Death at the Abbey

by Christine Trent

  Ah, a fine jab and twist of the knife Chandler had executed there. “Don’t attempt to befuddle me, Mr. Chandler. It won’t work.”

  The falconer shrugged and Violet stormed off, irritated that she had once again permitted Chandler to annoy her. As she got farther away from the rookery and Chandler’s derision, her mind wandered over what he had told her. In reality, his story of having partnered with the colonel for some sort of ephemeral buried treasure might sound like a child’s story on the surface, but it explained much. And would Chandler have risked being caught and hanged merely to double the enormous fortune he already thought he would find? Chandler was cocky, but didn’t strike Violet as an idiot.

  If she accepted Chandler’s entire story as true, though, then who killed the colonel, and why? Was it coincidental that he was murdered in the same location where Bayes had been found? Had the colonel and Bayes been privy to something illicit, something that had resulted in their deaths to ensure they never revealed what they had seen?

  Had she not dug far enough into Edward Bayes’s past? Perhaps it was time to pay his widow another visit.

  28

  In front of Mrs. Bayes’s home, several burly men were shoving crates into a van emblazoned with “Whipman-Wood Transport” on the side of it, while her children chased one another through the piles of belongings waiting to be loaded. Since the door stood wide open, Violet rapped several times on the door frame and let herself in. “Mrs. Bayes?” she called out.

  “Edward’s clothes is outside in the green trunk, Mrs. Meadows,” called out a voice from somewhere inside the home.

  “Mrs. Bayes, it’s me, Violet Harper.”

  “What?” In moments, the widow appeared in the front room, dressed in a garish lime-green-and-red dress, the sleeves of which were too long. “Oh, I thought you was Mrs. Meadows from the Prisoners’ Aid Society. I’m giving all of Edward’s clothes to ’em. I’m moving into my new cottage today and my income starts next week.” She frowned. “Where’s Charlie?”

  “I believe he’s outside with his brothers.”

  Her expression completely distracted, Mrs. Bayes swept past Violet and went outside, giving Charlie an earful about not breaking anything or getting himself hurt. The widow returned, breathless from her lecture. “ ’Ow may I ’elp you, Mrs. ’Arper?” she said.

  “My apologies that my timing is so inconvenient. I didn’t realize you were moving today. In any case, this couldn’t have waited until you were settled onto the estate. I was wondering if you could tell me what your husband’s job duties as purser were at Welbeck?” On her way into town, Violet had decided that perhaps she might establish how the man’s duties might have caused him to interact with others on the estate. If she could establish links between Bayes, Colonel Mortimer, and Spencer, perhaps she could then figure out who the murderer or perhaps murderers were.

  “ ’Is duties?” Mrs. Bayes said, her expression bewildered. “ ’Ow would I know? ’E just scribbled in ’is book all the time when ’e was ’ome. I don’t know what ’e did when ’e was at Welbeck.”

  “His book? Was he writing a novel? A memoir of his time in the navy?”

  Mrs. Bayes shrugged. “Can’t say as I much paid ’im attention.”

  Of course not. The widow Bayes would not be one for being interested in her husband’s work, although Violet suspected that Edward Bayes wasn’t the type of man that women could be that interested in generally.

  “Do you have this book? I would like to see it.”

  Mrs. Bayes sighed and offered Violet an exasperated look. “Now ’ow am I supposed to know where it’s packed away?”

  No, she wasn’t likely to remember where she had tossed her late, but not lamented, husband’s personal belongings. “Perhaps you might allow me to search for it? It might be important to my investigation of your husband’s death.”

  The widow’s gaze narrowed. “What investigation? Is this about all them questions you were asking about before? I’m still to get my cottage, aren’t I?”

  “Mrs. Bayes, this has nothing to do with your cottage. I just want to ensure your husband gets the justice he deserves.”

  Margaret Bayes paused, as if weighing the truth—and, more importantly, the value—of Violet’s claim, then shrugged. “If you can find it, you can gawp over it.”

