Death at the Abbey

by Christine Trent

  “A raven hardly qualifies as a noteworthy death. You mock me, John, but I warn you there is more to come. You would do well to heed me.”

  Portland shrugged in bland denial.

  For someone who Violet said was concerned about his servants, Portland seemed rather indifferent today about the loss of two estate workers. Was he simply—like Sam himself—caught up in the moment of relaxation and camaraderie, or was he genuinely unconcerned about it? After all, he was a peer of the land with innumerable people under his charge. What were a couple of employees he had likely never met?

  As the brothers changed topics once more to world events, Bentinck’s comments were soon lost in the smoky tendrils wafting upward from cigars Portland passed around.

  Stretched back in a leather chair, his feet up on a worn ottoman shared with a softly snoring vizsla and a never-empty glass of savory port swirling in his hand as he and the brothers discussed the currently chilly state of trade negotiations between the United States and Britain, Sam decided that the aristocratic life might have its worries and threats, but it was certainly filled with physical pleasures not easily forgotten or forgone—unlike his coal mine, which, truth be told, he would happily be divested of.

  Could he have enough success with a dynamite factory that one day he and Violet could have a country retreat? A place where he could shoot and she could . . . Wait, what did his wife enjoy other than working with dead bodies? Oh yes, Violet could lounge about in the sunshine, reading from her pile of books. In fact, she could have a room full of groaning bookshelves. All of these country estates had libraries, didn’t they? The only difference being that Violet would make use of one.

  Unfortunately, there would indeed be more death for Violet to contend with before the pleasant dream of a country estate could be realized.

  21

  Violet was happy to spend the day with her friend Mary Cooke. Despite their age difference of twenty years, they had much in common. Both had been widowed; both were in the funeral business, as Mary was a mourning dressmaker; and both loved to read.

  Violet took a cab to her own shop in Queen’s Road to check on the state of business with her co-owner, Harry Blundell, then went on to Mary’s shop in Bayswater Road. Together the two women headed out, their first destination being Hatchards Bookshop in Piccadilly. After the seriousness of Welbeck Abbey and the attack upon her three days earlier, Violet was in the mood for something romantic in nature.

  The clerk at Hatchards asked if she had read anything by Charlotte Yonge. When she said she hadn’t, he immediately showed her to a shelf crammed with several titles by Yonge. “She writes the most heart-tugging novels. She’s been popular for years. You’re sure you haven’t read her before, madam? No? Then I recommend that you start with The Heir of Redclyffe, her first and best-known work.”

  He pulled out a copy and handed it to Violet, who flipped through the pages, enjoying the feel of the thick, creamy paper that was always the immediate reward in purchasing a book.

  Violet smiled at the clerk and handed the book to him. “Please wrap this for me.”

  The clerk bowed with the book in both hands. “Of course. Once you’ve read this, I recommend The Daisy Chain, then The Chaplet of Pearls, which was just published last year. I daresay that Miss Yonge’s works are more popular than those of Mr. Dickens and Mr. Thackeray.”

  Violet tucked the book safely in her reticule, next to the knife that stayed with her at all times, despite its recent ineffectiveness. The two women were soon ensconced in a growler cab heading to Regent Street, where Mary wanted to visit Grover & Baker’s.

  “They are two American men from Boston who have developed a portable sewing machine, and have expanded their trade to London and Liverpool,” Mary said. Violet leaned back inside the conveyance, one of the more comfortable carriages for hire since it had four wheels, not two.

  “I read in one of my dressmaking journals that they offer tours so customers can see their machines being built. Misters Grover and Baker are making over a thousand machines per week! Can you imagine? How fantastic they must be.” Mary’s eyes shone with the excitement of a child being presented with a new flavor of ribbon candy.

  “Is there anything wrong with your Singer foot-treadle model?” Violet asked.

  “No, no, I just thought it would be fascinating to see a new type of sewing machine being constructed. The journal article stated that one day they will be even bigger than Singer.”

  However, Mary ultimately succumbed to the oily smell and rhythmic hum of the various machines on display and purchased one that Violet thought too pricey for Mary’s circumstances, but hadn’t Violet herself fallen victim to the bewitchery of a coffin salesman’s samples before?

