A Virtuous Death

by Christine Trent

  “You were quite right to do so,” Hurst said.

  “Yes,” Pratt added. “I remember when I was a bobby working in Hackney. A man left anonymous, threatening letters with a bookseller for supposedly inserting indecent prints inside women’s romance novels. We managed to—”

  Hurst cut the junior detective off with, “Have you a department that handles the post? Does someone there know whether the letters were hand delivered?”

  “Yes, we do have a specific department to handle each day’s post—which runs into hundreds of letters and packages, as you might imagine—and the boy who received both letters remembered that they came via the post. I did question him closely, and he specifically recalled them because of the atrocious handwriting on the envelopes.”

  “I appreciate your diligence, Mr. Walter, although we’d like to question the boy ourselves.”

  “Of course, Chief Inspector.” Walter rose and spoke through a tube jutting out from the wall, and soon an escort presented himself at the door to take the inspectors to the mailroom. Before they left, Walter said, “Gentlemen, if I may. I have had extensive conversations with most of my employees, and I don’t believe you will gain anything of use there. May I recommend that you investigate hotels around Buckingham Palace, to see if any Welshmen have recently checked in for extended stays?”

  Hurst gave him a thoroughly exasperated look. “Why do all of London’s tradespeople think they need to tell me my business?”

  But Walter noticed that as they departed Hurst was already instructing Pratt to visit several hotels around Belgravia and Westminster.

  Violet was still pondering Louise’s curious summons as she once again entered the Buckingham Palace mews, the place where Louise wanted to meet her. Violet stood in the courtyard, undertaking bag in hand per request, not sure where to go, since Louise hadn’t been specific about where to find her, only that she must come immediately to see about a death.

  The area was bustling with its usual activities—carriage maintenance, horse exercise, manure hauling—and, in the distance, Violet heard the snorting of horses and clipped commands of trainers working with them. Yet there was no sign of the princess.

  A young groom with closely cropped dark hair approached Violet, holding the reins of the horse who obediently clopped behind him. “Help you, miss?” he asked.

  “I’m looking for the Princess Louise.”

  “She isn’t scheduled to ride out for another half hour. Besides, she’d be picked up at the palace; she wouldn’t come here. What is your purpose here?”

  “My name is Violet Harper and I—”

  “You’re that undertaker everyone talks about. You’re planning to perform an exorcism or some such for Her Majesty.”

  “No, no, that isn’t my purpose at all.”

  He eyed her bag suspiciously. “Do you have potions and crucifixes in there?”

  “Of course not. This bag contains my—never mind. I just need to find the princess. She asked me to meet her here.”

  “Here? Are you sure? This isn’t a fit place for a member of the family.”

  “Nevertheless, I must wait for her here.”

  At that moment, Violet saw Louise emerge from one of the many doors leading to the stable workers’ quarters. What was she doing up there? The princess came down one of the rickety iron staircases as elegantly as she could, giving Violet a wave as she did so.

  The groom was nonplussed. “Now that’s strange,” he muttered as he took leave of Violet with his unsaddled horse following amiably.

  Louise was breathless and flustered by the time she reached Violet, who dipped into a curtsy. “Please, no more of that, Mrs. Harper. I suspect that after today we shall be friends. Or, if not friends, confederates. Come, come, we must leave right away.” She called out to the groom who had just questioned Violet, “A carriage to Gainsburgh House in Belgravia, right away. Nothing fancy.”

  “Yes, Your Highness. You’ll not be wanting the other carriage, then?”

  “No, I’ve changed my mind and wish to leave right away.”

  They waited as the groom hurried to do Louise’s bidding. “You don’t want Mr. Brown to escort us?” Violet asked.

  “Absolutely not. What an idea. What made you think of such a thing?”

  Violet shook her head. “I am perhaps mistaken in my thoughts. My apologies.”

  “My mother’s . . . I don’t know what to call him . . . is the last one I’d want to have word of this,” Louise said as she was handed into the carriage with Violet right behind her.

