Violet was sweating by the time she’d laid the woman out properly on the bed.
She sat at the edge of the bed next to Lady Marcheford and put a hand to the dead woman’s face. “My lady, you will need some work to bring your face back to its state of beauty. Let me get my—” Violet sniffed the air.
What was that? It wasn’t the stench of decay, Lady Marcheford hadn’t been gone that long, but it was . . . strange. Sensing the direction from which the odor was emanating, Violet slipped to the floor and looked under the bed. Her hand touched a damp, wadded-up cloth, and she pulled it out, bringing it to her nose. It was sharply acrid . . . and familiar. It didn’t have the odor of death attached to it, but it was strong with the underlying stench of what she’d smelled before, on the scrap of fabric she extricated from Lady Maud’s mouth.
Well, here was one connection between Lady Maud and Lady Marcheford. Was there another?
Violet quickly searched Lady Marcheford’s neck but saw nothing. “Were you bitten elsewhere?” she asked, running her hands up and down the countess’s arms. Nothing there. Violet expanded her search over Lady Marcheford’s body.
“Ah, what have we here?” Violet felt the same bumps behind Lady Marcheford’s left knee. “A clever little wasp to sting you back here. Were you allergic, my lady?”
Now there were two connections between Lady Maud and Lady Marcheford, but what did they mean?
Violet couldn’t understand the association, but there was one thing she knew for certain. It was time to bring in Scotland Yard.
Violet sat once more before Commissioner Henderson, privately discussing recent events. She’d first met him during the investigation over Lord Raybourn’s death, and he had been a friend when others in his department had not.
“. . . so you see, sir, although both women were ill, and neither one came to any sort of obvious bad end, the Princess Louise is understandably nervous, since both were her friends. She is concerned that someone may be after all of her associates, or perhaps even the princess herself.”
“You say you tended to these bodies, Mrs. Harper. Did you notice anything peculiar about them? Strangulation marks? Any blood whatsoever?”
Should she mention the bite marks and the foul-smelling cloths? The apparent bite marks may have been just that, a stinging from an angry wasp, or the attack of a determined horsefly. As for the fabric, well, it would be humiliating for the Gainsburghs to hear that their daughter may have been chewing on cloth scraps.
Violet pulled the cloth she’d found under Lady Marcheford’s bed from her reticule. “I did find this in Lady Marcheford’s room.”
“It looks like a lady’s handkerchief.”
“Smell it.”
Henderson took it, raised it to his nose, and looked at her, puzzled. “I smell something faint on it, perhaps an old perfume or maybe something it rubbed against in your bag.”
“What?” Violet took the cloth back and sniffed it again. The strong odor was nearly faded.
“Are you having a bit of fun with me, madam?”
“No, to the contrary. This handkerchief had a very peculiar smell. It was quite pungent, unlike anything I’ve smelled before.”
“Yes. Did you notice anything else?”
“Well, yes, actually. When I rearranged Lady Marcheford, I found a derringer tucked in her hand.”
Henderson sat straight up. “She was holding a pistol? Had it been fired? Were there any blasts in the wall?”
“No. I doubt it had ever been fired.”
Henderson relaxed again. “It’s quite fashionable for women to carry them. So she was in some sort of delirium and she began brandishing her derringer. Or she carried it about in a pocket and it fell out as she lay dying of her illness.”
“Yes, perhaps. As I said, the Princess Louise is quite upset. Could you provide some protection to the queen’s Drawing Room, being held in three days? There will be many young ladies there, some of Louise’s acquaintance. If there is indeed something amiss, it would make everyone feel safer if you had men there.”
Henderson considered this. “Actually, your request is more fortuitous than you think.” He leaned back, his chair creaking beneath his shifting weight. “There is another case I have Inspectors Hurst and Pratt working on that makes guarding the queen a timely occasion.”
“Do you believe the queen to be in trouble?”
