Abyssinia? Violet reached into her memory, struggling to remember what she knew about that country.
Seeing her confusion, Gladstone explained, “Two years ago, we went on a rescue mission against Emperor Theodore, who kidnapped some Christian missionaries for propaganda reasons—appalling, given that the emperor was a Coptic Christian himself. We couldn’t allow some minor despot to run roughshod over British interests, encouraging others to do the like. Locking away our citizens—can you imagine? We discovered later that they were chained and severely treated.” Gladstone was working himself into a righteous high dudgeon.
“Of course you’re right,” Violet murmured, using the voice she employed for comforting the most aggrieved of mourners.
“Well,” he continued, “it was one of the most expensive affairs of honor in our nation’s history, as it required the transportation of a sizable military force across hundreds of miles of mountainous terrain that contained practically no road system. Savages, these Abyssinians.” Gladstone stopped pacing long enough to pour himself a drink from a crystal decanter. He took a long swallow and a deep breath, then continued without offering Violet any refreshment. “Good Lord, we assembled a force of thirteen thousand British and Indian soldiers, built railways, purchased elephants for armament transport, and erected lighthouses and warehouses, all to rescue a half dozen men.” He shook his head dolefully.
“You did rescue them?” Violet asked.
“Yes. For a mere cost of nine million pounds, we rescued the missionaries. Of course, this represented an enormous unplanned expenditure of one-eighth of our annual budget. We couldn’t simply raise taxes to immediately collect the revenues, so we appealed to the patriotism of England’s wealthiest to procure consols to permit the government to gradually ease in the eventual tax burden. Quite the news to deliver to the British subjects, eh, Mrs. Harper?” Gladstone started to pour more liquor, then put the bottle down, seeming to think the better of it.
“But it ended much worse than that,” he continued. “On top of it all, the troops appropriated fifteen elephants and two hundred donkeys to load up with treasure they appropriated from churches and other buildings. Instead of sending it back to the Crown to pay for the war effort, the army simply divided it up as spoils of war and it all disappeared. When did we hire barbarians to serve Her Majesty?”
Violet could think of no words of comfort to offer the prime minister.
“I see you’re reading one of Mrs. Yonge’s novels,” Gladstone said, completely changing the subject and pointing to the book that Violet had absentmindedly dropped into her lap.
“Oh, I forgot to put it away,” she said, tucking it into her reticule.
“I am a great admirer of her works,” Gladstone said. “Have you read The Dove in the Eagle’s Nest or The Prince and the Page? No? I highly recommend them as excellent historical novels.”
Violet was taken aback that the prime minister should be so interested in light novel reading and said so.
“Lord Tennyson, Lewis Carroll, and Anthony Trollope all read Mrs. Yonge’s books,” Gladstone said proudly, as if he were somehow responsible for these famous writers becoming Charlotte Yonge’s admirers.
“Yes, but about Mr. LeCato . . .” Violet said.
“Right. No one knew how expensive the expedition would be, and there have been great debates in Parliament over new taxes and other ways to raise revenues. Meanwhile, while Britain is in this terrible quandary, I received word that Portland was demanding return of his entire investment in consols that were being used specifically to repay some of the debt from the Abyssinian venture. Hard to imagine Portland wants his money back just so he can build his godforsaken tunnels and skating rinks. I refuse to allow the empire to default on its good name so that a housemaid can scrabble around on wheels!”
Gladstone was once more working himself into a frenzy, and Violet still didn’t have the answer she sought. “And Mr. LeCato went to Welbeck Abbey because . . .” She let the words dangle, in hopes that the prime minister would get back on course.
“Damned inconsiderate of Portland to do it, I say. Of what importance is an unnecessary building project compared to the financing of a military undertaking and loyalty to your country?”
Violet tried once more, attempting to tamp down her impatience, particularly since the man was making her dizzy with his rapid volleys around the room. Heavens, was this what she looked like when she paced? “Your frustration is understandable, sir. Perhaps you might tell me how Jack LeCato became part of your predicament?”