  Later, after the man at Grover & Baker promised delivery of her specially made portable machine in two weeks, the women stopped at a coffee shop to celebrate Mary’s purchase, which still had Violet breathless at the expense.

  Mary, though, was undaunted. “Wasn’t it marvelous?” she said, removing her hat and gloves and handing them to the hostess. “I can hardly wait to make my first dress with it. And I can even move it from my shop to my upstairs flat because it’s portable, Violet dear. Have you ever seen such a thing?” She patted the puffy gray cloud of hair she wore.

  Given the size of the wood box and its internal ironworks, Violet imagined that “portable,” in this case, merely meant that the machine could be put on a lift and sent upstairs, but it couldn’t exactly be carried about by a handle. It was as portable as one of her coffins. But she couldn’t deny her friend’s enthusiasm.

  “You will have thousands of hours of sewing enjoyment, I’m sure,” she said.

  Once they had pots of coffee and raisin crumpets topped with butter and jam in front of them, the two women drifted into various points of conversation: Violet’s daughter, Susanna; Mary’s recent clientele; and Violet’s upcoming trip to Egypt. Violet told Mary of the suspicious deaths at Welbeck Abbey and her subsequent trip to London for an investigation. As Violet recounted the attack in Cavendish Square, Mary spilled her cup of coffee, the brown liquid splashing into its saucer and onto the table.

  “My dear, no! Not another dire situation! How do you manage it?”

  Violet shook her head. “I don’t know. Undertaking seems to have gotten more and more dangerous as time goes on.”

  “It’s all of this investigating you do these days. Oh, honestly.” Mary grimaced. “This coffee has obviously been boiled. Dreadful.”

  Violet agreed that it was atrocious. “I suspect they make it in quantity twice a week, to be heated up when ordered. This was probably made last Thursday.”

  Mary giggled, and Violet joined her. Seeing Mary express joy made Violet happy, as well. She was about to comment on her friend’s seeming contentment when Mary asked a question that stopped Violet cold. “How is that handsome detective who has helped you in your investigative matters?”

  Had Mary actually just batted her eyelashes? And did she think for one moment that she was convincing in her pretense of not remembering Hurst’s name?

  “Has he visited you or otherwise made contact with you?” Violet asked, too sharply. She wanted her friend to be happy, but why oh why did it have to be with Magnus Pompey Hurst? Inspector Hurst had developed a puppy-like devotion to Mary since meeting her several months ago, but Violet had been stern in warning him away from her friend, so recently in mourning for her husband, George. George had been an unfaithful fool, and Mary’s grief was already perfunctory, but it was just . . . unseemly . . . for Hurst to express interest.

  “Of course not, dear. I’m only in my fourth month of mourning. I just remember how kind and helpful he was with assisting me in hanging the draperies for your shop. Such a brave, chivalrous man. I don’t wonder that it must be a delight for you to work with him.”

  Violet could see that Mary was refraining from asking the question she truly wanted to ask: Was Inspector Hurst attached?

  The answer—
that Hurst was a bachelor and obviously enamored of Mary—stuck in Violet’s throat like an unchewed dumpling. Why was she so resistant to the idea of Hurst paying court to her friend? Did she believe that his gruff and overbearing manner would eventually assert itself and cause yet more heartbreak for Mary? Or was it that Violet was terrified for herself that a romance might bloom between the two? What sort of chaperone would she have to play? Would she and Sam be invited to dine with the other couple? After her last investigation—during which Sam nearly came to blows with Hurst—Violet wasn’t sure a peaceable meal was possible. When had Mary taken notice of Hurst, anyway?

  But Mary’s hopeful expression was too much for Violet to bear. The woman deserved some happiness, and if it could be had with Inspector Hurst, well . . . Violet swallowed the lump and said, “The inspector is a bachelor, you know.” Mary’s eyes lit up, so Violet swallowed once more and continued. “I believe he finds you most attractive.”

  Mary’s cheeks reddened, and she buried herself in the previously detested coffee as though it were suddenly apricot nectar.

