A Virtuous Death

by Christine Trent

  Violet was too stunned to reply.

  “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure, Miss, ah—” The reverend was stumbling, his face as pale as Violet’s was red.

  “Reverend, this is Mrs. Harper. She isn’t in mourning, despite her clothing. Or, rather, you could say she is in permanent mourning, like Mother. She’s the undertaker who prepared Father.”

  Duckworth nodded tightly, looking around the room as if he hoped he might find a hole into which he could disappear.

  “Mother hired her to work on a spiritual matter. Perhaps she could use your advice, Ducky.”

  The reverend was now so bloodless that his lips were quickly fading into his skin. Only his nose remained scarlet.

  “My assistance to the queen is of another nature than those concerned with God,” Violet said. “As, I suppose, your assistance to the princess is.” She quickly curtsied to Louise and turned to leave.

  “Mrs. Harper, just a moment. I must apologize. This isn’t as it looks. The reverend is merely a friend. We enjoy debating politics and religion. There’s no harm in having a friend, is there? Mother tolerates so few of them.”

  “I suppose not, Your Highness.”

  “You won’t tell her, will you? That Ducky and I are friends?”

  Duckworth’s eyes implored Violet as though he were a condemned man on the scaffold waiting for the king’s grace.

  “I am certain this is none of my business. I am, as you say, here for the queen’s spiritual matter.”

  Louise’s manner turned serious. “I do hope you are trustworthy, Mrs. Harper. Many lives would be ruined if Mother thought I was doing anything other than attending to her correspondence.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  Violet fled the room before the princess said anything more. Why would any lives other than Duckworth’s be ruined if the queen discovered Louise’s affections for him? And did this explain Louise’s mussed appearance and straw-embedded hem before? Was she trysting with Prince Leopold’s tutor in the stables, his classroom, and wherever else she could find privacy?

  Violet supposed that Duckworth’s indiscretion with Louise could amount to some sort of treason, but surely this wasn’t what Mr. Brown knew and was afraid to tell the queen. Although, quite frankly, Violet herself trembled at the thought of having to share such news with Victoria. Perhaps it was best that she kept this to herself.

  Winterbourne Manor, Wiltshire

  Reese sat in the servants’ hall, waiting for dinner to be served by Mrs. Welby, Winterbourne’s cook. The kitchen maids were scrambling to put jugs of water and trays of turnips and potatoes on the long table, which had chairs lining the length of it on either side.

  As backbreaking as his own work could be, at least he didn’t work in the kitchens, where you served not only the master and his family but also the rest of the staff. Those poor girls probably only slept four or five hours each night.

  Each new maid hired always flirted with Reese, hoping for his attentions, but he wasn’t interested. His plan had always been to go home to Wales to marry and to give his half sister, Margaret, a place to live with him and whomever he might take as a wife.

  Of course, everything about his life and plans was ruined now, wasn’t it?

  The head butler said grace and they tucked into Mrs. Welby’s boiled beef. For a while, there was no sound except that of forks and knives scraping plates, but eventually Runyon, who loved nothing more than the sound of his own voice, broke the silence.

  “Anyone read the paper today?” he asked.

  Reese resisted the urge to throw his knife directly into the man’s chest. Runyon knew that many of Winterbourne’s staff could barely read. Perhaps he should aim it at the man’s heart. He might even be cheered for it. Huzzah, Meredith did away with the stupid scrut.

  Instead, Reese speared another piece of beef and ignored the other groom.

  “You recall the story of the coal miner riots in Flintshire? That’s in Wales, for those of you who don’t know.

  “Anyway, a coroner’s inquest was held regarding the soldiers who fired on the crowd. Seems like the coroner was a doddering old fool, so deaf that he had to take evidence through an ear trumpet. Can you imagine? The jury turned in a verdict of ‘justifiable homicide’ on the soldiers, so they were let free. I expect there will be more riots. What’s the matter with you, Meredith? You look like you’ve swallowed a toad.”

