother fell in love with Miss Adelaide Kemble, back in the early ’40s. She was the sister of Fanny Kemble, the actress, and therefore wholly unsuitable even if she weren’t a stage singer, but she was. I’m sure John thought she would view him as her savior from a life of drudgery in the theater. Instead, she rejected him and ended up marrying some Liberal member of Parliament. My brother was permanently heartbroken.”

  Was there no end to the unlayering of the Duke of Portland? Violet had had no idea of the depth of the man’s emotions.

  Frederick had his own opinion on the situation. “He wasn’t much of a man to have allowed it to turn him batty, which is probably why Miss Kemble spurned him in the first place. All the women who would have sold their souls to the devil to marry a duke, and he pined away for Miss Kemble. There were many other delicacies to have been sampled at the buffet table, but he decided to sit in the corner with a glass of water.”

  “Frederick!” Now the baroness was openly horrified.

  He shrugged carelessly in the face of his mother’s reprimand. “It’s true. And he’s been wasting his time and money ever since on those ridiculous tunnels. When I think of the racehorses I would have bought with just half the money my uncle has wasted, well, I would be the star of the Derby.”

  “You know your uncle is famous for his horsemanship.”

  The baron downed what remained in his glass and shook it back and forth to summon the footman for a refill. “Maybe, but he doesn’t race them, which is the exciting part. He just foals them and breaks them, which is the drudgery side of things. Any stable hand can do that. Probably just as well, as if he were to race, he’d have trouble holding on to both his horse and his preposterous hat at the same time.”

  Violet knew little about horses except for their utility in pulling hearses, but she imagined that raising good stock was as important as putting them into actual races. That, however, was an opinion she would keep to herself.

  Which was just as well, for Frederick had many more of his own opinions about his uncle that he didn’t mind sharing with a mere undertaker. “Not only that, he never invites me—us—to Welbeck for parties—”

  “Son, you know he doesn’t host par—” The baroness attempted to interject.

  “—where I could meet all of the heiresses of the Dukeries and their pretty little friends. It’s damned unfair of him not to think of his family. After all, he’s not producing an heir for the Bentinck line. The least he could do is give our side some assistance.” He waved his empty goblet once more.

  Violet noticed for the first time that Frederick had other wine spills on his shirt, and they were in various stages of fading. His valet must be in permanent despair of him, Violet thought.

  Suddenly, she felt sorry for the Lady Howard de Walden, who was probably struggling to maintain her place in society and secure the family name on the back of a wild and unbreakable stallion.

  Fortunately, the veal was just then served, and she was able to absorb herself in her plate and avoid further conversation with the baron. It was just as well, for he drank at least four more glasses of wine—complaining bitterly when the footman had to leave to ask the butler for another bottle—and continued to pontificate on horse races, pretty women, the execrable state in which his father had left the barony, and the injustice being served by his uncle. This spoilt boy, who was probably older than Violet, was giving her a headache worthy of at least two Beecham’s Pills and a pot of chamomile tea.

  Later, as Violet prepared herself for bed, the sounds of violent retching penetrated the walls around her, followed by spattering and coughing. She didn’t envy the poor maid who would be required to clean that up, although she suspected that the servant was probably used to it. The vomiting was soon followed by angry bellowing and the breaking of glass, as well as a soothing voice.

  Violet didn’t envy the Lady Howard de Walden, either.

  19

  Inspectors Hurst and Pratt showed up the following afternoon while Violet was in her room, having just strolled through the rear garden to see for herself if the duke had a point in his desire for extreme privacy. She had to admit, it was rather pleasurable to be solitary among the now
-sleeping shrubberies and trees—solitary except for probably the watchful eyes of the baroness, her son, and a myriad of servants.

  A maid led her to a front parlor, but the baroness had made it there first and was already questioning the detectives. Fortunately, Hurst wore the expression of a stoic and refused to tell her anything. However, Violet’s appearance made the Lady Howard de Walden dig her nails deeper into the arms of her chair, and the woman refused to leave the room. Perhaps it was time for Violet to confess the possible danger the baroness was in.

