“Yes, Your Majesty.”
As Meredith handed the queen out of the carriage at Cumberland Lodge, she turned back to warn Violet once more. “Mind you, it would be wise for your husband to abandon his plans for a dynamite factory.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Meredith gave Violet a peculiar stare as he handed her out, as though he, too, was offended by Sam’s investigation into a dynamite factory.
Violet was overwhelmed inside the grand Tudoresque home, not by the architecture or luxurious furnishings but by the gathering. Whenever she encountered a finely dressed group of people, it was typically for a funeral and she was in charge. Here she was completely out of place. At least everyone else was also wearing black, although whether this was for the queen’s benefit or their own private grief Violet couldn’t tell.
Louise was there, standing next to Lord and Lady Marcheford, whom Violet recognized from Gainsburgh House. She assumed the dowdy-looking woman and grizzled man next to her were Princess Helena and Prince Christian. Heavens, Helena was only twenty-three, so her husband looked an aged uncle standing next to her. Meanwhile, Mr. Brown sat at an impressively large, round mahogany table surrounded by nine other chairs, shuffling cards and ignoring the royal presences.
Violet was introduced and made her curtsies, and she could see the curiosity in everyone’s face except that of Lady Marcheford, who complimented Violet’s expertise in making mourning jewelry and pointed to the brooch on her bodice.
“Of course, it’s nothing as brilliant as Lady Hazel’s miniature painting.”
Violet agreed. Lady Marcheford’s hair collage was done competently, but her friend had shown considerable talent with a paintbrush. “Your brooch is very lovely, and something I’m sure would bring tears to Lady Maud’s eyes.”
Charlotte’s own eyes watered, but she sniffed back her grief. “Yes, if only she could see it.”
As the others stood talking in their own private groups, Violet turned to Louise. “Your Highness, are the Prince and Princess of Wales to be in attendance?”
The princess laughed. “You must be joking. Alix at Cumberland Lodge? It will never happen.”
“Pardon my intrusion, but why is this?”
“She never approved of Helena’s marriage to Christian. You see, Helena and her husband are actually third cousins in descent through Frederick, Prince of Wales, in the last century. Christian is also a third cousin to Alix through Frederick the Fifth of Denmark. We royals cannot stop marrying each other, although I don’t plan to follow suit in all of this foolishness.
“Anyway, Alix thought Christian was entirely too closely related to too many branches of the tree, so to speak, and was vocal about her objections. My mother, though, had already approved the union, and was quite put out to be challenged by a daughter-in-law. To maintain peace, Alix and Bertie avoid attendance at most events involving Helena and Christian, and my mother pretends she has forgiven Alix for her impudence.”
How utterly complicated royal lives were.
Mr. Brown cleared his throat, his signal that the reading was to begin. The tarot reading room was brightly lit and a large, ornately framed photograph of Albert resting on a floor easel dominated the room. Victoria put her fingers to her lips and then delicately to Albert’s face as she walked past it to the table, and so the others followed suit, Violet included.
The reading began like the others, with Mr. Brown arranging the cards in a cross formation, with a column of four cards next to it. This time, though, he asked the queen to place her hand over the cards in the center of the cross. “To bless the spirits, Your Majesty,” he said.
Victoria tittered.
To Violet’s surprise, though, today’s reading was actually different. He presented the usual statements of evil lurking about, then went in a different direction. “Ah, a two of pentacles,” Brown said, flipping over the sixth card in the cross pattern. “Notice that he walks upon a rope. He is pulled in many directions. He walks a fine line between good and evil, happiness and anguish. This represents the near future, dear lady, so let us see what the remaining cards have to say about the outcome, and the hopes and fears that will influence it.”
Brown quickly flipped over the remaining cards and studied them, nodding and sighing. “Yes, someone in this room is bound to come to grief for his foul actions . . . or perhaps they are the actions of a woman.”