“Yes. Right. We needed to convince the duke to delay some of his building projects. If they were delayed, he might be less inclined to demand the return of his investment in the consols. So I told Denison to find someone he could put in there to do it. I didn’t care what story he had to concoct. I needed to stop Portland from cashing in his bonds and work out a reasonable arrangement.”
“You mean to say you asked the Speaker of the House to do this?”
“Of course. Who else would I mean?”
So Hurst’s information had been correct. What did it mean that Portland’s brother-in-law was involved in the whole mess? Perhaps nothing, perhaps . . . who knew?
“Why was Mr. LeCato chosen in particular?” she asked.
Gladstone shrugged. “It’s none of my affair. You’ll have to see Denison yourself for that answer. I suppose you’ll want a letter of introduction?” He sat at his desk and pulled a thick sheet of paper from a stack, smoothed it with his finger-sheathed hand, picked up a pen, and began scribbling with his right hand. When he was done, he looked up. “That reminds me, Mrs. Harper. The queen says you’re to be invited to the opening ceremony for the Suez Canal and invitations are to go out presently. Shall I inform her lord chamberlain that your current address is Nottinghamshire?”
“Yes, thank you.” The way things were proceeding, Violet and Sam would have no time to return to London together before boarding a ship for Egypt. She only hoped that justice would be done for Burton Spencer and Edward Bayes before she stepped up the gangway and on to her passage to Africa.
Obtaining an audience with Evelyn Denison was much faster than getting one with Gladstone, and Violet was in front of the man inside of the hour.
Denison was tall and lanky like Portland, but much more self-assured. His office reminded Violet of a law office, with its bookcase shelves bowed under the weight of heavy tomes, stacks of papers and documents on his desk, and long judicial wigs propped up on floor stands in a corner of the room. Violet remembered that the Speaker wore a special robe and hairpiece when he held parliamentary sessions.
Although the stacks on his desk were neat, they were still towering. Despite this, Denison overlooked it all, even from his seated position behind the massive piece of carved oak.
He glanced up distractedly at Violet. “A moment, please,” he said, and went back to writing what appeared to be a very long letter. Denison was either angry or passionate about the topic, for he vigorously underscored words several times.
Eventually, he signed the letter and pushed it off to one side. “Mrs. Harper, I believe? You have come at Gladstone’s request?”
“Yes, sir, thank you for seeing me.” Violet had no idea what the proper etiquette was for addressing the Speaker of the House of Commons. “Sir” always seemed adequate when all else failed. “I’ve come about an agent of yours, Jack LeCato.”
Denison’s eyes narrowed. “What of him? How do you know him?”
Once more, Violet explained her situation at Welbeck, and also informed the Speaker of her conversation with Gladstone.
Denison sighed. “I tried to tell the prime minister that I have no control over what my brother-in-law does, but he insisted that I put a man in there to influence Portland’s efforts. Does Portland know that I appointed LeCato?” There was genuine worry in his expression.
“No, sir, not to my knowledge. Actually, I think he believes Gladstone put him there.”
Denison blew out a breath of relief. “Thank God. I knew LeCato was trustworthy, but one never knows how these things will go.”
Violet foresaw eventual trouble between Portland and Denison. After all, for how long could this actually remain a secret, despite LeCato’s supposed trustworthiness?
“You were placed in a most difficult position,” Violet said, hoping to elicit more information.
“Gladstone was only trying to protect the party,” Denison replied. “He felt that my brother-in-law calling in his bonds had the potential to stifle the British economy and he had to be brought to heel. There was simply no way to cover those bonds all at once. If the government is unable to cover its obligations, the economy will likely stall, meaning the end of Liberal Party rule. That couldn’t happen, and Gladstone decided our best chance to stay in control of Parliament was to . . . influence . . . my brother-in-law.”
“I would say that is an ambitious goal. His Grace is very . . .” Violet was at a loss for description.