  “My lady,” she began, “there is something you should know. . . .” Violet proceeded to tell her about the attack the previous morning inside Cavendish Square.

  “Impossible!” the baroness cried, all hardened expression of aristocracy wiped from her face and replaced with genuine alarm. “This is the most exclusive part of Marylebone. Such . . . such . . . a common thing wouldn’t happen here.”

  “But it did, my lady, and my concern is whether it was a random attack . . . or if it was intended against a lady of quality and, seeing me, they thought I was . . . you.”

  “Me?” Lady Howard de Walden nearly screeched. “I am not acquainted with any street rogues. Unless . . . unless they are really after my Frederick. What has he done now?”

  This piqued Hurst’s interest. “Is there a problem with your son, madam?”

  “What? Oh no. No, of course not.” The baroness quickly regained her composure and folded her hands in the lap of her copper-colored dress, which caught the light from the chandeliers and made her glow handsomely even in the daylight.

  Pratt was scribbling furiously in his notebook.

  Despite the woman’s astringent behavior toward her, Violet didn’t want to see her swept up in an investigation. “Inspector,” she said, addressing Hurst, “did you discover something regarding the men in the park?”

  Hurst gazed thoughtfully at the baroness a few more moments before turning his attention to Violet. “Yes, and what we learned was interesting. It didn’t take much to run down our informants and learn that a small-time thief by the name of Ian Hale had bragged of a ‘job’ in Cavendish Square. Does the name mean anything to you?”

  Violet shook her head. She’d never heard it before.

  “And what of you, my lady?” Hurst asked the baroness, who also shook her head.

  “What is interesting about him, Inspector?” Violet said.

  “He is a petty thief, but he also has a regular position at an orphanage.”

  “An orphanage!” Violet and the baroness exclaimed together.

  “Yes. Not an important position, so to speak. He essentially serves as a clerk to the administrator there, checking children in and ensuring they are given tasks at local mills to keep them busy: lace making, wool spinning, that sort of thing.”

  “I don’t understand,” Violet said. “Why would an orphanage worker wish to attack me—or Lady Howard de Walden—in the middle of Marylebone?”

  The baroness smiled tightly again, as she had during dinner the previous evening. “This is most disturbing, Inspector, as my husband left a considerable bequest to Coram’s Foundling Hospital in his will, a bequest that was quite . . . onerous . . . on the family.”

  Pratt’s fingers were racing across the page as he picked up on this tidbit of information. He stopped and flipped back through the pages. “It wasn’t Coram’s, my lady; it was Babbage’s Home for Foundlings.”

  The baroness seemed relieved, but Violet was still confused. “It doesn’t make sense that an orphanage clerk would spend his spare hours attacking women in parks.” Nor that he would attack someone he thought wealthy, who might be a prospective donor to the institution.

  “I agree with Mrs. Harper,” Lady Howard de Walden said, in a move that surprised Violet. “I should think that orphanage staff are upstanding citizens, what with their holy duty toward protecting these children.”

  “My lady,” Hurst said patiently, “perhaps you are not aware that orphanages are responsible for more than half of the criminal population in London. Some of these institutions are run by good Christian men, but many others turn their charges into thieves or prostitutes, and there are gangs of these children hiding in the alleyways of London. These occupations are the fastest way for them to earn money, and they bring plenty of it back to those in charge at the orphanage. Most donors—such as your husband, I’m sure, my lady—have no idea their generous contributions are used in this way.”

  “You seem to know a great deal about orphanages, Inspector,” the baroness said. Somehow, the light wasn’t shimmering off her dress so readily now, almost as if she were wilting.

  “Commissioner Henderson is interested in starting a reputable orphanage, as well as a widows’ fund, and is soliciting police superintendents to join him in the effort.”

  Violet had met the commissioner, who was also responsible for initiating the fledgling Scotland Yard. Somehow she doubted an orphanage started by this man would be permitted to descend into such shameful activities as those Hurst had described. “Is Babbage’s one of these sorts of disreputable orphanages?” she asked.