  It didn’t take long for Violet to find a shabby trunk with Edward Bayes’s personal items hastily thrown inside it. Among the items tossed on top of a nicely tooled leather volume were smoking pipes, tobacco, a ship’s compass with a cracked dome, and an old leather collar, making her wonder if he had been in charge of the care of a ship’s cat when he was off in New Zealand.

  Kneeling next to the trunk, Violet pulled out the book that she assumed had to be Bayes’s mysterious work, and was surprised at how fine the gold-embossed burgundy leather was. Such a volume must have cost someone like Bayes a great deal, an indicator of how valuable the contents were to him.

  With the book propped up against the lip of the trunk, Violet opened it to the middle and flipped backward through the creamy pages filled with sepia-brown ink. This definitely wasn’t a novel. Nor was it a memoir.

  She then flipped through the pages from the middle to the end. The book was only about two-thirds full of scribbling. As Violet continued studying it, understanding finally dawned. Her vision blurred, and she felt sick to her stomach at the realization of what had really happened to Edward Bayes, and how Colonel Mortimer and Burton Spencer played into it all. What made her even queasier was the realization that she had been right about one thing: there was more than one murderer involved.

  What was she to do now, with Bayes’s widow in the next room, waiting for Violet to leave so she could resume her journey to her new cottage at Welbeck? Violet couldn’t leave this in Mrs. Bayes’s possession, as there was no telling what the woman would do with it if she realized what Violet now understood. With her heart hammering, she returned to the outer room.

  “Mrs. Bayes, I was wondering if I might borrow this for a short time, to study it further.”

  As Violet had feared, the widow became suspicious. “For what? Did ’e write something stupid? Are you planning to show it to ’Is Grace? I won’t be denied my—”

  “No, Mrs. Bayes,” Violet said patiently. “This won’t impact your move to Welbeck today. In fact, I can return the book to your new cottage once I am finished with it.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s all right then, I suppose.” The widow still eyed Violet suspiciously, as though Violet somehow had the power of denial over Portland’s generosity toward his worker’s wife.

  Violet carried the book back to Worksop Inn to share it with Sam, holding it as though it were precious cargo, like a newborn infant. In fact, the book did carry the power of life and death for someone at Welbeck Abbey.

  Sam agreed that she now held the answer in her hands, even if there were a few missing pieces. However, he urged caution. “Don’t run back to Welbeck with your gun half out of its holster,” Sam cautioned. “You have to show this to His Grace first.”

  “But what if he doesn’t grant me the ability to accuse the right parties of their crimes? You know how peculiar the man is about any whisper of scandal.” Had Violet raised her voice at her husband? She was becoming jittery over her newfound knowledge.

  Sam smiled at her. “My love, the one charge we can confidently level at the Duke of Portland is that he cares about what happens to his workers. He entrusted you with finding the answer to these deaths, and you have found it. He will comply with your desire to call out the enemies of his estate.”

  Violet nodded. Sam was right; she was bordering on hysteria for no reason.

  “However, what I will not comply with is the idea that you will make any accusations outside of my presence.” Sam tapped the ground with his cane for emphasis. “Is that understood?” He cupped a hand around the back of her neck and kissed her forehead.

  “Well then, you should plan on a very busy day tomorrow,” she
replied, hoping she herself would be able to achieve at least ten minutes of sleep during the night.

  29

  Not only was Portland amenable to Violet’s plan for confrontation, he expanded the idea, suggesting that she do so in the ballroom, where most of the household staff were gathered making final preparations for the All Hallows’ Eve festivities.

  “It eliminates any rumors being spread about the estate if most of them hear it with their own ears. And this way they can go straight from the unpleasantness into the joy of their apple bobbing and such,” Portland said confidently as he pulled another black-edged handkerchief from a cache of them at his elbow. Apparently, he really did keep mourning handkerchiefs on hand.

  Violet thought Portland’s idea made about as much sense as going from a funeral directly to a fancy ball, but she was glad that the duke would participate in her plan.

  Even if it was from behind a wood screen especially set up in the ballroom for the purpose.

