She removed her hand from the back of his head and gently lowered him back down, apologizing quietly to the colonel for her tactless behavior as she wiped her hands across her skirts to remove some of his blood. “Here’s the weapon.” Sam was standing alongside her again. He offered a hand, and she stood up, too, to see what he held in his other hand. It was a shovel, and if Violet wasn’t mistaken, it was the same wide shovel she had seen the colonel with yesterday.
“It belongs to him,” she said.
Sam shook his head. “Is there a greater insult than to be done in by your own weapon?”
Violet, remembering that the colonel had had two digging implements with him the day before, asked, “Did you find another, smaller shovel?”
“No, there’s just this.”
Violet’s mind was racing. All three of these deaths—Spencer’s, Bayes’s, and now Colonel Mortimer’s—had no link as far as she could see, except that they had all occurred on Welbeck Abbey property, over the space of about two weeks. It was madness. It was also maddening that she couldn’t seem to unearth a motive or the correct suspect. Names and the memories of isolated incidents boiled and churned in her brain, but instead of giving her answers, she was merely left with a faint feeling of nausea.
How was it that the curse of the raven the cook had warned her of had come true?
She turned her head in the direction of the rookery, which was only about a couple of hundred yards away. What of Chandler’s claim—and Polly’s—that there was to be an inheritance soon? Did Chandler know that the colonel was actually well-off?
Once more, she swallowed the bile in her throat.
“Sweetheart,” Sam said softly, interrupting her agitated state, “I believe it’s time we notified His Grace.”
“Yes, of course.” Violet shook her head to clear it of its squawking accusations. Her first priority must be the colonel, who had to be removed from his insulting circumstances. Portland, though, would be devastated at the loss of his friend. She dreaded this confrontation, but it was one she had to make without Sam’s presence. If Sam delivered the bad news, how might it unintentionally impact Portland’s view of her husband, and thus Portland’s interest in investing in dynamite? Violet didn’t mind being the bearer of bad news.... She frequently was.
“Sam, I will go back to the house for His Grace. Will you wait here so that the colonel won’t be alone, nor spirited away like Mr. Bayes?”
Sam nodded, and Violet took off to report to Portland, ready to accept whatever consequences there might be.
Portland’s reaction was not only the total disbelief that Violet anticipated; he practically went into a stupor over the news. Violet employed everything she had to comfort him, or to at least bring him around to communicating with her.
Finally, he seemed to come to a silent decision and summoned his valet, Pearson, to have him dressed in his usual heavy brown coat and tall hat. He then argued for several moments with Violet over summoning Molly Spriggs to bring his lantern to guide them both, but Violet was adamant—there was no time.
Portland settled for just his umbrella, and Violet then led him to the copse. Or, rather, Violet scurried to follow on the heels of his long-legged stride.
When they arrived, it was no longer just Sam standing watch over the body. Martin Chandler had joined him, and Sam looked as though he might snatch the man by the neck if he attempted to go anywhere. As if they had gathered to protect their master, ravens filled the trees above the two men, perching silently as ebony witnesses to whatever drama was about to unfold.
The birds would not be disappointed.
“I presume this is your falconer, Your Grace,” Sam said, jostling Chandler so that the two of them blocked the colonel’s body from view.
“Yes, what is the meaning of this? Where is George?” Portland addressed Chandler in rough tones, but it was Sam who answered, though he kept to his own topic.
“Mr. Chandler came traipsing through here,” he said, “which I found most interesting, given what my wife just discovered here a few moments ago. Thought I’d corral him to see if he also knew what lay here.”
“Y-y-your Grace,” Chandler stumbled. Faced with his master, he lost his easy smile and self-assuredness. “I was just d-d-doing some training and s-s-stumbled upon this man, who threatened me with force if I were to leave.”
Chandler seemed almost . . . panicked. Violet knew that a panicked man will commit irrational acts and it was best to confront him now before he did anything more foolish than he already had. She hadn’t anticipated facing him in front of Portland, but there was nothing she could do about the timing of it.
“You just happened to be out with your birds, and chose this particular copse of trees to wander through?” Violet asked, more sharply than was necessary.
Chandler pointed up, his finger trembling. “They like it here.”
“It would seem that Colonel Mortimer, too, once liked it here, but found quickly that it was not a particularly safe location for him,” Violet said, noting that Portland winced as she mentioned his friend’s name. “I know of a few men who might wish to track his whereabouts . . . or who might have an interest in his death.”
“Are you mad, woman? I have no interest in the colonel’s death. How could I possibly want him dead?”
Violet dug into her reticule, retrieving both the map and the telegram Hurst had taken from Ian Hale, and handing them to Chandler. She regretted doing this in the midst of Portland’s grief, but it was vital that a murderer be caught. Chandler paled visibly at both the map and telegram, refusing to take either one. She offered them to Portland instead, who shook open the map with one trembling hand and cocked his head to one side as if to decipher what it was. Propping the umbrella against his leg, he then shook open the folded telegram with his other hand and scanned it quickly.
“ ‘The raven is at Harcourt House.’ How very dramatic. I presume you are the raven, Mrs. Harper?”