  “Word of what, exactly, Princess? All I know is it regards a death.”

  Louise looked out the window for several moments as the carriage made its way out of the mews and onto Buckingham Palace Road, heading south to wherever their destination was. People walking about near the entrance of the mews craned their necks to see who was inside the carriage and waved upon seeing Princess Louise. She graciously returned the waves. Once the carriage was clear of the mews and the onlookers, she turned back to Violet.

  “It’s my friend, Lady Maud Winter. She’s the daughter of the Duke of Gainsburgh. She’s dead.” Louise said this flatly, as though she were referring to an expired pigeon found outside her window. Violet knew, though, that many people reacted in such a stilted manner when learning of a loved one’s death, tending to deal more with the logistics of death rather than the emotions. It allowed them to swallow their pain until a more private moment.

  “I am deeply grieved for Your Highness.”

  Louise pulled a monogrammed handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. “Yes, well, she was ill for quite some time. It is my wish that you prepare Lady Maud’s body for burial.”

  “Pardon me, but won’t the family want to call in their own undertaker?”

  “I’ve already sent word that I was bringing the royal undertaker. They will be pleased to see you. Ah, we’re here.”

  The carriage rolled to a stop outside a magnificent stone residence with pillars impressively reaching up four stories.

  “There’s just one thing you should know before you see Lady Maud,” Louise said as the door was opened and a gloved hand appeared to help her down the fold-out steps of the carriage.

  “Yes, Your Highness?”

  Louise didn’t hesitate in her next statement. “Her family believes she died naturally; however, I know for certain that she was murdered.”

  4

  Gainsburgh House was heavy with the air of grief. It was a combination of disbelief, anguish, and exhaustion that blended together into an invisible fog that permeated the corridors and stairways of any home that had experienced a death. Despite the tall painted and gilded ceilings of the duke’s residence, it, too, suffered from the fog, which always settled down to the floor and wrapped itself around the feet and shoulders of the grieving, making their movements wooden and sluggish.

  The duke and his wife attempted royal courtesies, but Louise stopped them by kissing them each on the cheek and hugging the duchess to her. The ducal couple looked almost alike in their bereavement, and both offered the princess sad, quivering smiles and murmured words of appreciation.

  “We knew this would eventually happen, since she was so tender and fragile,” Lady Gainsburgh said. “But this is so soon. I can hardly realize it.”

  The duchess dabbed at her nose with a square of lawn fabric that had been worked and worried into tatters.

  As Violet stood by somberly, her bag in both hands in front of her, Louise directed the action.

  “Your Graces, may I present Mrs. Harper? She is the undertaker who attended my father.”

  “Yes, right. I suppose you’ll want to see my daughter straightaway?” the duke said.

  “When you’re ready, sir. I can wait.”

  “We may as well go ahead and—”

  “Princess!” A young boy, no more than ten years old, bounded into the grand entryway from somewhere behind the dual staircase.

  “Master Arthur,” Louise
said. “I’ve come to pay respects to your sister.”

  This caused him to frown. “Yes, Papa says she has gone to see Tubby, my old beagle. I wish she would come back soon. It will be dark and she won’t be able to see.”

  The emotional fog grew thicker, as neither of Arthur’s parents knew quite what to say to their son’s guileless comment. In the end, the duke merely told the boy to go play and escorted Louise and Violet up one side of the staircase.

  Violet was the first to enter Lady Maud’s bedroom. The others held back as if waiting for a pronouncement from her. As was her custom, she first took a deep breath inside the room. It was fragrant, smelling faintly of rosewater perfume. Maud’s death was indeed fresh, lacking the mustiness, and eventual smell of decay, that took over beginning a day or so after death, especially for those already rotting inside from disease and ill health.

  Now it was Violet’s turn to take command.

  Lady Maud Winter lay on top of the bedcoverings, her hair long and loose and her hands clasped together.

  With sensitivity toward the family, but mindful of Louise’s concern of foul play, Violet said, “Your daughter passed in peaceful repose. Quite unusual.” This elicited the response she hoped for.