Denison nodded. “I agree. Now, Mrs. Harper, ordinarily I would not permit a mere undertaker to question me, but Gladstone’s letter was most insistent. However, if there is nothing else, I must get back to my—”
But Violet wasn’t nearly done. “In fact, sir, I have an important question. Who is Mr. LeCato? Why was he the man you appointed?”
Denison put down the pen he had just picked up. “Jack LeCato is an assistant to Robert Lowe, the chancellor of the exchequer. LeCato had a reputation of being very serious and very eager to do his duty, a trait probably carried over from his time in the navy. I also knew from various sources that he was very eager to leave Lowe’s employ.”
“Why is that?” Violet asked.
“Robert Lowe is wretchedly deficient. Spending has risen, and he constantly underestimates revenue. There are other issues brewing at the chancellor’s office that might sweep LeCato out the door with Lowe, and LeCato wanted to rid himself of Lowe’s stench, and the Welbeck situation provided a good solution for us both.”
“I see.” The explanation was quite . . . tidy, but was it perhaps too tidy? Or was Violet frustrated because there was nothing in what the Speaker—or the prime minister, for that matter—had said to implicate LeCato in anything that had to do with Spencer or Bayes?
She had one further question. “Do you know if Mr. LeCato has any association with Babbage’s Home for Foundlings?”
Denison frowned. “An orphanage? I don’t think so. Why?”
She decided against telling the Speaker about the attack. “Just a silly thought I had. Not worth mentioning. It appears that you have been working on some theological discourses,” she said as a distraction. Several of the papers on his desk had biblical references on them.
Denison was easily led away from their previous discussion. “Yes, for quite some time I have seen the need for a plain but complete Bible commentary, something easily accessible by the public. After many meetings with some of the bishops, it was decided that the archbishop of York would undertake the production of the commentary. The canon of Exeter, Frederick Cook, has just been chosen to edit it. As the commentary has my endorsement and support, I am naturally most interested in all aspects of it, and I not only helped to put together the advisory panel for the project, but have been providing Mr. Cook with helpful suggestions.” Denison tapped the letter he had just signed. “Today I am advising him to divide the Bible into eight sections, and for each section choose a different scholar to provide commentary.”
Violet could only imagine how . . . appreciative . . . the canon would be of Denison’s regular missives advising him on how to do his work. The Speaker and Reverend Appleton had much in common and would probably enjoy a good theological debate together.
She left Denison’s office shortly thereafter. Later, as she reflected upon her meeting with him, it seemed to Violet that a man who was interested in assembling a biblical commentary couldn’t possibly be involved with anyone or anything particularly depraved.
However, Denison had said something that was rubbing at the back of her mind, like the tide against a rock, wearing away layers as it tries to reach a central core. What was it?
Ah, now Violet remembered. He had said that LeCato had served in the navy. It reminded her of Edward Bayes, who, according to his wife, had also served in the navy. Had the two men known each other? Did LeCato have a similar tattoo?
Despite his association with the seemingly righteous Evelyn Denison, did LeCato’s presence at Welbeck have a more sinister purpose?
23
Back in Worksop, Violet stopped first at the telegram office, as it had occurred to her that if the telegram to Ian Hale instructing him to assault her had been sent from someone at Welbeck, it would have been done here.
She handed the clerk her most recent carte de visite, which featured a photograph of her seated next to an upright coffin, with urns of lilies on the floor surrounding them and a spread of mourning cards arrayed in Violet’s lap. Unfortunately, the clerk there had no helpful information in response to her questions and handed the card back to her, holding it between a thumb and forefinger as though it was a picture of a dead mouse. She turned to leave, but a strapping young man burst into the telegram office, nearly knocking her over.
“Telegram to London from Welbeck Abbey!” he shouted to the clerk, who smiled at the boisterous announcement.
“Right you are, Gilbert,” the clerk said. The rest was lost to Violet as she stepped outside. She waited, though, for the Welbeck employee to leave the telegram office, where she fell into step with him as he made his way back to a horse and cart parked nearby.
