A Virtuous Death

by Christine Trent

  Violet far preferred her own world of dead bodies, dark crypts, and mourning wear. Which brought her mind back around to the problem at hand. Would Miss Cortland possess any obvious signs that she’d been killed? Or that she’d died of illness? Violet planned to take extra-special care of her, especially if her parents didn’t care about their daughter.

  So far, everything was progressing smoothly and he could declare it perfect if only he didn’t get caught during his current mission. Reese had donned his best uniform and was now finding his way through the palace via the servants’ staircases and hallways. He needed to figure out where the queen’s personal rooms were. Thus far, no one had questioned his presence.

  What was down here? This hallway was much like the others, except the wall lanterns were less ostentatious and the carpets were plain. Was this where the family lived, or was this where they stored unwelcome relatives?

  “What are you doing here?” came a voice from behind him.

  Reese whirled around, so startled that he forgot the lie he had invented before entering the palace. “Pardon me. I—ah—I’m afraid I’m a bit lost.”

  “I should say you are. Who are you?”

  “Reese Meredith, sir, a coachman.”

  “I’ve seen you before. How the devil did you get lost inside the queen’s private rooms?”

  Ah, so he’d found them.

  “I—I was told that the Princess Beatrice wanted to drive through Hyde Park, and when she didn’t appear at the usual loading place, I tried to find her and a maid told me to look here.”

  The man before him was tall and pinched looking, as though he’d just encountered a side of moldering beef. He scowled down his nose at Reese. “The princess asked for no such thing. She is scheduled for a painting class with me today.”

  “So you are . . . ?”

  “Her art tutor, of course, Owen Caradoc. You may call me Mr. Caradoc.”

  Reese knew the type. Someone hired on because his third cousin was school chums with a distant relative of the queen’s, hence affording him an introduction to the royal household. Now he was cock of the walk. Unlike Reese, whose position at the palace was due to his exertion and suffering as a cavalryman, one of a few experiences that qualified one to work in the mews. And his experience hadn’t even been able to earn him this position until now.

  “Of course, Mr. Caradoc. It must be a great pleasure to work up here.”

  “The Princess Beatrice is a good student.”

  “So that’s it? A little girl is your master?”

  “Don’t be arrogant, Mr. Meredith. Serving the princess has given me stature. When I am no longer needed here, I’ll be able to set up my own school, and parents will flock to me from all over the kingdom to place their children in my classes.”

  Reese crossed his arms. “So you will be forever dependent on the gratitude and good words of the sovereign. Don’t you chafe under the bonds of servitude? Don’t you look at them and think, ‘They are no better than I. Why do they presume to be lords and masters of my fate? Why aren’t they subject to the same rules that I am?’ ”

  Caradoc looked at him in horror. “I have an excellent position here. I serve the Royal House of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, have a good stipend, and room and board. As, I’m sure, do you. Why are you intent on destroying your good fortune?”

  “Yes, you do indeed serve. Like an ass carrying panniers full of gold goblets that don’t belong to him.”

  “And you do not carry the same panniers over your uniform? What is your name again? I hear distant Welsh in your voice.”

  Someone else who had figured him out. “Reese Meredith. And, no, my position is due to the sweat of my brow, not connections to the royal family. I’ll never be beholden to the upper crust. Mr. Marx says we proletarians have nothing to lose but our chains once the bourgeoisie are overthrown.”

  “We are all beholden to someone. Young man, if you believe you are going to make your mark in this world by destroying the aristocracy head-on, then you are a fool. The French have already tried. There are always other means to resolve these types of problems.”

  Reese shook his head in disgust. “You are a typical slave. Your mind is poisoned.”

  “And you are a typical member of youth. Rash and bold. You may have a noble goal, but your methods are foolhardy. You know you could be thrown out of the palace—or worse—for such treasonous talk, and without getting a good character from the superintendent of the mews, either.”

  “When I have accomplished my goals, a reference will be the least of my concerns. Tell the princess that when she’s ready to go out, I’ll have a carriage waiting for her.”

  Reese stalked off, pleased at the look of disbelief on the art tutor’s face. Once Reese had reached the stables again, though, he wondered if perhaps he hadn’t tipped his hand too far. He’d need to make sure that if that Caradoc fellow went tattling it was he who looked the fool, not Reese.

  Violet could only describe Josephine Butler as having a commanding presence. She was ordinary in most ways: of average height, brown hair neither light nor dark, unremarkable brown eyes, plain—if not downright drab—clothing. Yet when the woman opened her mouth it was as if the forces of heaven were gathered together there to conduct divine business.

  Her welcome at the association’s quarters was warm and inviting. “Mrs. Harper, thank you for coming. The princess was good to send you. Miss Cortland lived upstairs once her family abandoned her. It was of great fortune to us to have her here to keep an eye on it, as we’ve been broken into more than once. Not everyone appreciates what we do.”

  Violet could see that this might be so. Most of the furniture was old and dilapidated, and paint peeled from cabinets. A large coal stove sat on broken blue tiles in a corner with various kettles and pans resting on it. She could just make out an obscenity on one wall, bleeding through several layers of whitewash.

  “See the gouge in this cabinet?” Mrs. Butler said, observing Violet’s appraisal of the place. “It’s from some young lout who thought destroying the premises would earn him huzzahs from his fellow troublemakers.”

  Did Louise ever actually venture over here? Perhaps this explained why she was willing to risk meetings at the palace mews.

  “Your work must be very dangerous,” Violet said.

