Death at the Abbey

by Christine Trent

  The man had clearly pretended to be intoxicated when she caught him bringing out his digging tools, which had certainly helped him to cut her off when she started to accuse him of manipulating Portland.

  Taking the risk that he was watching her from a window and might come storming out at any minute, Violet walked over to the shed and inspected it for herself. As she had seen from a distance, it was old and decrepit, and was covered in a thorny rose vine relentlessly intent on destroying it. Patches of white paint suggested that it had once been a well-cared-for building, perhaps an artist’s studio.

  She walked completely around the building, but could find no evidence that there had been any recent digging going on here, so whatever the colonel had planned was new. She even picked up the tools. One was merely an average shovel; the other had a much narrower spade-like head. Both had dried dirt on them, which was not incriminating in and of itself, as shovels were meant to be placed into the earth. Neither had bloodstains that she could see, which she counted as a small blessing, and a point in the colonel’s favor.

  However . . . wouldn’t this smaller shovel’s head make approximately the same size hole as those that she’d found where she discovered Edward Bayes’s body? Violet turned in the direction of the rookery and the copse of trees that would be between here and there. The trees were located in a direct line between the colonel’s cottage and the rookery.

  What was she to do now? Rapping on the colonel’s door to demand answers might be safe, what with a shovel in her hand and a knife in her reticule, but he would undoubtedly respond with loud snores. He also wasn’t likely to confess to any grand plot, either. No, Violet had to see Portland.

  As she walked back, intent on reporting her encounter with Colonel Mortimer as well as her trip to London, Violet noticed a curtain move inside the cottage.

  Once more, Violet sat on the other side of the screen in Portland’s suite. With a great knot of guilt resting in her rib cage, she omitted telling the duke that Denison had hired LeCato, fearful of his reaction. However, she did relay the real purpose in LeCato’s presence at Welbeck.

  She saw the outline of Portland’s head nodding from behind the carved-out wood. “Yes, I’m not surprised that they would do such a thing. It explains why LeCato was so worked up when Mr. Bayes’s body appeared during the dynamiting. Anything to slow down progress. I thought I would never get him out of my presence. Well, Mr. Gladstone is in for quite the surprise when he finds that Mr. LeCato no longer has any influence here. In fact, I shall have the man thrown out.”

  Knowing that such a reaction would only serve to notify Gladstone and Denison that she had run back to Welbeck and tattled on them, Violet spoke at length, urging caution and circumspection. “After all, Your Grace, we don’t know yet whether Mr. LeCato had anything to do with Spencer’s or Bayes’s death. Sending him away would spoil any opportunity for determining that.”

  Portland grunted, but slowly nodded once more. “I suppose you’re right, Mrs. Harper. So no one other than Gladstone has been party to putting this irritating vermin on my estate to chew me to distraction? You have no other information about him other than that he works for the chancellor of the exchequer?”

  Fortunately for Violet, Portland continued on without waiting for an answer. “If Gladstone believes he can save his party upon my flea-bitten back, he is sorely mistaken. I need more, though, Mrs. Harper. So you still believe he is connected to Spencer’s and Bayes’s deaths?”

  “I’m not sure, Your Grace. However”—Violet stepped through the opening provided for her—“I am currently concerned with another person on the estate. Someone who is rather close to you.”

  “Close to me? Who could that possibly be?”

  “Sir, I mean Colonel Mortimer.”

  Portland made no verbal response, but Violet felt the reproach and disapproval that permeated the resulting silence. It hung in the air like a cold December morning’s mist. She plowed on, telling Portland of the colonel’s nice home in London, and of catching him with digging tools near the shed on the grounds behind his cottage and his subsequent pretense of inebriation.

  “What shed?” Portland demanded.

  Violet described it, and Portland harrumphed. “I know the structure,” he snapped. “George wouldn’t do anything to destroy it.”