  “That’s what makes it interesting. No, it is not. But there’s more.”

  Hurst snapped his fingers at Pratt, who put aside his notebook, pulled a folded piece of paper from his coat pocket, and handed it to his superior.

  Violet saw that the page had been addressed to a location in London, with no return name or address. Hurst handed the telegram to her, which contained just three lines. She read it aloud for the Lady Howard de Walden’s benefit.

  THE RAVEN IS AT HARCOURT HOUSE.

  HER INQUIRIES ARE GETTING CLOSER TO MY TREASURE.

  SEE THAT SHE DOESN’T LEAVE LONDON. EVER.

  Violet looked up, returning the note to Inspector Hurst and trying to maintain a calm composure. “What does this mean?” she asked, although she had a fairly good idea what it meant. She was the “raven,” a lady in black, and someone had instructed Ian Hale to kill her. But why? What “treasure” had she unknowingly stumbled upon? This note clarified that yesterday’s attack had not been random. She shuddered to think what might have happened if a passing police van hadn’t scared the men away.

  Violet came out of her reverie as she realized Hurst was still speaking. “Hale got out of our grasp and fled after we checked his pockets, so we couldn’t question him. No one has seen him since. The orphanage has been told to report to us if he shows up again. I expect he’s gone to the Continent by now,” he added with a grunt.

  “He had a confederate. . . .” Violet said.

  “We don’t know who that may have been. Might have been one of the boys from the orphanage who has slipped back into his place.”

  Violet frowned. “He seemed like a full-grown man to me. And he referred to Hale as ‘Ian,’ a terribly familiar way to address his superior.”

  Hurst shrugged. “A mere detail. Suffice to say that we don’t know where Hale has gotten off to, but it doesn’t look like he’ll be after you again, Mrs. Harper, and you were never a target, my lady,” he said, turning and nodding to the baroness, whose color was already returning at Hurst’s words.

  Violet, though, was sure she was so pale as to be nearly invisible. Who wanted her dead, someone in London or at Welbeck?

  Was it possible that Mr. LeCato heard of Violet’s trip to London, and didn’t want to be the focus of questioning and thus hired Ian Hale to silence her? But who would have told him about her trip? The only people who knew of it were Portland and Sam.

  Wait. Wasn’t she speaking of it to Sam a few days ago at Worksop Inn when Martin Chandler came in? But he went into the rear of the building, so he couldn’t possibly have heard her. Then Violet remembered something else. Chandler had called her a raven to her face at Burton Spencer’s funeral. He’d even said that the tails on her hat resembled a raven’s wings. Who else had been present for that? Ellery Reed, Jack LeCato . . . and Colonel Mortimer.

  The colonel had encouraged her to come
to London. Had he done so in order to have someone set upon her outside the confines of Welbeck, where no suspicions would be thrown upon him?

  Of course, she could say that Chandler or Ellery Reed could have arranged an attack on her, although for the life of her she couldn’t discern a motive for either of them.

  “Inspector,” Violet said, “there is another man you might find of interest in this situation, besides Jack LeCato. His name is Colonel George Mortimer. He lived in London as recently as two years ago, and was once in the Grenadier Guards.” There was no need to say that he was a close friend of Portland’s in front of the duke’s sister, lest she send a servant racing to the telegram office to inform her brother of Violet’s seeming disloyalty.

  As for Martin Chandler, Violet would have to investigate him back at Welbeck on her own.

  20

  The following morning, Lady Howard de Walden was once more seated alone in the breakfast room, nibbling idly at a dish of gingered apples topped with candied lemon peel, when Violet entered.

  “Ah, Mrs. Harper, you may as well accompany me to Evensong service at St. Marylebone’s this afternoon. Frederick is . . . not quite himself . . . today.”

  As Violet sat down and gratefully accepted a serving of the apples, she noticed that the baroness was as wan as she had been during the detectives’ visit. Was their visit still upsetting her, or had Frederick Ellis conducted himself rudely again and embarrassed his mother?

  “My lady, I would be happy to do so. Perhaps the baron will feel well enough by the time you leave to also attend.”