  Violet had discussed with the butler the specific people who needed to be present, and he rounded them up—as well as other estate staff—using some form of excuse known only to him.

  Sam, too, was given a particular role to play, although he was none too happy at the thought that it required him to be out of Violet’s presence for even a short while.

  At noon, Violet traveled through a tunnel into the ballroom, where dozens of servants were moving their planned games and activities from the center of the open space to locations lining the wall. Upon seeing the undertaker, most of them frowned in confusion. Kirby must have told them just enough that they knew Violet was responsible for disrupting their plans.

  By one o’clock, everyone had drifted in. Mrs. Garside was bent over a vent, sniffing, while Judith stood patiently nearby. In a corner, Mrs. Neale was lecturing Olive, who gazed over the woman’s shoulder at Chandler. The footman, Miles Hudock, stood rigidly at one of the entrances to the ballroom.

  A group of young men whom Violet suspected were the resident home children, since Gilbert Lewis was among them, were on the floor to one side. They were huddled over a staking board, playing Pope Joan, almost as if they had known in advance there would be a wait. She noticed a house servant kick one of them for being in the way. The home child looked up, oblivious, then returned to his hand of cards.

  Ellery Reed watched the home children’s play from a distance, and started when the servant placed his well-aimed kick, but the anger left his face quickly. Violet knew Mr. Reed was probably working out for himself that a confrontation with the house servant in this tense and uncertain situation wasn’t worthwhile.

  Jack LeCato stood apart from everyone else, gazing at Violet speculatively. She didn’t care for his scrutiny. Margaret Bayes, however, stood eyeing LeCato with overt interest. Violet was amused to imagine the government agent fending the woman off.

  For once, Molly Spriggs didn’t hold a lantern, but a deck of cards, which she constantly rearranged in her hands while nervously licking her lips.

  Even Parris, the head gardener, was down here, looking completely ill at ease in his palatial surroundings, but not as apprehensive as Martin Chandler, who might as well have been under arrest already, what with the shadow of guilt darkening his face.

  William Pearson, the duke’s valet, stood guard in front of the wood screen, behind which sat his master like an eerie specter. Henry Bentinck had even been summoned from his own home, and stood chatting amiably through the screen, as though his brother’s detachment in public gatherings was perfectly normal.

  Once she saw that everyone had been assembled, Violet nodded to Hudock, who rapped sharply on the door to get everyone’s attention. She took a deep breath before beginning her story. It was awkward that she was leading this discussion, but Portland had refused to take center stage, and no one else was privy to the answers to what had happened at Welbeck over the past two weeks. She just hoped that guilt and fear wouldn’t cause someone to commit an unfortunate, stupid act.

  Violet raised her voice, and it reverberated off the walls and ceiling of the subterranean room. “You all know me as the undertaker who first came to Welbeck Abbey to bury poor little Aristotle, His Grace’s favorite raven.”

  “Poor little bird,” Mrs. Garside echoed, pulling a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbing at her eyes.

  Violet ignored her. “Remarkably, the story of Aristotle’s death reaches far back into the previous century, when the famous Cavendish sisters defended Welbeck Abbey from the Roundheads.”

  “That old legend?” Henry Bentinck scoffed. “How could that possibly have anything to do with the evil going on here today?”

  Violet calmly accepted the rebuke. “I understand your skepticism, sir, as I, too, was quite astonished when I learned the truth of it.”

  She explained the falconer’s conspiracy with Colonel Mortimer to locate the buried silver, then turned to where Chandler stood, nodding miserably at her revelation of his perfidy.

  “It was an unfortunate way for Mr. Chandler and Colonel Mortimer to repay His Grace’s generosity to both of them. Regardless, shortly after Aristotle’s death, the body of Burton Spencer was found, and it appeared that he had fallen and struck his head on a nearby rock. When I arrived at the scene, Mr. Kirby and Mr. LeCato stood over the body. When I later inspected Mr. Spencer, I realized that he hadn’t been killed by an accidental fall, but that he had been violently struck in the chest, then again in the head by the rock, as evidenced by the terrible bruising on his chest that accompanied his mauled head.”