“A woman? What a thought!” Helena said, wagging her head. “Next thing you know we’ll be accused of starting wars and murdering vagrants. Can you imagine me lopping heads off, my love?” Helena brayed loudly and turned to Christian, who grinned back stupidly through his gray beard and mustache.
“It is hard to imagine you involved in anything underhanded, my pet, my little Lenchen, although if you have learned to use a hunting rifle, I could use you on safari.”
Husband and wife found his statement uproarious, while the rest of the table remained silent.
Mr. Brown ignored the interruption and proceeded with his reading once more. “What is being done must be cut off, and be done no more.”
“If they think they can stop us—” Lady Marcheford said.
“Lottie, hush,” Louise said. “I’m sure we’ll know more when Mr. Brown is finished with his reading.”
“What are you talking about?” Lord Marcheford demanded. “Are you up to something untoward again, Lottie?”
Charlotte’s face flamed at being openly castigated by her husband in front of the queen. “No, no, I was just thinking of . . . ah . . . the little party we had to make mourning jewelry for Maud.”
Violet was still, certain the color had just drained from her face. Lady Marcheford’s was one of the voices she’d heard in the mews. Was it a coincidence that she and Louise were meeting so soon after Lady Maud’s death? Was it her death to which they referred? Violet tried to remember. Wasn’t there mention of a doctor, a Dr. Garrett? Perhaps the women were investigating Lady Maud’s death on their own?
If so, then what did it have to do with Mr. Brown’s conjuring of mysterious spirits who were revealing a treasonous evil within Buckingham Palace? Had the Lady Maud indeed been murdered, as Louise claimed?
Moreover, was Brown aware of their meetings and trying in his own way to stop them? If so, why didn’t he merely speak up? Why did he see it as Violet’s responsibility to interfere?
Whether or not Lady Maud was murdered, Violet was beginning to see that there was something afoot at Buckingham Palace, and she planned to make a point of discovering what really lay beneath the tarot card readings.
“So, Inspectors, what did you discover?” Henderson said, scratching at his side-whiskers, a habit that Hurst had adopted more than a year ago, much to his own chagrin. Why was he imitating his superior’s nervous quirks?
“First, Commissioner,” Hurst said, “we assessed what exactly had happened. Sometimes the newspapers muck the story up to suit themselves, as you know, sir. We know for certain that the drawings regarding the incident in the papers were wholly inaccurate.
“We conducted numerous interviews.” Hurst nodded to Pratt, who held up his battered leather notebook. “We worked with local constabulary to find as many people as possible who were present at the riot. We focused especially on the family members of those who died, either at the hands of the soldiers or in the general melee. Most were cooperative; some were not.”
“Yes, and?”
“There was only one victim for whom we couldn’t talk to a family member. It was a young woman, aged nineteen, name of . . . what was it?”
Pratt flipped through his notebook. “Margaret Younghusband.”
“Right, Margaret Younghusband. She was one of the first shot. Someone saw her rushed off in the arms of a stranger, to the nearby Free Church on Tyddyn Street. She died there, and was later buried at the back of Mold Parish Church in an unmarked grave. Locals told us that she had a half brother by the name of Reese Meredith. A few years older than Margaret, he started off as a wa
gon driver for the Leeswood colliery, then went off to fight in the Second Opium War ten years ago. Since then, his whereabouts have been sketchy. Most people assumed he would come back to take care of Margaret, since she was all alone except for him. Her parents—his father—died in a typhoid outbreak several years ago. They have as many outbreaks among the poor as we do here in England. Meredith was taking care of her, and managed to see her into service with a wealthy family, rather than see her turned into a mine rat.”
“Good brotherly love, that,” said the commissioner.
“Yes. He returned briefly after he was released from Her Majesty’s service, then disappeared. There were occasional letters from various estates where he obtained employment, but they’d stopped some time ago. Last anyone knew, he was working on a Cornish estate.”
“Why so much interest in him? Is he just a lost brother?”