  Reese twisted the knife between his thumb and forefinger. “Nothing,” he muttered.

  Runyon turned his attention back to the rest of the staff. “But the news isn’t over in Wales. On the tenth of June, there was an explosion at the Ferndale colliery in Rhondda. Fifty-three people were killed.”

  “Fifty-three!” Mrs. Welby said. “What a terrible shame. Imagine even wanting to work in one of those mines, deep underground. So very dark and dusty.” She shuddered. “I’m glad I have my good place here.”

  “We all have good places, Mrs. Welby,” the butler said.

  Reese harrumphed, covering the sound with a napkin to his mouth.

  Runyon picked up the story. “Rumor has it that the colliery owner hadn’t implemented safety precautions after another explosion two years ago. Despite that, there won’t be any criminal prosecution against him. The rich always have friends, don’t they?”

  “I’d like to be rich one day,” Agnes said. She was the most recent housemaid hired and Reese remembered her cornering him at the door leading to the male servants’ quarters one night. He’d had a hard time removing himself from her clutches.

  “Sure you would, Agnes,” Runyon said. “And I’m hoping to be the King of England one day, myself.”

  The maid blushed, and Reese almost felt bad for her having to endure the other groom’s insults.

  “May I be excused, sir?” Reese asked the butler. “I don’t feel well.”

  “Yes, Meredith, you do look a bit green.”

  Reese fled the dining hall for his room. Once there, he went to his clothes chest and dug down into one of the drawers, his fingers searching for a particular scrap. Ah, there it was. He pulled it out and sat on his bed, lighting his lamp against the fading daylight so he could see it better.

  It was a sketch of Margaret that she had made of herself when they were still children. She’d had remarkable talent, even then, but of course her destiny would never have been anything more than that of a servant.

  The picture was amateurish, but still he could make out her lovely, rounded cheeks and full lips, her wild, untamed hair and pearly teeth. All of which now moldered in the earth in who knew what sort of anonymous grave.

  Which reminded him that his second anonymous letter to The Times still hadn’t been printed. Certainly it wasn’t lost a second time. No, he was being deliberately ignored. That proved that the editor was just another rich society member, eager to protect the aristocrats above him.

  How bitter was the herb of realization that people like him and Margaret were as nothing, just beef bones to be tossed to the dogs. His stomach burned at the thought.

  With burning, though, came clarity. As the night grew black and still, Reese’s mind glowed with activity. By sunrise, he knew with certainty that something must be done.

  Some action that would make the nation take note, to force a halt to the careless treatment of his people.

  Someone must be held to account.

  It was of no use to appeal to newspapers. They were his enemies, too. No, he had to act against those at the top of the aristocratic pile.

  He nodded grimly to himself before finally rolling over to sleep.

  Yes, it was the queen and those who surrounded her who were the ones responsible. They would be held to account.

  Scotland Yard, London

  Detective Chief Inspector Magnus Pompey Hurst had just returned to London from a visit to Brighton and was eager to get back to his duties at Scotland Yard. His visit had not been fruitful, and he wanted nothing more than to forget about it. For although he
’d told everyone that he’d gone there for rest and relaxation along the seaside, the true mission of his visit had been to find a wife.

  He’d carefully considered what he was doing. It was June, so all of the society misses would be in London for the Season. They were out of his class—and who wanted a spoiled brat, anyway?—so he figured that the unattached women left would be a more appropriate field of choice. Brighton was his selected locale, since it was such a popular seaside spot for holidays.

  He’d prided himself at the time on how his analytical skills had enabled him to make such a clever deduction. Unfortunately, he’d forgotten his own qualities in his cerebral reasoning and it turned out that very few unattached women were particularly interested in a giant bear of a man entering his fifties who had little to offer except vastly superior skills of deduction.

  One had even laughed when he introduced himself to her, calling him the Centurion.