  Several female servants gasped. Perhaps Violet shouldn’t have been so graphic.

  “The next morning, Colonel Mortimer came to His Grace, reporting that he had witnessed a murder—a strangulation. But he admitted that it had been dark when he saw it, and he knew neither who the attacker was nor who the victim was. I made the mistake of assuming that Spencer was the victim. He was not. The victim the colonel had witnessed being killed while he was out searching for dig holes in the dark was actually Edward Bayes, and Bayes was killed almost immediately after Spencer.”

  “What? That’s not possible,” Ellery Reed interjected. “I was summoned from town to bear witness to Spencer’s body, and that was days before you found Bayes.”

  Violet nodded. “Yes, Spencer was found days before Bayes, but in fact he died only a short time before Bayes.”

  “How could you possibly know this?” Reed asked.

  “I initially suspected that the colonel had something to do with Spencer’s death, although I couldn’t fathom what it was. When I discovered a piece of a glass eye at Bayes’s murder scene, I realized that Colonel Mortimer had been mistaken in the murder he had witnessed. However, it was the fact that he had witnessed Bayes’s murder that made him a victim, as well. Perhaps he confronted the murderer on his own in an attempt to bring him to justice. I don’t know.” In Violet’s opinion, it was most likely that the colonel had actually demanded a bribe to keep quiet, but she might never know the answer to that question, and she had no desire to disparage the colonel’s memory in front of Portland.

  “So the murderer would eventually kill the colonel to prevent him from revealing who had killed Bayes. What confused me, though, was whether I was dealing with one killer or two.”

  “Two?” Margaret Bayes’s eyes were wide with fear. “You mean one person killed Colonel Mortimer and Mr. Spencer, and someone else killed my beloved Edward?”

  Now he was her “beloved Edward.” Was that bit of affection for Jack LeCato’s or Portland’s benefit?

  “No, Mrs. Bayes. I don’t mean that at all. I mean that one person killed Colonel Mortimer and your husband, but it was your husband who murdered Burton Spencer.”

  A chilled silence descended on the room like a graveyard fog. Margaret Bayes’s voice was barely a squeak now. “Why would ’e do that?”

  “Why indeed. I was very confused by the entire scenario myself until I ran into Gilbert Lewis at the telegram office a few days ago. Th
ere, I learned that there is a home children program that has been established in Great Britain that offers orphans a chance for new lives through relocation to farms and factories in Canada.”

  “Mrs. Harper,” Reed interjected, “please . . .” He cast a glance at Lewis and the other boys, as if pleading with her not to embarrass them by calling out their status. It was unfortunate, but she had to expose the ugly details of what had happened.

  “His Grace knew about these boys, and was pleased to offer them a chance to learn construction skills before they left for their new homes, but he didn’t know that the housing of these young men at Welbeck was a sad state of affairs. His Grace insisted that they be paid fairly, like every other worker, and Mr. Reed developed a plan to have their wages saved until such time that they were to depart, in order to provide them with a good start in Canada.

  “Mr. Bayes, though, revealed his dirty deeds to me in death, inside a ledger he kept, which detailed the manner in which he was altering Mr. Reed’s savings records, to remove a little for himself out of each boy’s pay. When it came time for their departure, he would see to it that they received less money, and how were they—or anyone else, for that matter—really to know the difference? Mr. Bayes wisely kept this ledger at home, out of the sight of anyone at Welbeck, lest he be immediately dismissed. After all, even a man as generous as His Grace would be unable to tolerate that.”

  “Dear God,” Reed said. “The effrontery of the man!”

  The boys stared at one another, open-mouthed. Violet hated that she had to shock them all further. “Burton Spencer figured it out somehow. Perhaps Mr. Bayes had taunted him over it one day while in his cups and more likely to wag his tongue. Spencer was a sizable young man, and probably assumed he could bully Mr. Bayes into more money for him to keep him quiet about Bayes’s scheme. But poor Spencer underestimated Bayes’s strength, and it resulted in his death.”