“No, no. Everything is fine. But we are interested in taking precautions where we can.”
Violet left Scotland Yard, nervous and even looking over her shoulder at imagined shadows as she walked through St. James’s Park to her rooms at the palace. Whatever it was that Mr. Brown was trying to convey, there was no doubt that something was very, very wrong within the royal family.
That woman again.
Hurst crossed his arms as he and Pratt sat across from the commissioner again. “Do we really have to work with her again?”
Hurst heard the whiny sound of his own voice and cringed. Had his trip to Brighton turned him from a man into a child?
Henderson had little sympathy. “You’ve worked with her before, and quite successfully, I might add.”
“Mrs. Harper figured out what happened to Lord Raybourn,” Pratt offered.
“Yes, well, she needed our help for it. We would have gotten to the answer sooner except for her nagging.”
Pratt turned back to the commissioner. “A very interesting profession she has, sir, caring for the dead and all. She truly enjoys it.”
Hurst snorted. “Which tells us how peculiar she is.”
“What is your grievance against Mrs. Harper?” Henderson asked.
“I say he dislikes her because she doesn’t tolerate his churlishness,” Pratt said.
Hurst turned and glared at Pratt. He would see to it that Pratt would be walking night duty in Nichol Street, rounding up the Romany and sending them to the workhouses. It was bad enough he might have to work with the uppity Violet Harper; he certainly wouldn’t take beetle-headed insults from his underling.
“A woman should be more reserved and . . . elegant than Mrs. Harper is.”
“I hardly think we are trying to evaluate the situation based upon our ideals of feminine womanhood, Inspector,” Henderson said. “She has brought us a credible threat to Her Majesty’s person, or at least to others around her. I think it wise that we cover the queen’s Drawing Room. You have both worked with Mrs. Harper before, so I want you to take care of this.”
“It seems to me that a regular bobby could handle this, since it isn’t as though it concerns an actual murder or anything that Scotland Yard typically handles.”
“And it seems to me, Inspector, that you will do this because it involves the safety of Her Majesty the Queen.”
Hurst swore inwardly at his own stupidity. What kind of dunderhead refused an opportunity to serve the queen because he didn’t like Her Majesty’s undertaker? He was turning himself into a three-pointed, bell-tipped fool’s cap. Not his usual standard for his position as a detective chief inspector, and most definitely not a standard by which to attract a potential wife.
“You are right, of course, Commissioner. My apologies.”
“Pride is our enemy, Inspector. Don’t let it fog your judgment. It has prevented you from picking up on the obvious.”
“The obvious, sir?”
Henderson shook his head, as if explaining something to an errant boy at Harrow School. “What might a possible threat to the queen—realistic or not, whether reported by someone you respect or not—have to do with your own case?”
“Our letter writer, you mean.”
Henderson nodded. “How is your search coming along with the War Office’s records?”
Hurst snorted again. Good Lord, he really needed to stop producing such obnoxious noises. What woman would marry a man who sounded like a bull about to make a charge?
“About as quickly as investigating a murder in the Old Nichol.”
“Perhaps you will have your man in
the next three days. In fact, imagine the queen’s appreciation if you could nab him before he does something nefarious at an important event at Buckingham Palace. There could be quite a reward in it for you. It wouldn’t hurt Scotland Yard’s reputation, either.”
“If he’s there, we’ll find him,” Hurst said.
He and Pratt left Henderson’s office and went to find something to eat from a street cart. Pratt said nothing but continued looking at him with such inquisitive eyes that Hurst finally turned to him and said, “Oh, do be quiet, will you?”
There was nothing worse than an officer who could ask thousands of personal questions without saying a word.
Violet had never seen the queen so angry before. Unfortunately, it was all directed at her.