  No, the visit had been very unsuccessful, so now that he was back in London he would throw himself back into his work. It was where he belonged. What was he thinking, trying to charm women when his days were typically filled with browbeating criminals?

  During one of his most recent murder cases, he’d even found himself bullying a lady undertaker, not that the woman had put up with much of it.

  Anyway, his interlude at Brighton was best forgotten. That particular case was not only closed but also sealed away in a vault. It was good to be back to the frantic pace of Scotland Yard, and if Commissioner Henderson’s dour look was any indication, he was about to hand Hurst and Second-Class Inspector Langley Pratt a very interesting assignment. The two of them sat down expectantly across from Henderson’s desk.

  “Inspectors Hurst and Pratt, I’ve received some rather curious information from Mr. Walter over at The Times.” Henderson scratched at his side-whiskers, which gave Hurst the uncomfortable desire to scratch at his own. “He’s received some rather unusually threatening letters.”

  “He’s a newspaper publisher,” Hurst said. “I imagine he receives them all the time.”

  Langley Pratt, Hurst’s junior by fifteen years, silently nodded in agreement.

  “Yes, but these have concerned him enough to come to us. I’ve told him you would visit him at his offices this morning to discuss the situation.”

  “Why Scotland Yard? Why can’t the police handle this?” This assignment wasn’t interesting at all.

  “Because Mr. Walter is concerned that the writer is a madman, who just might be targeting the queen herself.”

  Well, that would certainly be an interesting case. Suddenly Magnus Pompey Hurst’s outlook brightened considerably.

  Printing House Square, London

  The Times’s offices rattled and hummed above the basement filled with printing presses, which must have run day and night, spewing out copy after copy on a single day’s news, while the paper’s editor sat upstairs completing his daily tasks.

  If the number of paper piles on a desk was any indicator, John Walter III was a busy man. And although he was a busy man, he was never too busy for tidiness, for the piles were arranged neatly by size. Just as neatly as he maintained his own clothing around his portly figure.

  Walter had inherited The Times from his father, John Walter II, and Walter fully expected his own son, also John, to run the concern one day.

  A profitable concern it was. The paper had been ahead of all other London newspapers for many years now, which most people attributed to John Walter III’s conscientious character.

  Even The Times building, with its rows of ordered windows and finely manicured lawn behind a wrought-iron gate, reflected the mind of a highly principled, scrupulous owner.

  Each paper was printed in rolls on his newly invented Walter press, each roll nearly four miles long and with about thirty rolls used each day. Circulation was well over thirty thousand.

  Above all, John Walter III enjoyed order, religious study, and the smell of hot black ink.

  A breathless assistant entered Walter’s office, carrying a stack of mail. Walter preferred to go through citizens’ letters to the editors personally, and there were typically dozens to go through each day.

  Reading the concerns of his fellow Londoners not only gave him an indication of what stories the paper should be covering but also assisted him in his role as the member from Berkshire in the House of Commons.

  Walter put on his wire-rimmed glasses, so unfortunately necessary these days to read anything. As he carefully sliced open the envelopes with a brass letter opener, he started two new piles on his desk. To one pile he would place letters he deemed Publishable, and to the other would be consigned letters that were Unpublishable.

  Today’s collection had the usual assortment of people either praising or condemning various politicians, expressing concern over the Princess Alix’s delicate condition, or postulating Christian views over prostitution, drunkenness, and other social woes. It was this third category of letter he liked best, but in any case, only the most civilized letters would be printed.

  He’d recently received a couple of letters where the sender had so badly mangled the spelling of the newspaper’s address that it was a wonder it had even arrived. Ink blotches suggested the writer was not used to managing a pen, either.

  They were missives from “A Citizen Concerned for Coal Miners’ Rights,” and they were as poorly worded and spelled as their envelopes and made nearly illegible from ink smudges. However, the thrust of the letters declared outrage over recent events at a colliery in Wales.