  “Please understand, Your Grace, I wasn’t suggesting that he was planning to demolish it, but he had shovels and it seemed to me that he was about to—”

  “Let me be clear, Mrs. Harper. George Mortimer is no more a criminal than I am a hippopotamus. He was undoubtedly doing some necessary digging. He knows of my concern for the servants, and I’ve often talked of creating a small ring toss field for them. George might have taken it on as a project, as some small repayment of my providing him with a home. I’m sure that we will soon see the charitable result of his seemingly suspicious behavior, and we will have a good laugh about it.”

  Violet couldn’t imagine Portland smiling, much less laughing, about anything. “Yes, Your Grace, except that he doesn’t seem to need a home.”

  “If George says he needs my assistance, then he does. I’ll hear no more on it. If there is anything devious going on at Welbeck, I’m certain it can be laid at the feet of Jack LeCato.”

  Violet left Portland’s presence thoroughly frustrated by how obtuse the man was on the subject of his friend. Why did he refuse to listen to any facts whatsoever about the colonel? Why was he obsessed with LeCato? Not that Violet didn’t have her share of suspicions over the man, but there were others acting just as dubiously at Welbeck Abbey, too.

  The swirl of speculation made Violet’s head hurt. The pain reminded her of the attack in London. Was it related to the deaths, or to the projects at Welbeck Abbey, or to the buyback of the consols?

  It all brought her around to Portland again, and a new thought occurred to her. Was it possible that Portland was trying—in his own clumsy way—to lead her silently to some conclusion he’d already made? Worse, was she being led away from the colonel because it also led her away from the duke himself? Maybe, but she couldn’t see a reason for it. For that matter, she still couldn’t understand why anyone at Welbeck would want any of the estate’s workers dead.

  If only she could figure out a small piece of this puzzle, she was certain the other pieces—no matter how irregularly shaped—would fall quickly into place.

  That evening, Violet enjoyed supper—her usual fish pie—with Sam at Worksop Inn. Mr. Saunders was particularly jovial this evening, and the fire burned merrily in the fireplace. With her husband across from her and a glass of sherry in her hand, Violet relaxed for the first time in days. Even with having to repeat everything that had happened in London and then back at Welbeck earlier in the day, she felt none of the anxiety that had been plaguing her. Perhaps it was the comfort she felt from witnessing Sam’s outrage over the attack on her person, an outrage that far outweighed his elation over his new business prospects with Portland.

  “By God, if I ever lay my hand upon whoever did that to you, I will beat him within an inch of his life. He will lie on the ground, begging me to kill him. This will be my battle-ax”—whereupon he picked up his cane from where it leaned against their table—“and my fists will do what it cannot. If anyone ever again tries to . . .”

  Sam’s tirade went on for several minutes, and included some choice words for the incompetence of Inspector Hurst, with whom he had bickered in the past, as well as a round of cursing for every London street criminal, those currently operating and those to be born in the future.

  Violet allowed herself to be cocooned in her husband’s fierce defense of her, letting it wrap her like a warm blanket and giving her a sense of safety from the world. She could only wish that every woman had a husband like Sam. Poor Mrs. Bayes had a less than sufficient husband, although the woman herself . . . Violet shuddered and drained her glass. Mr. Saunders’s daughter, Polly, was immediately on hand to refill it.

  Violet had to be c
areful. She was still struggling with her weight after an overindulgence in fine food during a recent stay at St. James’s Palace. Too much fish pie and sherry while in Nottinghamshire might mean another trip to the dressmaker’s before they left for Egypt.

  Of course, she had done so much energetic walking across the Welbeck Abbey estate today, so perhaps a little bit of dessert wouldn’t hurt....

  “How about some plum pudding or Neapolitan cake, Mrs. Harper?” Polly asked, as if reading Violet’s mind.

  Violet glanced at Sam, who, still beside himself with indignation, could barely sputter, “None for me.” She bit her lip. It was so much easier to indulge when Sam went along with her. “Well . . . perhaps just a tiny slice of the Neapolitan,” she said, promising to herself that she would take a brisk walk through town in the morning. Polly returned with the confection in mere moments.

  Violet sliced into the colorfully layered dessert as Polly moved away to help another customer. It was sugary and iced to perfection.