“Mrs. Harper, we were quite specific about wanting you personally to see to whatever danger lurked about the palace. We will not have our Drawing Room turned into a policemen’s Zirkus under a tent, which the press will turn into weeks of sensationalism. Now our servants will have to be briefed on how to handle these officers, we will undoubtedly have to feed them, and they will be crawling about as though they are in ownership of our Haus. We cannot think of a more ghastly and loathsome way to spend the afternoon, other than hosting the Drawing Room itself, of course.” The queen paused, closed her eyes, and drew a deep breath. A little fleck of spittle lingered at the corner of her mouth.
Violet braced herself for more.
“Just imagine how these young women being presented to us will feel. Yes, Scotland Yard will give us all assurances that they will be discreet and careful, but they won’t be. The Offiziere will ogle these ladies of society, and come up with excuses to be near them, and will walk across the palace’s fine carpets in their schmutzig, unpolished boots. Honestly, might it not be better to postpone than have to endure such distress?”
“Your Majesty, please allow me to explain—”
“As though there isn’t enough disorder in the household, what with Louise and her refusal to take a husband. Then we have Bertie’s peccadilloes and his boorish attitude toward dear Mr. Brown. Not to mention wir haben Angst over Leopold’s health. If our darling Albert were here, he’d take it all well in hand, especially Bertie. Instead, we must suffer on alone, with no guide and no comfort—”
“Your Majesty, I apologize abjectly; however—”
“—to assist us through our troubles. We have so many national problems to which to attend, with only an inadequate prime minister to rely upon. . . .”
Violet took her verbal beating with patience, imagining she was being set upon by a newly widowed woman who was thoroughly unhappy with both the engraving on her husband’s stone and the size of the boxwoods planted to either side of it. It was the same sort of lashing Violet had received many times.
When the queen was worn-out and panting from the exertion of it all, Violet said, “Yes, Your Majesty, you are right to be so upset. May I suggest, though, that I instruct Scotland Yard to be as discreet as possible, lest they risk royal displeasure? Their respect for Your Majesty is great, and I am certain they will wish to honor your wishes.”
“Well, yes, we suppose it’s possible to be done without total catastrophe. You may do as you suggest, but we will expect your presence for the Drawing Room to ensure nothing is disrupted as a result of their endeavors.”
“You may rely upon me, madam.”
Violet fled as soon as she could. Who knew that managing royals was more difficult than managing the grieving?
Louise and her friends sat again at tables, subdued and bleary-eyed, as Violet taught them a new technique in creating mourning jewelry.
“Today we will learn how to make a hair bracelet, or a gentleman’s watch chain if you prefer. This is table work, as opposed to the pallet work of the brooches you made earlier. You will complete all of your work at one of the three braiding tables you see here.”
Violet pointed to one of the tables, which was about two feet in diameter and stood thirty-two inches high, for someone to stand before while braiding hair. A finger-width hole was bored into the center of the table. Standing was much preferable to sitting in order to get steady pressure on the work.
“Notice that the table is perfectly smooth. If there was even the slightest rough edge in the surface, the hair would quickly break while working on it, and destroy the beauty of your creation.”
Silence from her patrons.
“I have brought with me bundles of virgin hair from northern European peasant girls, of no older than age twenty-five, to ensure the hair has not been too damaged by sun, wind, and rain. This hair has never been bleached or stained, and, as you can see, was grown to more than thirty inches before being cut. It is the most exclusive of hair, much more valuable than horsehair from China or yak hair from Tibet.
“Because a hair bracelet requires so much volume of hair in the plaiting of it, we will use a quantity of this hair, interspersed with some of Lady Marcheford’s. I believe the effect will be very pleasing.”
She may as well have been talking to people who were dead themselves, so vacant and disinterested were their stares. She plowed on doggedly.
“Observe as I remove about half the hair from this bundle, add in some of Lady Marcheford’s clipped lock, dab a tiny amount of gum arabic to the tip, then roll about half the hair around a very thin bobbin, as such. The gum arabic will prevent the hair from falling off the bobbin. I will drop this weighted end into the hole in the center of the table. Now I will spread the hair out around the tabletop, counting out twenty-five strands at a time and securing each end to another bobbin.”