  Walter was well aware of the situation, having listened to George Osborne Morgan rail about what was going on with his countrymen in Parliament.

  Walter had considered printing the letters but, upon closer inspection, realized that “Citizen” was throwing blame for the Mold riots at the queen, demanding that she publicly apologize for her foolish, senseless, and stupid treatment of the Welsh.

  This had made The Times publisher bristle with indignation. Queen Victoria was a deeply religious woman, sharing many of his own views. There was much to admire in a woman who had done her duty to her people by not only producing many children to carry on the royal line but also constantly desiring to always do good.

  The implication that she was less than upright in her dealings with her people hadn’t sat well with him. He reread the jumbles of words and thoughts and decided that the letters sounded as though they were from a madman. A madman bearing wild and illogical grudges. Undoubtedly he was from Wales. Were all of the Welsh this deranged?

  Walter had added the letters to the Unpublishable pile each time they had arrived. Eventually, though, his conscience began bothering him. What if this fool intended to do something? Walter had finally decided to send word to Scotland Yard about it and was now waiting for two detectives to arrive.

  An assistant rapped on the door. “The two gents you said were coming have arrived, sir.”

  Walter checked the neatness of his paper piles one last time before going to greet the detectives.

  “How do you stand the noise?” the one named Hurst asked Walter as he and his junior colleague followed him back down the corridor to a door with a glass inset stenciled “Mr. Walter, Publisher” on it.

  “What noise do you mean? That of the presses? I stopped hearing it long ago. Besides, that is the sound of news being created, for consumption by anyone who can read. It is a marvel!”

  Inspector Hurst clearly had no appreciation for the newspaper industry, for he replied with, “Yes, quite. Commissioner Henderson says you have information about a possible plot against the queen?”

  Walter lifted a packet from his desk and opened it. “I’ve received two very disturbing letters from someone who calls himself ‘A Citizen Concerned for Coal Miners’ Rights.’ They are poorly worded, practically illiterate, but he is very passionate on his topic.” Walter went silent as he began rereading the correspondence.

  “And this topic is . . .” Hurst prompted.

&
nbsp; “Yes, the man—I am quite certain it is a man, as a woman would be incapable of expressing such stark and unadulterated rage—is obsessed with the recent coal miner riots in Wales.”

  “Permit me to interrupt, Mr. Walter. We have witnessed women committing unspeakable acts. In fact, just recently a nurse named Catherine Wilson was terrorizing certain parts of England, killing patients after convincing them to write her into their wills.”

  Inspector Hurst was proving quite tiresome. Did he believe that in his years in the newspaper industry he’d had no experience with the evil desires of both sexes? “Of course, I submit to your greater knowledge, Inspector, but I have been reading letters to this paper for many years, and I am quite confident these are from a man.”

  “Maybe they were written by a man but dictated by a woman,” Pratt said.

  “Don’t be helpful,” Hurst said. “Go on, Mr. Walter, what do the letters say?”

  “Would you care to read them for yourself?” He passed a letter to each of the detectives.

  Hurst glanced at the letter and blinked at the abomination of misspellings and spidery handwriting. He handed it back to Walter. “I think we will rely on your translation, sir.”

  Pratt returned his letter, too. “All I can make out is the ‘Citizen Concerned’ signature.”

  “The writing is, obviously, rambling and incoherent,” Walter said. “I’ve seen many of these sorts of embittered letters before, but these two are particularly . . . virulent. From the cadence, I’d say the writer is a Welshman. I am fairly certain the author is outraged over the Mold riots that have taken place recently, and somehow blames our gracious queen for them, as well as every member of the peerage. It would seem that the fires of hell are the least of the punishments that should be meted out upon them all.”

  Walter put the letter down. “His tone was inflamed enough that I became concerned that he truly means to do something drastic. I thought it imperative that I contact the authorities.”