“Not blessed. I demand it.”
Louise’s bravado was overshadowed by the twisted handkerchief in her hand.
Violet was as nervous as a child heading off to boarding school as she awaited Scotland Yard’s arrival in a rear anteroom at Buckingham Palace. She wondered at her own surprise, though, when it was Detective Hurst who arrived to coordinate police and detectives about the palace.
“I should have realized it would be you here, Inspector Hurst.”
“Mrs. Harper, you seem to be turning up in all of my cases these days.”
“I’m not following you, if that’s what you’re thinking, sir.”
“No, I expect you’re too busy listening for the peal of mourning bells to wonder about me.”
“Hmm, I thought we were friends now.”
Hurst sighed. “Madam, we are not colleagues, but, rather, occasional associates. As such, we can work together politely and effectively. I doubt, though, that I shall be visiting you and your husband at home for dinner anytime soon. A woman with your royal favor shouldn’t be seen associating with a mere Scotland Yard man.” Hurst was unable to veil his sarcasm.
“I don’t believe I hold much royal favor, but since I have no home to call my own at the moment, perhaps your plan is best. Tell me, when will your men arrive?”
“They are already posted discreetly around the palace. You needn’t fear. Nothing and no one will get past them.”
“Yes, of course, Inspector.” Violet walked to the door that would take her farther inside the palace, then turned back to him. “Inspector Hurst, there’s something different about you. The style of your beard, perhaps? Your hair?”
Hurst reddened. “Oh, that. I was merely on a little holiday recently. Probably got too much sun on my face.”
Violet frowned. “No, it’s not that. You seem a little more . . . humble, I think.”
“You’re imagining things, Mrs. Harper. I am no such thing.” He picked up a newspaper and opened it, leaning against a wall for support as he read.
“No, you don’t carry humility particularly well, Inspector. I’m sure it will wear off.” She smiled and waved as she went inside to witness the Drawing Room.
She felt like a mouse skulking along the floor molding, trying to avoid anyone as she made her way up the Grand Staircase and through a drawing room decorated in green—how royalty seemed to love to decorate in tracts of a single color—and then into the regal throne room. This room, in rich, scarlet red with gold trimmings, today contained a dais at the opposite end from the doorway, with two thrones upon it. One was embroidered with “VR” and the other with “A.”
As in all other things, Victoria kept her husband near her always.
Bewigged, liveried servants moved deliberately about the room at last-minute preparations, moving this vase a quarter inch to the right on the mantelpiece and shifting that table back and forth until it was precisely centered under the window.
Violet looked down at her dress, a black crape with a periwinkle stripe in the bodice. It was hardly worthy of such an event. She wished she were more conscious of her appearance at times like this, but living a life of daily black gowns meant she’d long ago lost concern for fashion.
Good Lord, she was just like the queen.
There was virtually nowhere to remain discreetly in the background of this room. To Violet’s great disappointment, there was no way for her to witness the presentation of the debutantes, each with her full court dress, tall ostrich feathers in her hair, and butterflies in her stomach. Violet had seen engravings of previous proceedings in Harper’s. The terrified young woman would walk slowly across the room toward the dais, perform a curtsy that she’d practiced in front of her mother for weeks, receive a kind word of acknowledgment from the queen, and, in a move that must have been invented by a circus contortionist, walk backward without breaking her focus on the dais, maneuvering her dress train and executing yet another curtsy.
Violet found her way down the Ministers’ Staircase and back down to find Inspector Hurst. He and Inspector Pratt were conferring outside the Ambassador’s Entrance. In their long brown overcoats and tall furred hats, they looked like giant beavers—such as those she’d seen along the Colorado River—hovering over a freshly built dam. Fancy, gleaming carriages were now pulling up, discharging their glittering passengers into the hands of waiting footmen, to be escorted into the palace, followed by their sponsors, older women of suitable rank and unimpeachable reputation who had also been previously presented.