  “No, no, I moved her,” Maud’s father said. “She was on the floor when we found her. She never answered the call for breakfast, so finally our butler came up to check on her and found her . . . found her . . .” The duke swallowed, trying to choke down his misery, but was unable to continue.

  “I understand. You’ve done a fine job with your daughter. She looks very sweet and dignified. May I suggest that I finish her preparations, then we can sit down and discuss her funeral?”

  At the word “funeral,” Lady Gainsburgh’s eyes started watering again.

  The duke took his wife by the elbow. “My dear, why don’t we go downstairs and leave the undertaker to tend to Maud?”

  As the young lady’s parents departed, Lady Gainsburgh stopped. “Please, do as little as possible to our dear girl. We want her to remain as pure in death as she was in life.”

  Violet nodded. “You may rely upon me, Your Grace.”

  The ducal couple left, but Louise remained behind. “Do you see?”

  “See what, Princess?”

  “Maud was found on the floor, not in her bed as if she’d died in her sleep.”

  “Yes, but she probably arose to pour herself a glass of water.”

  Louise pointed toward a table by the carved walnut bed. On an ivory doily sat a full carafe of water and a glass, untouched.

  “She may have also arisen to relieve herself in the middle of the night and fallen. Such a fall could have broken her neck or injured her head.”

  “Perhaps,” Louise said. “I’ll go down to comfort His and Her Grace. You’ll watch for anything suspicious, won’t you?”

  “Of course, Your Highness.” Although Violet couldn’t imagine what could possibly be suspect about the poor girl’s death.

  Almost like a hesitant afterthought, Louise said, “Oh, and please clip some of Maud’s hair. I’ve never made a hair brooch before, but as a tribute to Maud, I am willing to learn how to do it.”

  As the door gently clicked behind Louise, Violet turned to give her full attention to Maud Winter.

  She dropped her undertaking bag several feet away to keep it out of view for what she planned to do next. Taking the girl’s hands in her own, she spoke softly to Lady Maud.

  “My lady, have no fear on my account. I will be here but briefly, and it is my honor to serve both you and the House of Gainsburgh. Illness has been kind to your features, a great blessing, so it will be a simple thing to honor your mother’s request in preparing you.”

  Violet went about her ministrations, removing the girl’s clothing, washing her down with a sponge and bottle of cleaning solution from her bag, noting no obvious superficial abrasions, then re-dressing Lady Maud in her sleeping gown, and finally replacing the girl’s hands the way her father had put them and tying them at the wrists with string hidden under her nightgown sleeves. Violet made a mental note to ask the Gainsburghs if they had a special dress they wanted their daughter buried in.

  Then, with scissors in one hand and a paper box in the other, Violet clipped several long locks of the girl’s hair, taking them from the nape of her neck where their absence wouldn’t be noticed. As she rearranged Maud’s hair, her fingers brushed over something bumpy on the deceased’s neck. Violet gently turned the woman’s face to take a closer look.

  There were two bite marks at Maud’s nape. Something must have landed on her recently and feasted. Had the insect been poisonous? Had it hastened her death?

  Now it was time for preparing Maud’s face. Violet lifted her bag onto a chair and removed several cases of cosmetics. The deceased’s skin was very pale, so Violet needed some rouge to bring some life back into it. She held up a pot and looked inside. “Medium Pink Number Four seems about the right color. Something similar for your lips, too. I think that—”

  Violet’s work was interrupted by a ghastly noise coming from the bed, that of someone coughing and gagging at the same time. The rouge pot clattered to the floor as Violet froze in place.

  Am I working on a living body?

  Her heart beating furiously and erratically inside her chest, Violet looked up at Maud. The girl was still at rest, except now her mouth was agape, a common occurrence as a corpse began relaxing in death.

  Violet put a hand to her own chest, trying to control the wild thumping inside. “Lady Maud, you gave me quite a scare. For a moment, I thought you were still—well, never mind.”