  Perhaps she would mention Mary’s interest to Inspector Hurst. Much as she dreaded the thought of the bearish detective paying court to her friend when her mourning period was over, Violet didn’t want to be responsible for preventing Mary’s happiness.

  Violet sighed and picked up her own coffee cup. She could hardly believe she would willingly draw Hurst’s cranky disposition into her own life.

  After escorting Mary back to her dressmaking shop, Violet headed back to Marylebone, where she found Inspectors Hurst and Pratt sitting in the parlor with Lady Howard de Walden. Unlike her behavior during their first visit, this time the baroness politely excused herself from the room, leaving Violet alone with the detectives.

  Hurst was more congenial today. He had been much more mercurial since meeting Mary, and Violet suspected he wanted to be cordial to her for Mary’s sake, but it wasn’t in his nature to do so, what with his perception that Violet was troublesome.

  “You’ve returned quickly, Inspector,” she said, taking the warm seat that the baroness had just vacated.

  “Scotland Yard is always efficient, Mrs. Harper. Although I’m afraid our information isn’t as salacious as you might have hoped it would be,” Inspector Hurst said, waving at Pratt.

  The junior detective flipped through his battered notebook. “Colonel George William David Mortimer, formerly of the Grenadier Guards, having served at the pleasure of His Majesty King George IV from 1818 to 1830, with fighting experienced during the Anglo-Burmese War from 1824 to 1825. Colonel Mortimer has a residence in Arlington Street overlooking Green Park.”

  “Green Park? How can that be?” Violet said, confused. How was it possible that Colonel Mortimer—who was relying on Portland’s generosity for the very roof over his head—had a townhome in fashionable Green Park?

  Hurst shrugged. “Many gents and ladies live there. Go on, Pratt.”

  Pratt ran his finger down the page until he picked up where he left off. “A year after leaving the army, the colonel married Esther Theodosia Bell, but she died shortly thereafter of unknown causes. The couple had no children. The colonel then became interested in railroads and invested a fair amount in them, making enough to enable him to move to Green Park. As far as anyone knows, the colonel has never again considered marriage. His neighbors say he is a quiet and considerate gentleman, even if he is a merchant upstart.”

  “No doubt,” Violet said absently, trying to make sense of what Pratt had just told her. Was Colonel Mortimer’s presence in Nottinghamshire as a poverty-stricken friend simply a ruse for him to keep an eye on his old army companion? Was it really the colonel looking out for Portland’s well-being instead of the other way around?

  Or was the colonel up to something that Violet couldn’t fathom?

  At this point, she was sure tongues in Green Park were wagging faster than a telegraph operator’s finger making a war announcement. It wasn’t often that Scotland Yard detectives came prowling around such a neighborhood.

  “One last thing,” Pratt added. “Most of his neighbors didn’t recall him enough to have an opinion of him, but those who did said that Colonel Mortimer suffers from insomnia, for whatever that’s worth.”

  It was worth much, for it explained the colonel’s night wanderings around Welbeck Abbey. But was he somehow using that insomnia for some devious purpose? Violet had no idea what that purpose could be. Worse, was Portland fully aware of what the colonel was doing? Was the colonel doing it on Portland’s behalf?

  Violet was thoroughly confused, but Hurst was about to make her much more so.

  “This Jack LeCato you asked about. He’s a clerk who works for the chancellor of the exchequer and was installed at Welbeck Abbey for unknown purposes by the Speaker of the House, Evelyn Denison. Interestingly, Denison happens to be the Duke of Portland’s brother-in-law. That was all we could get from our sources at the treasury. They were very secretive about whatever it is LeCato is doing.”

  Violet stared at the detective, speechless as her mind worked rapidly to make sense of what Hurst had just told her. She remembered Denison from an investigative matter she had worked for the queen, one that had her sitting through a parliamentary debate on the Contagious Diseases Act that Denison had overseen.

  The duke was infuriated by the presence of Jack LeCato . . . who had been installed at Welbeck by his own brother-in-law? Why would Denison have done something so egregious against his wife’s brother?