“Yes, Your Grace. Mr. Chandler referred to me as such at Mr. Spencer’s funeral, and it certainly makes sense that he would use such language.” She pointed upward, as Chandler had moments ago. One of the ravens on a nearby branch ruffled its feathers in response.
Portland handed the telegram back to Violet. “Yes, but this is certainly not proof of any kind. What is this other document, though? It appears to be some kind of map.”
Violet showed him the landmarks of his estate and various other markings on the map, including the strange triangles in the copse—one of which, she supposed, might mark where the colonel’s body now lay. “You may find it interesting to know that Mr. Chandler has claimed that he is coming into an inheritance soon. It is my suspicion that that inheritance was something promised from the colonel, and Chandler got impatient waiting for it.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Chandler protested. “I have no inheritance coming.”
“And as I’ve stated before,” Portland said in stubborn insistence, “the colonel had no fortune. He was dependent upon my beneficence.” His voice cracked on that last word, but he maintained his aristocratic stoicism.
Violet shook her head. “I’m afraid I will have to disagree with you, Your Grace. Scotland Yard told me personally of the home the colonel had in Green Park.”
“So you’ve said. I refuse to believe that. It is simply not possible that George lied to me.” Portland handed the documents back to Violet, who wasn’t sure what to do next. Fortunately, Sam was more than willing to lead, and shifted the subject to what was uppermost in his mind.
“Did you have anything to do with my wife’s attack in London?” he growled at Chandler. Violet was thankful Sam’s cane wasn’t in his hand at present.
“What attack is this?” Portland asked, pushing his hat back on his head to get a better look at Chandler.
“My apologies, Your Grace,” Violet said. “I wasn’t seriously hurt—”
“Only by great providential mercy,” Sam thundered, far more a
ggravated now that he had the man potentially responsible in his hands.
“—and so I thought it best not to worry you by mentioning it.”
Portland’s expression was one of shock, but his response was not what she expected. “I can hardly believe my sister didn’t thrash the telegram office clerk in her haste to send me the gossip. I received no news of it at all from London.”
Actually, come to think of it, Violet was rather surprised by that herself.
“Perhaps the baroness didn’t wish to dishearten you regarding your decision to send me there,” she offered.
“You did meet my sister, did you not, Mrs. Harper?” Portland said, in the closest thing to humor Violet had seen yet in the man’s demeanor. She was actually glad to see it in the midst of his misery. “Now, what was this attack to which Mr. Harper refers?”
Violet explained what had happened in Cavendish Square, while Portland frowned and grunted several times. “And were you responsible for this, Chandler?”
The falconer’s forehead beaded with sweat, despite the chill air surrounding them. “Your Grace, no! I—I—I hardly know Mrs. Harper or the colonel. Why should I wish harm on either of them?”
Violet jumped on the stammering falconer’s words. “I think you are involved in some monetary scheme involving the colonel, and when he did something you didn’t like—perhaps he refused a demand, or informed you that his will was to include someone else, or maybe he discovered your involvement in other mischief on the estate—you decided to murder him before he could cut you out or tell on you.”
“You don’t—I—This is all wrong,” Chandler mumbled in desperation, red-faced.
“Were you here to move the colonel’s body, just as Edward Bayes’s body was moved a week ago? Who else but you—what with your accompanying the ravens here on what I presume is a regular basis—would not draw suspicion, and would know this to be a good hiding place for a corpse?”
“I don’t know anything about hiding corpses. Your Grace, please let me explain. You see, the colonel occasionally came to see how the birds were doing in their training. He particularly liked the ravens. So I let him help sometimes—”
“Yet you said you hardly knew the colonel,” Sam interrupted. “You’ve just started your tale and already it’s a lie.”
Violet was worried that the falconer wouldn’t survive his own story if her husband had anything to do with it. “Sam, please,” she said, pleading.
Sam glared at Chandler but motioned for him to go on. The falconer took his case back to Portland.
“And so, Your Grace, I came to know the colonel a bit, but ’tweren’t as though we were friends, if you understand. Now I do remember the colonel saying to me—oh, probably a month or so ago—that he knew a great secret. A secret that could bring down the estate.” Chandler glanced furtively at Sam.
“What secret is this?” Portland asked gently, as though to blunt Sam’s anger.
“I don’t know, he never said. That’s the truth, Your Grace. I don’t know what he meant.”
Violet was absolutely certain there was very little truth in what Chandler said, but she had no way to prove it. She also couldn’t prove that Chandler had anything to do with the colonel’s death—just a strong suspicion combined with the man’s unexpected appearance at the crime scene.
Violet saw the reluctance on Portland’s face to do anything about disciplining his falconer.
“Mr. Chandler,” Portland finally said, gravely, “you have had serious allegations lodged against you in relation to my dear friend. Yet I believe it is in my best interest—and that of everyone who lives here—if we continue to investigate the matter further and not assume you to be guilty.”
Chandler’s relief was palpable, as was Sam’s disappointment.
“However,” Portland continued, “I think it might be best if you confined yourself to your quarters in the rookery for a time, eh? Until this is all sorted out, so that no one worries that you might flee.”