“Maybe. Everyone else we interviewed seemed clear to us, but what we heard about this Meredith fellow, well . . .”
“Well, what?”
“Looks like he had a bit of a temper. Once got in a row with a man in a pub over a game of skittles. Nearly choked the other man to death. Most people figured it was due to Meredith being affected by the war, but it shows he is prone to violence. I’m not comfortable with the thought that we don’t know where he is.”
“Why don’t you start looking for anyone named Reese Meredith living in Great Britain?”
Hurst tried not to show his annoyance. As though this were his first case and he would have never considered such basic investigative work. “Yes, sir, we are working on that. It’s not an easy task.”
Pratt spoke up. “There must be hundreds of birth registries listing a Reese Meredith, sir. It’s a common name.”
Henderson nodded. “Excellent.”
“Yes,” Hurst said. “We also propose putting police on duty at The Times offices, in case Meredith comes along, looking for Mr. Walter.”
“Very good. What next?”
“We’ll comb through whatever exists of Her Majesty’s records of men who served in China. They’re usually disorganized and confused, with little relation to who really served where, but we’ll make our best attack at it, so to speak. Reese Meredith won’t get away with anything while we’re after him; you can be sure of that, sir.”
He waited patiently on the servants’ staircase, off the corridor near Lady Marcheford’s private rooms. She’d be home soon from whatever excursion of shopping for fripperies and baubles she was on. In her thrall of her purchases, she wouldn’t notice him; she’d be too busy counting gemstones and adding another piece of Wedgwood to her collection.
He smiled as he contemplated what was to come next, his only companion the sound of a grandfather clock ticking somewhere. All of the servants were out; he’d made sure of that. No, nothing could possibly interfere with his task.
Tick-TOCK-tick-TOCK.
He’d been looking forward to this. She deserved it, pathetic creature that she was.
Tick-TOCK-tick-TOCK.
To occupy his time, he rummaged through his case of tools, to make sure everything was there. Of course it was. He knew what he was doing.
Tick-TOCK-tick-TOCK.
A door opened and shut, and he heard Lady Marcheford call out for her husband. She wouldn’t find him waiting in the parlor today.
Finally, her dainty steps made their way up the main staircase. He crouched lower, although it was impossible for her to see him where he was. Once he heard her enter her rooms and the door click quietly behind her, he stood erect and took a deep breath for the necessary undertaking that lay before him.
Hah, undertaking! Charlotte would need an undertaker soon. Which reminded him of that curious woman in black. Who was she, really? Why was she so cozy with the royal family?
He strode to the eight-paneled door and placed his hand on the polished brass knob. Power surged through him as it always did, his sign from the heavens that he was to be successful.
Some might have said that this was the devil’s work, but then, those weren’t people who’d felt the apexes of joy and the depths of despair he had, who had experienced the vagaries of life the way he had.
He turned the knob and entered.
Lady Marcheford was arranging gloves—shop tags still dangling from them—inside boxes. Funny, that was something she should have saved for her maid to do. She looked up at him in surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Why would you be wait—” She stopped, speechless, as he opened his case, pulled something out, and showed it to her.
“Be calm, and all will be over soon,” he said.
But she was not calm, no, not at all, and he soon realized that she would be much more difficult to subdue than her friend was.
6
“Now do you believe me?” Louise said, her eyes wild with grief.
Violet stood in Lady Marcheford’s bedchamber with Louise and Lord Marcheford. Charlotte lay slumped over the bed, her feet trailing on the floor. A bloodstained handkerchief lay next to her, and more than a dozen pairs of newly purchased, boxed gloves were scattered on a table. It seemed an extraordinary number of them for a single day’s shopping. Violet’s overall impression of the room was that it was . . . unsettled. As though there had been a disturbance in the room and someone had quickly cleaned it up. The room was tidy, and yet it was unbalanced.
The same could be said for Lord Marcheford. His clothing was impeccable, as though he’d just dressed for an evening out, but he was nervous and jittery.