She worked painstakingly on the hair to an unappreciative audience. Losing two friends in such a short amount of time had to have been devastating. Perhaps it was just too soon for these women to do anything but grieve.
By the time she was finished, she had sixteen bobbin-weighted locks dangling off the table, divided into groups of four, each bobbin numbered from one to four. The hair was ready to be worked.
“Your Highness, would you like to be the first to try?” Violet said, holding up a knitting needle.
“I suppose.” Louise dragged herself to the braiding table and listlessly wove together some strands around the needle under Violet’s guidance. The room had the air of a mausoleum.
Desperate to cheer the women up, or at least distract them, Violet said, “The queen wears a lock of her husband’s hair in a brooch over her heart. She will probably be most envious of what you create here today.” More silence ensued.
“It looks a bit like the old bobbin lace weaving,” Lady Julia said.
Finally, a crumb of interest. “Yes, madam, it is very similar, except that we do not pin the hair down to a pillow as we weave it.”
“Lottie would have been awful at this, wouldn’t she? She was all thumbs,” someone else said.
There was laughter, and even Louise broke into a wan smile of agreement. “I imagine Lottie would have this in a complete knot by now. Am I still doing it properly, Mrs. Harper?”
“Yes. Remember, though, that for this design bobbins numbered one and two will move to the left, and threes and fours will move to the right.”
Violet set up the other two braiding tables and set two other women to work while the remaining women called for tea. As she assisted the hairwork efforts, the tea drinkers eventually relaxed and chatted among themselves, about reports from Lady Marcheford’s funeral (“dignified,” “just how she would have wanted it”) and then about her husband.
“What do you think, Hazel?” Lady Julia said. “Do you think Marcheford drove her to a quick end?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me if he had a hand in her death,” Lady Hazel said. Her bodice was close to releasing its captive body parts as she nibbled at a slice of lemon cake. “He’s always struck me as quite unkind.”
“But quite well proportioned,” said one of the hair weavers, joining in with the conversation.
“And fashionable,” added another.
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“Don’t forget his rakish smile,” a woman drinking tea said.
“The man is a louse,” Louise declared bluntly. “Hazel is right. He probably had a hand in her death.”
“Did he know about Charlotte’s work with the repeal group?” This, too, came from someone in the tea klatch.
“Of course he did,” Louise replied. “He despised her for it, but it didn’t stop her.”
Did this have something to do with what Lady Marcheford mentioned at the tarot reading, which Louise hushed down? Violet stepped out of her proper social place to ask a question.
“Pardon me for asking, but what sort of work did Lady Marcheford do?”
Several of the women looked to Louise, as if for approval. Louise dropped her handful of hair bobbins and joined the tea klatch, accepting a cup of oolong and sitting down. The other braiders followed her, so now the hair jewelry session was quickly turning into a social visit.
“I suppose you would eventually find out, Mrs. Harper. Have you ever heard of Josephine Butler?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Your husband would be pleased to know that Mrs. Butler and her husband were great supporters of the Union during your Civil War. She is older than those of us here, probably close to Mother’s age, but has been active in her work for nearly twenty years.”
“Her work?”
“Yes, for women. Two years ago, she helped establish the North of England Council for Promoting the Higher Education of Women.”
“Very admirable.”
“Yes. She is also a passionate Christian, and simply abhors the sin of prostitution.”
“I have buried more than one prostitute in unconsecrated ground, Your Highness. They usually come to terrible ends.”
Louise’s eyes brightened for the first time since Lady Marcheford’s death. “Then you understand. But Mrs. Butler takes it a step further. She says that the prostitutes are exploited victims of male oppression. It is this double standard of sexual morality that must be confronted, not just the behavior of the prostitutes. It is for this reason that she has started the campaign to repeal the Contagious Diseases Acts.”
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