  She paused with the fork near her mouth as she caught what Polly was saying at the next table: “. . . work for my father anymore when I come into some money soon . . . live in a fine house . . . better dresses than this old stained thing . . .”

  Violet was so engrossed in Polly’s statements that she actually put down the cake-laden fork. Hadn’t Martin Chandler said something similar about coming into a fortune? She decided she would talk to Polly later in the evening after the dining room had cleared itself of patrons.

  Unfortunately, by the time Violet decided the time was right and came back downstairs from reading and talking over Polly’s comments with Sam up in her room, Mr. Saunders was turning out the gas lamps, and informed her that Polly had gone off to a friend’s house for the night.

  As she walked back up the creaking oak steps to her room, Violet made a decision that she shared with Sam, who had just completed his nighttime ablutions. “I believe I need to go back to Welbeck Abbey tomorrow,” she said, unbuttoning the bodice of her dress to prepare for bed herself.

  Sam slid into bed, sitting back against the pillows and crossing his fingers on his bare chest. “For what reason?” he asked sleepily.

  “I want to go see Colonel Mortimer again, to confront him once more when he isn’t ostensibly in his cups,” Violet said, removing her skirt and corset, then sliding into her Welsh flannel nightgown. “Also, since Polly is gone for the evening, I believe it might be beneficial to visit Martin Chandler again to inquire further about the fortune he believes he will inherit. I have no idea if his grandiose idea is pertinent to anything, but I don’t want to ignore it, either. Mr. Chandler may have dismissed me from the rookery today, but I won’t allow him to do so tomorrow.”

  “Hmm,” Sam said absently, his eyes closed. “Well, there is one thing for certain.”

  “What is that?” she asked, sitting on her side of the bed and loosening her hair from its pins.

  “You won’t be going without me.” He opened one eye and looked at her sternly.

  “Sam,” she began, “I think I am reasonably safe on the estate grounds. Besides, I carry my knife—”

  “Safe on the estate grounds?! Need I remind you that the whole reason for your inquisition is two deaths on those same grounds? A fat lot of good that knife did you in London, either. I’ll not hear any excuses or pleas, nor make any bargains with you, woman. I will stand next to you while you interview these dolts, and that is the end of the conversation. Now, all of my anger has made me very overwrought. Come, Wife, and calm me down.”

  Violet laughed as she shook out her hair and tumbled into her irresistible husband’s arms.

  25

  The next morning was windy and overcast, but Violet thought maybe the clouds would drift away without drenching her in a deluge. With Sam steadfastly at her side as he had sworn he would be, she removed a glove and rapped upon Colonel Mortimer’s door. To her surprise, the door fell open at her touch.

  Exchanging a puzzled look with Sam, she replaced her glove and stepped into the cottage, calling out for the colonel. She received no response, and thinking he might have truly become intoxicated after she left and was therefore still sleeping it off, she called out louder.

  Still no answer.

  Violet started to move farther into the cottage, but Sam took her elbow and shook his head no, stepping ahead of her into the small house. “Wait here,” he commanded, and went to search the rest of the cottage.

  While she stood inside the front door, she craned her neck to see if anything was amiss. Nothing seemed out of place, but who could really tell inside this overstuffed habitat?

  Sam returned. “There’s no one here.”

  “Curious that he left his door open,” she replied. “Perhaps the wind blew it open. I wonder where he is.”

  “This is your opportunity,” Sam said. “Have a good snoop around.”

  Violet hesitated. “Do you think we should? Aren’t I . . . we . . . trespassing?”

  Sam looked at her incredulously. “The man is almost certainly a sot and a liar, and may or may not be a murderer, and you’re worried about poking about in his cottage for a few moments?”

  Well, when he puts it like that . . . Violet thought.

  Together, they systematically went through the house, looking through drawers and cabinets. Violet’s immediate conclusion was that the colonel lived like a genuine bachelor. The man really needed a wife to bring some semblance of order to his life. Not that Violet could claim to have engendered great neatness in Sam’s life, but she was an undertaker, after all, and that meant . . .