“I don’t know what to think, Your Highness. My lord, you must be very grieved. Would you like to step out while I examine your wife?”
Ripley’s eyes darted to and fro, as though he wanted to avoid what lay before him. “No, no, I’m fine. It’s best to know what happened.”
Violet sat on the bed next to Charlotte and stroked the woman’s hair. “Dear girl, what happened to you? Did you fall ill, or was this something else?”
Violet looked around the girl’s body and picked up the handkerchief, which was brown and encrusted with blood, presumably Charlotte’s. She opened it, examining it closely; then she folded it in such a way as to concentrate the dark stains in one location of the cloth.
“It looks as though Lady Marcheford may have coughed this up. Was she ill, sir?”
“A little. She didn’t complain much of it, though. She was too preoccupied to be much worried about illness.” Ripley gave Louise a dark look.
Although she was eaten up in grief from the death of two friends, his comment caused Louise to raise an eyebrow, giving her the haughty expression that only royalty can wear well. “I’m sure you were much too preoccupied to worry over her illness.”
The battle between grieving friends and relatives was one Violet had witnessed many times, and one in which she always stepped in to conciliate. “May we conclude, then, that Lady Marcheford suffered from the initial stages of consumption, or some other lung disease?”
“Perhaps,” Louise said. “But that doesn’t explain why she is fallen over her bed.”
No, it didn’t.
“Can you explain it, Marcheford?” Louise demanded.
“I cannot. But I can guess that you overworked the woman to death.”
Violet stepped in again. “I think we might get to the bottom of the matter if we discuss this together, rather than accusing one another. Let me ask some more questions. First, who found her?”
“Killigrew, her lady’s maid. Killigrew was out visiting her sister, and when she came back to attend to my wife’s clothing for dinner, she found her like this.”
“She has not been moved?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I see. And what was Lady Marcheford doing earlier in the day?”
“She went shopping, as she always does.”
Louise spoke up again. “You say this as though it were merely to destroy the Marcheford fortune. You know ful
ly well that everything she purchased went to—” She stopped.
Lord Marcheford pressed her. “Go on, say it, Princess. All of it—including this sprawling collection of gloves bought from my own allowance—goes to those despicable friends of yours.”
What were these two talking about? Whatever it was, Violet wouldn’t have it conducted before Lady Marcheford. “I believe you are both in too delicate a condition to remain while I examine her in detail to determine how she died.”
Violet knew that she should draw in Scotland Yard, but not before she had a chance to look things over. Otherwise, her talents would be dismissed and she would be relegated to counting floral urns.
“How will you know by looking at her?” Lord Marcheford asked.
“She will tell me.”
“She will tell you? You’re beginning to sound like the Scottish Sage, Mr. Brown.”
“Mr. Brown and I each have our own techniques. Now if you will both be so kind . . .”
The princess and Lord Marcheford left, renewing their argument as they went. Violet returned her attention to Lady Marcheford, gently squeezing an arm in several places. “This is not a good time for your rigor mortis to be setting in, my lady. I ask that you be done with it quickly. May I turn you over?”
In her current position, Lady Marcheford was difficult to move; however, with some acrobatic skill, Violet managed to push Charlotte forward and get her feet on the bed. That done, Violet turned Charlotte over.
And gasped in shock.
Beneath the woman’s body lay her open reticule. In one hand, she gripped the derringer she’d shown Violet. The one she’d purchased to protect her from her husband.
Why was it in her hand? If she’d drawn it out, it must have been because she’d felt threatened. Was Lady Marcheford indeed forced to use it against her husband? Obviously, her murderer was able to overcome her before she could use it. Violet gently removed the gun from the woman’s hand, also a difficult task, since rigor mortis was stiffening her hand into a claw around the weapon. Once Violet disengaged it, she tucked it back into Lady Marcheford’s reticule and hung the bag by its drawstring around the doorknob. She then worked to place Lady Marcheford in an elegant position against her pillows.
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