Hurst and Pratt quietly observed each of the carriages unloading and driving off, with Pratt making notes in his worn leather notebook. “Why aren’t you up there with the queen?” Hurst asked her.
“There was nowhere for me to watch without being noticed myself.”
“There are officers posted everywhere now except in the throne room itself. I figured you would be alert for anything up there. I suppose it’s all right, though. No one suspicious will get past us or the men around the staircase. Let’s just hope it’s not your female sensibilities causing you to see goblins behind every corner that have brought us here.”
“Of course, Inspector. The goblins I saw behind every corner in the Raybourn case were merely wisps of my imagination.”
Hurst bowed. “I apologize, Mrs. Harper. I must admit that you’ve been right before when I was certain you were wrong.”
Violet nodded acknowledgment of Hurst’s statement, which must have been a bitter powder for him to swallow. “I trust you and Inspector Pratt will have a pleasant afternoon, with hopefully no disturbances. Good day.”
Leaving Hurst and Pratt to their review of opening coach doors, Violet walked down the line of waiting carriages, wondering about each of the nervous girls sitting inside. Lady Maud was once one of them, as was Lady Marcheford. Did they stumble walking away from the queen? Did their feathers droop or their sleeves tear?
No matter now. There was no stumbling, drooping, or tearing for either woman. How did they die? Was Lord Marcheford culpable? Perhaps in the death of Lady Marcheford, but why Lady Maud? To take away suspicion from his own wife’s death? If so, he’d done some considerable advance planning to find a distraction for the police.
The cold-bloodedness of it was horrifying.
What if it wasn’t Lord Marcheford? Who else might it be? And for what reason? Because he despised lovely aristocratic young women? It was unthinkable, positively ludicrous.
Violet paused in her walk. A hansom cab was in the line. That was strange. Every other conveyance in line either had a family crest on it or was at least adorned with gold lanterns and plumed horses. What debutante would come to the queen’s Drawing Room in a cab?
Violet stepped back as the cab’s door opened, despite it being at least fifteen carriages back in line. A red-haired woman around Violet’s age leaped out of it, carrying a crudely drawn sign on a post. “Repeal the Contagious Diseases Acts NOW!” it proclaimed.
The woman hoisted the sign up, and Violet realized she intended to march into Buckingham Palace with it. Was Louise behind this? Impossible. Despite Louise’s current battle with her mother, surely she wouldn’t endorse one of her compatriots doing such a thing.
Up the line Violet could tell that Hurst and Pratt were much more focused on whatever carriage was emptying passengers at the entrance and were paying no attention to what was happening this far down. She would have to stop this herself.
“Madam,” she called out. “Where are you going?”
The woman turned, but Violet realized it was to brush something away from her dress, not because she’d noticed Violet.
“Please, madam, stop.” Violet picked up her own skirts and scurried to where the woman was. “You cannot go into the palace. It’s for debutantes only.”
The woman looked Violet up and down disdainfully. “And who, exactly, are you?”
“I am—” Violet glanced down at her simple black gown. “I am a friend of the queen’s.”
Th
e woman raised an eyebrow. “You may be dressed in mourning, but you are no aristocrat.”
“No, and neither are you. I, however, have business here. You are . . . ?”
“May Fisher. I also have business here. I’m here to make Her Majesty aware of the great injustice of the Contagious Diseases Acts. Do you know of it, Mrs. . . . ?”
“Harper. Yes, I know what the laws are.”
“Then you know that they are terrible for those unfortunate young women, as exploited as they are by the men who visit them, then terrorized by the men who arrest them. I’m sure if the queen really understood what was happening, she would be as outraged as many of us are. She’s surrounded by all of those brainless windbags in Parliament who, I’m sure, tell her it is having the effect of turning them all into virtuous ladies.”
“They probably do not speak to her of such a subject at all. The queen is very proper.”
“Well, you needn’t worry yourself about me. I am perfectly peaceable.”
Mrs. Fisher hoisted her sign and walked toward the palace.