“Pardon me,” she said. “I heard you say you had a telegram from Welbeck Abbey.”
The young man named Gilbert stopped in front of a chemist’s shop. “Yes,” he said, frowning as if trying to place who Violet might be.
“My name is Violet Harper. I was the undertaker for Burton Spencer’s funeral. Did you know him?”
Gilbert’s expression immediately turned downcast. “Of course, m’um, I’m Gilbert Lewis. I was at his funeral. We was all there.”
This piqued Violet’s interest. “We? Whom do you mean?”
“All of us home children.”
“Home children? I don’t understand.” Violet had never heard this term before.
“There’s this lady, Mrs. MacPherson. She pays for us to emigrate to distribution homes in Canada, and people hire us, for farms and factories. She says we will have a better life there than we can ever have in London.”
“Where do you go in Canada?”
“Some of us go to Ontario, some to Quebec. I’m to go to Belleville, Ontario.”
“I see.” In reality, Violet had no understanding of what Lewis was talking about. Perhaps it was best to stick to her point. “I was wondering if I might ask a question about the tele—”
At that moment, a barouche drawn by two pairs of horses came trundling by, the wheels on Violet’s side crashing through a deep rut and splattering mud against Violet’s dress. Flecks of it splattered against her cheek.
Gilbert glowered at the passing carriage. “They was from Worksop Manor. It borders His Grace’s land. The Dukes of Norfolk aren’t always mannerly-like. May I fetch you a cloth of some sort, m’ um?”
“No, I’m quite all right.” Violet wiped under her eyes with a gloved hand, confident that she had only succeeded in smearing the dirt and turning herself into a good likeness of one of the raccoons she’d seen back in Colorado. However, her pathetic state earned her sympathy from the young man, who said, “You have a question for me?”
“Yes, about the telegram message you just delivered.”
Gilbert resumed walking. “Yes, m’um, it was a rush order for machine parts from London. It’s nothing special.” He readily pulled the handwritten missive from his pocket and handed it over for Violet to examine. “Is there something wrong with it?”
As far as Violet could tell, it was indeed just an order for gears
and springs to be delivered from the Charles Porter Engine Company. “Do you deliver these messages frequently?”
“Of course. There’s always machinery breaking down and supplies to be ordered for His Grace’s projects. Mr. Reed says I’m his best runner for telegrams because I am so quick about it. He says he will be short two men when I leave for Canada.” This was obviously a point of pride for Lewis.
“Are the telegrams ever for anything other than the ordering of construction materials?”
Lewis was confused. “What else would His Grace need for his building projects?”
“No, you’re quite right, of course.” It appeared as though the telegram to Ian Hale had not originated at Welbeck Abbey—or if it had, Gilbert Lewis, the regular runner to Worksop, had not taken it to the telegram office. Yet another unresolved question to add to her rapidly growing list of them.
“So . . . how old are you?” she asked. She was still curious about Lewis’s description of these so-called “home children.”
“Sixteen, m’um.”
“And how old was Burton Spencer?”
“He was older. Seventeen, m’um.”
Poor murdered Burton Spencer was but a seventeen-year-old boy? He had been large and maturely formed, though, like Lewis. Were home children selected based on who appeared to be better suited for hard work?
But Violet was still confused. “If you’re bound for Canada, why are you at Welbeck Abbey?”
“His Grace has agreed to take on some home children to learn a trade before we’re sent over, so that we can have every advantage. We’re paid just like regular workers”—the boy puffed his chest with pride—“and Mr. Reed saves it all for us orphan boys so we have plenty in our pockets when we get to Canada. I think I might even have my own farm one day.”
This was yet another facet of the enigmatic Duke of Portland that Violet hadn’t known. The man gave every impression of disliking the presence of others, yet he was very caring and involved when it came to his workers. And yet these home children could hardly be called his workers since they were essentially just stopping over at Welbeck on their way to a transatlantic voyage to Canada.
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