“But, Your Grace, the birds . . . Odysseus has been training on rabbits, and Sophocles has almost completely finished a maze I’ve built for him. I must be able to—”
“Very well. You may go from your quarters to the rookery.”
That was it? It didn’t seem like much of a confinement to Violet, given that that was how the falconer spent most of his days, anyway. Portland was terribly quick to grant leniency in this situation, but grief didn’t lend itself to good decision-making. Perhaps it was time the police were brought in. There was certainly no question whatsoever this time that a man had been murdered.
Apparently resigned to Portland’s pronouncement, Sam retrieved his cane, which now resembled a menacing weapon in his hand, and took Chandler by the arm to escort him back to the rookery, leaving Violet alone with Portland . . . and Colonel Mortimer’s body.
“Your Grace,” she said quietly, “would you like a moment alone with your old friend?”
Portland took a deep breath. “Poor George. Always such a tragic fellow.” He took a few steps forward in the direction that Violet was indicating, but then held back, refusing to approach too closely, and removed a black-trimmed handkerchief from his pocket, which he held to his nose.
That is odd, Violet thought. Does His Grace keep a supply of mourning handkerchiefs at his elbow, to be prepared in case of an unexpected death?
The duke stood quietly, gazing off in the direction of the colonel’s body, which was partially obscured by leaves and plant matter. Violet stepped away as quietly as possible to give him privacy. After several minutes, Portland called for her and she hurried back to his side.
“Return tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock to discuss George’s funeral with me, Mrs. Harper. I’m afraid such decisions are best left to a new day. I presume you will take care of his . . . more immediate needs?”
Violet knew that that was the duke’s way of telling her he needed time to grieve, and she would never argue with a mourner’s need for it. She turned to leave, but Portland was not quite finished. “Mrs. Harper, you must understand that I have never fired an employee here at Welbeck. Anyone who secures employment here has it for life. Everyone knows it, and I shouldn’t wish to have any other reputation.”
Violet nodded, although she didn’t agree with the duke’s philosophy. He turned back to the house, and she went to retrieve Sam to prevent him doing Chandler any great harm, before going on to arrange for the colonel’s body to be moved to his cottage.
27
Instead of escorting her to Portland’s private rooms the next morning, Kirby showed Violet into the cavernous dining room, and there she found Portland waiting for her. They sat down face-to-face in the location where Burton Spencer’s body had been laid out not two weeks ago. Violet suspected it was a measure of Portland’s respect for Colonel Mortimer that he was willing to spend such a lengthy amount of time outside of the protection of his privacy screen in order to discuss the man’s funeral.
Or perhaps he was finally getting used to Violet.
“George is . . . comfortable?” Portland asked. His expression was certainly more haggard than it had been yesterday, but he seemed to be bearing up stoically, especially given that this was the third death on his estate in just over two weeks, and this one involved his oldest friend. Actually, Violet wondered if Portland now considered anyone else to be a close confidant.
“Yes, Your Grace. He is laid out nicely on the dining room table in his cottage. Would you like to visit? I can accompany you—”
Portland held up a hand to stop her. “No, no, that will not be necessary. I cannot bear to see him in any manner other than the jovial fellow he was. He was my friend and comrade in arms, as you know, and he understood me like no one else ever has. George was the only man alive who knew of my affections for Miss Adelaide Kemble all those years ago, and never thought the worse of me when she married elsewhere.”
Apparently His Grace was not aware that just about everyone knew about his great passion for
the opera singer.
“As you wish.” Violet moved on with the preliminaries of the funeral, mainly what class of service the duke wished to purchase, given that the colonel had no other family to do so for him. Portland held up a hand again. “I’ll spare no expense on it. Provide the best of everything for him.”
Violet withheld a sigh. It was commendable that Portland wanted to do well by his friend, but the colonel wasn’t entitled to, say, a society funeral. However, there were ways to work around this. For example, the colonel could have a fancy coffin, but not the extras such as multiple ostrich-plumed horses and dozens of professional mourners, which were visible hallmarks of an upper-class funeral. This had to be broached delicately, so as not to offend Portland regarding the status of his friend.
“Your Grace, may I recommend that we honor your friend with an elegant coffin? I can obtain one in perhaps an elm burl—very popular with the society set—or perhaps in a finely finished mahogany.”
“Hmm. Those are nice choices, yes, but I’ve heard of glass coffins trimmed in brass. Very elegant and rare. Have you access to any of those?”
“Yes,” Violet said hesitantly, dreading the very thought of such a coffin. They weighed around three hundred pounds empty and were exceedingly fragile. The weight made them difficult for six pallbearers to manage, and their fragility meant that the slightest slip could result in shattered glass everywhere. They were the bane of an undertaker’s existence. She had to steer him away from the idea.
“Such a coffin will require eight pallbearers, not the usual six, because of the weight. Who do you think would be appropriate men to do this? They must all be of good size.” She couldn’t imagine that the colonel had eight men who would be considered friends on the estate and that this conundrum would veer Portland off of the idea.
Death at the Abbey Page 23