Violet ran after the woman again, this time grabbing her shoulder. “Mrs. Fisher, as I said, you cannot—”
She didn’t expect what happened next. Wrenching herself away from Violet, the woman drew the sign back like a cricket bat and swung it furiously at Violet. It connected with her right shoulder with a loud crack, sending her sprawling to the ground.
Violet had injured this arm several years previously in a train accident, which had resulted in steam burns all along it. It occasionally twinged to remind her that it would never be healed. Now, though, she was in agony. Still, she couldn’t let the woman race past Hurst and enter the palace. They wouldn’t be expecting a woman as the source of trouble.
Using her other arm for stability, Violet lifted herself up. Her crinoline wasn’t much protection from the hard ground and she’d undoubtedly have a nasty bruise on her hip by morning. Grabbing her skirts again, she ran after the woman once more and, with an agility she would have sworn she never possessed, leaped onto her back, knocking them both back to the ground.
As Violet went down a second time, she saw Hurst and Pratt running over, pure astonishment on Hurst’s face. Within moments, Mrs. Fisher was in Inspector Pratt’s custody, and he quickly hauled her away from the scene so as not to upset the proceedings.
“What the devil just happened?” Hurst asked.
“Well, you see, Mrs. Fisher wanted to march up to see the queen to protest some unjust laws. I know she was quite harmless, but obviously I couldn’t let her—”
Hurst held up his hands. “Don’t tell me anything further. Mrs. Harper, how is it that Mr. Pratt and I have been doing duty for well over an hour without coming across anything suspicious, but the moment you walk outside, trouble manages to find you?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Also, your hem is torn and you have a little smudge right here.” He pointed to his own cheek. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Harper.”
Violet limped back to St. James’s Palace, ignoring the stares of the debutantes still waiting in carriages for their moment to enter the palace. She was too consumed with worry to think about her disheveled appearance. What was it Mr. Brown said at the last tarot reading? That trouble would come from someone who was angry. She supposed Mrs. Fisher was that. What else had he said about the trouble? Oh yes, that it would be in the form of someone passionate and righteous.
Mrs. Fisher was definitely both of those things.
But how did Mr. Brown know that Mrs. Fisher would try to disrupt the queen’s Drawing Room? She wasn’t a member of Louise’s personal circle of moralist friends as far as Violet could tell, and certainly her clothing marked her out as middle-class.
More important, did Louise know about this in advance? Was she angry enough at her mother to encourage it or even plan it? But if that was true, did that mean that she and Mr. Brown were somehow in collusion?
No, that made no sense at all. If they were conspiring together, Mr. Brown wouldn’t be leading Violet—and therefore the queen—to Louise’s questionable activities.
Why did every day seem to make things more confusing, not less? Violet hoped the next day would bring at least one answer.
Instead, it brought more death.
7
“Thank you for coming, Mrs. Harper; I wanted you to know right away.” Louise was pacing back and forth inside her secret meeting room at the mews. Violet sat down at a table.
“Know what, Your Highness?” Violet braced for the news about Mrs. Fisher’s arrest. How would Louise react when she told the princess that she had a hand in it?
“It’s terrible, just terrible. I’ve told you about my friend Mrs. Butler?”
“Yes, she leads your moralist group.”
Louise nodded. “The worst thing has happened. I can hardly speak of it.”
Surely Mrs. Fisher’s arrest wouldn’t cause so much distress for the princess. Or perhaps this was a sign that Louise was becoming unhinged from all of the tragedy around her.
“Perhaps you should sit down.”
Louise sat momentarily, then stood and paced again. “Why is the world falling down around me? I just don’t understand it.”
“Your Highness, I don’t understand, either. Perhaps you could share with me what happened . . . ?”
“Of course.” Louise sat down once more. Her movements were dizzying. “I told you about my friend Mrs. Butler, who heads up the Ladies National—”
“Yes, I remember.”
“She has been so influential in my thinking about life and the lives of others in Great Britain. I’ve always admired her way of—”
“Yes, Your Highness. Did Mrs. Butler commit a crime?”