  Every time Violet sought an answer in this matter, a dozen more questions shot up as if she had riotous Guy Fawkes Day fireworks skyrocketing in her mind. Enough with the ongoing questions. She needed answers.

  But Hurst had his own questions. “This Colonel Mortimer bloke seems harmless enough. What has you so agitated about him?” he asked.

  Without the baroness present, Violet was more comfortable talking about him. “He resides at Welbeck . . . as His Grace’s impoverished guest.” She went on to explain the men’s military experience together.

  Hurst frowned. “Does His Grace know that the colonel is well-off?”

  “I don’t think he does. Curious, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe,” Hurst said. “Do you suspect him of something other than taking advantage of his host?”

  Violet sighed and echoed Hurst’s own sentiments. “Maybe. I’m not sure.”

  “Well, there’s nothing here for Scotland Yard to be worried about,” Hurst said, rising. Pratt also stood, and Violet joined them.

  “What about Ian Hale having attacked me here in Cavendish Square?” Violet said.

  “First of all, he’s left London without a trace. Second, you weren’t actually murdered, Mrs. Harper, and so it isn’t a case for Scotland Yard. It was a great favor to you that Inspector Pratt and I did the investigating that we did. We have to return to our real cases.” He motioned to Pratt to leave.

  As blunt as the detective had been, he was correct. There was no shocking murder to be investigated, so it was a matter for the police, not Scotland Yard. Violet knew she should be grateful for what he had done thus far. Well, there was one way to express her gratitude.

  “I saw my friend Mary Cooke today,” Violet said. Hurst turned back, standing up straighter, while Pratt arched his eyebrows in surprise. The junior detective knew of his superior’s interest in Mary, and was also fully aware of Violet’s disapproval.

  “Oh yes, your dressmaker friend,” Hurst said casually. Pratt rolled his eyes, out of Hurst’s sight.

  Violet took a deep breath. “She has been recovering well in her mourning. In fact, she’s just purchased a new Grover and Baker sewing machine to assist her in her business. It’s one of their new portable machines, which probably weighs a hundred pounds. It will be delivered in two weeks, and I’m not sure how she will move it around her shop.”

  Hurst perked up even further. “Does she need help setting up the machine? I’m sure I can stop by on my way home from the Yard one ev
ening and—”

  “Perhaps, Inspector. I shall mention it to her.” Was that an actual bounce in Hurst’s step as he left Harcourt House?

  There. She had instigated . . . what? A romance between a centurion and a vestal virgin? Between the wolf and Red Riding Hood? Well, at least nothing would happen until Mary’s mourning was complete.

  In the meantime, she had an audience with Mr. Gladstone in the morning. Perhaps the answers she sought lay with him.

  22

  Violet waited for nearly an hour beyond her scheduled appointment until Gladstone’s clerk called her into the prime minister’s office. Fortunately, she had brought her copy of The Heir of Redclyffe with her, and was thoroughly absorbed in the misfortunes of poor Guy Morville when she was called back to sit before the prime minister.

  William Ewart Gladstone was much as Violet had remembered him, with a scowl that was nearly buried under unruly white hair and elephantine ears. What she hadn’t recalled was that he was missing most of the forefinger of his left hand.

  Before acknowledging her greeting, he noticed what she had thought was her unobtrusive glance at his hand. “Lost it in a hunting accident back in ’42,” he said, opening a drawer in his desk and retrieving a black leather finger sheath from it, buckling it over his wrist.

  Violet wasn’t interested in Gladstone’s prosthetics, however; she wanted information about Jack LeCato. She explained to the prime minister the situation at Welbeck Abbey and inquired about the government clerk’s activities.

  What Violet quickly realized was that Gladstone’s scowl didn’t mean he was angry or petulant, but merely that he was passionate about topics that concerned him. And he was concerned greatly about the Duke of Portland.

  “Yes, Mr. LeCato is an agent of the chancellor of the exchequer. You must understand, Mrs. Harper, that His Grace purchased nearly two million pounds in consol bonds a few years back from the government, and all of a sudden wishes to turn them in so that he can finance all of his ludicrous building projects. We need the money for those bonds to pay the ongoing debt from the expedition to Abyssinia.”