  Well, she supposed it didn’t mean much at all when it came to caring for the home. Perhaps it was best to disregard that line of thought—an easy task, for as she went through the colonel’s liquor bottles, lifting them up individually and noting with surprise how far down most of them had been consumed, she came across a folded sheet of thick paper.

  As soon as she had unfolded it, she knew she had struck upon something significant. “Sam!” she called out urgently.

  He rushed out from what was presumably the colonel’s bedchamber as quickly as his limp would allow. “What did you find?”

  “This,” she said, showing him the paper. He took it and placed it on the colonel’s dining table, the only clear surface available.

  Sam frowned as he smoothed it out. “This looks like a map of the estate. This represents the house, and this looks like the skating rink site,” he said, pointing at two hand-drawn symbols.

  Violet bent down over the map to study it more closely. “There are some very strange marks on the map. They look like three arrows—no, triangles—over in this area. I wonder what they could possibly mean? Do they indicate—oh!” Violet jerked straight up.

  “What is it?” Sam asked. “What are they?”

  “I’m not sure, but I have a good idea the area being marked.”

  “Which is . . . where?”

  “They signify places inside the copse of trees between here and the rookery. It’s where I discovered the glass eye shard . . . and Mr. Bayes’s body.”

  Sam put a hand to her back, as if to steady her. “What do you think this means about Colonel Mortimer?”

  Violet felt her worst fears being confirmed. “This seems to prove that the colonel had known where Mr. Bayes’s body was, and my discovery of the shard proves that he was there with the body.”

  “Are there marks where Burton Spencer’s body was found?”

  Violet traced a line with her finger from the shape representing the house to approximately where she’d found Spencer. “Oddly enough, no. Maybe the mark indicates a grave. Bayes was loosely covered in leaf debris whereas Spencer was not buried at all, but does that mean there are other shallow graves I missed?”

  Sam nodded grimly. “I wonder if the colonel has fled the estate.”

  “None of his belongings seem to be missing.”

  “How can you tell in this mess? Besides, I imagine that a murderer running
for his life doesn’t bother with much other than the clothes on his back.”

  Violet couldn’t argue with that. The lingering question in her mind was, what reason could the colonel possibly have had to kill Edward Bayes?

  Violet and Sam proceeded on to the rookery to visit Martin Chandler, with Colonel Mortimer’s map in Violet’s hand. They kicked against the curled brown leaves that swirled around their feet, and Sam tapped his cane along the crunchy gravel.

  As they neared the area of the copse, Violet tugged on Sam’s arm. “Let me show you where I found Mr. Bayes and the glass eye.” She led him off the gravel path, across a patch of lawn, and into the cluster of trees. “The eye was here”—Violet pointed down—“and farther back, near this bramble, was Edward Bay—” She gasped at what she now saw. This simply wasn’t possible.

  “What’s the matter?” Sam asked. “You said—good Lord!” He knelt down and Violet dropped next to him, as if a closer view might convince them that they weren’t staring at the body of Colonel George Mortimer. His eyes were half closed, and his balding pate was bloody and covered in bits of dirt and leaves.

  26

  Violet could hardly comprehend what she was seeing. “But . . .” Her voice trailed off on the now implausible thought that the colonel had been her primary suspect. Within moments, though, her undertaking senses took over and she began examining him.

  First, she removed her gloves and picked up the colonel’s hand, manipulating the fingers. His hand was cold but still flexible. He hadn’t been here long, although the mere fact that she’d just seen the man the previous afternoon was proof enough of that. “Colonel, who has done this to you? I fear I must apologize to you for my suspicions of you, although I don’t suppose we can completely absolve you of everything.”

  Violet sensed Sam moving restlessly next to her, then returning to his feet, dropping his cane, and walking a short distance away.

  “Sir, forgive me while I lift your head, like this. . . .” Violet gently cradled the colonel’s neck in one hand, as she inspected the rear of his head. It was a sticky morass of pulp that made her queasy, but she swallowed the acid rising in her throat. “You’ve been battered, sir, far worse than Mr. Spencer was. What did you do to anger someone enough for this? What evil is running unchecked on this estate? And what part might you have played in it?”