  This bodily expulsion of air had only happened to Violet one other time, and it had frightened her just as badly. Preparation of a corpse usually involved total silence, so to have the body seemingly wake up as it expelled air was positively nerve-wracking.

  Violet had heard other undertakers speak of bodies actually moving on their own—another rare but possible event—occurring from the body’s reaction to embalming.

  As much as Violet despised funerary trickery, such as coffins with escape hatches in case the deceased wasn’t really dead, she did understand why family members would wish to purchase them. What if . . . ?

  However, in all of Violet’s experience, and despite Lady Maud’s coughing, she had never known a dead body to return to life.

  Her heart now beating normally, Violet retrieved the rouge, which had rolled beneath the bed. With the rouge pot and a paintbrush in hand, Violet went to apply color to the girl’s cheeks but realized she had to address her open mouth first.

  With Lady Gainsburgh’s admonition in mind, Violet cradled the girl’s cheeks in both hands. A bit of cord under the jawline and around the ears, then tied behind the hair, perhaps. If so, Lady Maud would need to be dressed in a gown with a particularly high neckline.

  Violet frowned. What was this protruding from under Lady Maud’s tongue? A scrap of paper. She pulled gently on the corner of it.

  “Forgive me, my lady, for the intrusion, but this doesn’t seem to be a normal part of your person. Ah, here we are.”

  It wasn’t paper but a torn piece of muslin. Why in heaven’s name would this be in the deceased’s mouth? Was she chewing on fabric for some reason and choked to death on it?

  Violet raised the cloth to her nose and sniffed tentatively but quickly recoiled. “Forgive me again, my lady, but that was a stench unlike any I have encountered in a long time.”

  In fact, she couldn’t even identify what it was. There was the telltale pungency of death, for sure, yet there was more. Of course, Lady Maud had just expelled a variety of gases, so perhaps that was what made it so putrid.

  The real question, though, was why the girl had fabric in her mouth to begin with. Sometimes the insane had strange habits that they managed to hide from others. Did Lady Maud count among their number? Did she have a nervous habit of secretly chewing on clothing and linens?

  Violet shook her head. It didn’
t seem right. Surely Louise, as a close friend, would have noticed odd behavior, even if Maud’s parents didn’t. But if the girl was mentally unbalanced, she may well have managed to cloak it.

  Just months ago, Violet had been pursued by a deranged killer who seemed perfectly normal. Who knew what lay in the minds of those who were cerebrally impaired? If this was true of the young Lady Maud, it was a tragedy, and it was pointless to draw her parents’ attention to it. Violet tucked the scrap of cloth into her undertaking bag and returned to making Lady Maud as lovely as she must have been while alive.

  Louise was on a settee, an arm around Lady Gainsburgh, when Violet descended the Grand Staircase into the front parlor. Lord Gainsburgh stood awkwardly at the fireplace, avoiding his wife’s tearful glances.

  “Your Graces, the Lady Maud is a picture of good health, her cheeks in bloom and her lips in smile. I believe you will be pleased. May I inquire as to whether you are ready to discuss her funeral?”

  Lady Gainsburgh blanched, even as her husband nodded. Louise left the room and Violet removed her service book from her bag, flipping to the section marked “Titled.”

  They deliberated on the proper number of horses, ostrich feathers for the glass hearse, pages, coachmen, and attendants. Maud’s parents also decided on a photography sitting for their daughter, asking Violet to place her in a crimson and cream gown that she’d worn for her presentation to the queen.

  Violet now had everything she needed and promised to return shortly with a photographer. A maid escorted her back upstairs, where she quickly re-dressed Lady Maud; she then rejoined Louise for the carriage ride back to Buckingham Palace.

  “So, what do you think?” Louise asked as soon as the carriage rolled away from Gainsburgh House.

  “About Lady Maud’s death? She was sickly, Your Highness.”

  “I know this. But I’m certain she didn’t die of her consumption. She was being courted by Lord Effingham’s son, and was quite happy about it. I’d not seen her look so, so . . . exuberant . . . in quite some time.”