“Oh no. No, no, of course not. Worse, it was a crime committed against her. Why has the angel of death taken so much interest in those around me?”
Violet leaned forward across the table, horrified. “Are you saying that Mrs. Butler has been killed?”
“No, one of her associates has. Her name is Lillian Cortland. She is—was—the second daughter of a baron who was tossed out when her parents discovered her work with Mrs. Butler. She made visits to parliamentary members for Mrs. Butler and was critical to our group’s mission. There is no doubt this time, Mrs. Harper. It isn’t possible that three women I know personally just coincidentally died within two weeks of each other, is it?”
At the princess’s age, it was only likely if there was a cholera outbreak. “It does seem strange,” Violet said. “Was Miss Cortland ill at all?”
“I don’t think so. I promised Mrs. Butler I would send you to tend to her. Mrs. Butler is contacting the family, but doubts they will care. Can you go right away?”
“I must go to the undertaking shop first but will go there as soon as possible.”
“I’ll provide you with a driver and carriage.”
Violet demurred. “Please, no. It would only serve to shock people to see an undertaker alighting from a royal carriage unaccompanied by a royal family member.”
Violet hired a cab to take her to Morgan Undertaking so she could replenish her bag with supplies. As it rumbled and clattered along to Queen’s Road, she wondered: Was it really Miss Cortland’s death Mr. Brown was speaking of at the last reading, not the near catastrophe of Mrs. Fisher descending on Buckingham Palace? Although Miss Cortland had nothing to do with the Drawing Room, had she?
She needed to see Miss Cortland’s body right away.
Will Swift helped Violet repack her bag with supplies, once again talking over his personal troubles as they worked.
“I’ve given Harry a definite date by which I’ll be leaving, in two months. We’ve not put up my interest for sale because we’re still waiting—hoping—Mrs. Harper, that you’d like to purchase back in.”
“Maybe. I don’t know, Will. Susanna still expects to see me in Colorado for her wedding.”
“So, return to the States for your daughter’s wedding and then come back. Ha
rry will be fine for a couple of months by himself. He’d like to have you back, and I’d feel much better knowing the shop was in the hands of someone proper.”
“I’m so tempted, but I’m not sure what the future holds.”
“Haven’t you talked to Mr. Harper about it?”
“Yes, but I haven’t heard back from him. I’m sure he would agree with it, but—”
“You know Harry prefers to work in the back of the shop, moving coffins and such. Morgan Undertaking needs someone expert in the front of the store. It needs you, Mrs. Harper.”
Violet looked around the shop that had once been hers, at the walnut counter she’d bought from an old cabinetmaker, at the shelves full of samples she’d always kept fully stocked. There was still a stain along the front of the counter from where she’d overturned an inkwell. She smiled, also remembering a terrible row she once had with Sam in the shop.
“Sam is still in Wales, but should be home, I mean, back in London, very soon. I will discuss it with him first thing, I promise. It would be nice to have a permanent shop again.”
“He’ll agree; I’m sure of it. Let me find Harry to discuss terms.”
Violet left the shop an hour later, pleased with the bargain struck. Although she still needed to discuss it with her husband, she knew Will was right and that Sam would be comfortable with it.
It was soothing to think about a permanent location again in London. Perhaps she and Sam could move in above the shop, if the flat above was unoccupied. Then there would be the question of Susanna, as she was in Colorado on account of Sam and Violet. How nice it would be, though, to move out of St. James’s Palace.
She laughed as she stepped up into a cab headed for the edge of Spitalfields, just outside the City of London. Most people would be overjoyed at the thought of living in a palace, but Violet couldn’t wait to be gone from it. If there was anything she’d learned from her work with the queen and members of the aristocracy, it was that their lives were just as miserable as those of London’s poor, except that no one cared about the misery of the rich. They had no charities or churches to help them, no prayers to sustain them, and most certainly they could never show their misery to the outside world.
A Virtuous Death Page 14