  Mrs. Butler shrugged. “I am a cousin of the second Earl Grey, the prime minister who worked so hard at slavery abolition and Catholic emancipation, so I suppose it is in my blood to care about such causes. God has purposed me for just such a moment and I am grateful to do this duty each day, no matter the cost.”

  Violet had to admire the woman’s strength and could see why Louise respected her so. “Do you think you’ll be able to influence a repeal of the laws?”

  “I do, but it will take time to change the hearts of the weaklings in Parliament. And even once they are repealed, there is so much more work to be done. Prostitution itself is not only a sin, but a blight upon all of society. It must be eradicated, but only men can accomplish this, for it is they who control everything about the practice.

  “It is men, and only men, who determine a prostitute’s fate. Men police lay hands on these prostitutes. By men they are examined, handled, doctored. In the hospital, it is a man again who makes prayer and reads the Bible to them. They are had up before magistrates who are men, and they never get out of the hands of men until they die.” At this, Mrs. Butler’s otherwise nondescript eyes flared with righteous wrath. Violet wouldn’t have been surprised if the archangel Michael made a sudden appearance.

  Mrs. Butler continued, visibly incensed. “Why this double standard? Why do only women endure humiliating medical examinations? Why are only women held captive in lock hospitals if found to be infected? Why are only women’s reputations threatened? These questions must be answered, and they are a key part of our campaign to repeal the acts. Her Highness speaks well of you and thinks you would be valuable to our cause. Would you like to join us, Mrs. Harper?”


  “Mrs. Butler, I am but a simple undertaker and must tend to my craft at all hours of the day and night.” Violet patted her undertaking bag. “And my charitable causes run more to that of Mr. Booth’s Christian Revival Society.”

  “Yes, I know his wife, Catherine. We all serve God in our own ways, Mrs. Harper. Today, you are a blessing to this cause, whether you realize it or not.”

  Violet nodded. “Thank you. Now, perhaps, I might ask you some questions about Miss Cortland?”

  “Of course.”

  “Was she ill?”

  “Only recently she’d been complaining of a cough, but it was minor. She’d bought some cocaine drops and was feeling better. That’s why I was so surprised when she . . . departed . . . so suddenly, as if for no reason. I summoned the coroner, but he did no more than hold a lantern over her face for several seconds and declare her to have died of natural causes. A twenty-two-year-old woman, dead of natural causes? Either the man is incompetent or lazy.”

  “Or, more than likely, uninterested in someone associated with your movement, Mrs. Butler. Not every coroner is well trained, and there is little to compel them to find a criminal intent behind an unusual death that doesn’t interest them. Had she mentioned a recent animal bite, or perhaps an insect sting?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  Violet followed Mrs. Butler up a narrow flight of stairs to a shabby, warped door. Behind it was a small, dark room that must have served as a private office with its wooden desk, one missing leg substituted with the cracked head of an old plaster bust, and a rickety chair behind it. The walls were papered with old posters and notices of everything from ship sailings to theater performances to pages torn from Illustrated Police News.

  Tucked away in a corner was a cast-iron bed. Upon the bed, in a nearly angelic pose, lay Miss Cortland.

  “How did you find her?” Violet asked.

  “Nearly like she is now. I simply rolled her a bit more upright. Her Highness said it was best to let you lay her out.”

  Violet nodded. “Have her parents been notified?”

  “Yes. I received a note back that her remains were my problem. I hardly know what to do.”

  “You may rely on me, Mrs. Butler. Did they not even offer to pay for her funeral?”

  “They offered nothing. Do you wish to see their letter?”

  “No, I can imagine its contents. Did the princess indicate if she might be willing . . . ?”

  Josephine Butler pressed her lips together grimly. “The princess doesn’t have her own money, and certainly could not explain this situation to the queen and expect a contribution.”

  “You’re right, of course. I suppose, then, that I should plan on a very simple affair. We’ll rent a coffin and use a simple wagon with just a single pair of horses. She can be buried in the gown she’s wearing. Was she a congregant somewhere nearby? Is there room in her church’s yard?”

  “I’d been taking her with me to Christ Church lately. I’ll see if we can bury her there.”

  “I’d like to take her in two days’ time, if convenient for the minister. Also, do you wish for me to cut locks of hair for mementos?”

  “Yes, please. Well, shall I leave you with her?”

  Mrs. Butler walked to the bedside, bent over, and kissed Miss Cortland’s forehead. “Rest well in heaven, little angel. It’s hard to imagine that God needs you more than we do, but who are we to question His ways?”

  Once alone with the corpse, Violet felt more nervous around the woman than she had around any other dead body in a long time. What would she find this time?

  “Miss Cortland, I’m here to take care of you. I’ll need your help, though. Can you tell me what happened to you?” Violet put her hands to either side of Miss Cortland’s head, willing an answer from her slackened face.

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I need to inspect you.” Violet turned the deceased’s head from side to side. No bite marks were visible on her neck.

  Violet took both of the woman’s hands in her own and rubbed them. No welts or bite marks there, either. “Forgive my personal intrusion, madam,” she said, pulling up Miss Cortland’s gown to inspect her legs, running her hands up and down them to feel for welts or protrusions. Nothing.

  “I can hardly believe you died of natural causes. Yet you lie here so peacefully. What secrets are you hiding?”

  Violet sniffed the air. There was no sign of the very strong odor she’d noticed in both Lady Maud’s and Lady Marcheford’s rooms. Perhaps Louise’s imagination was in full bloom and Violet was allowing herself to be too influenced by it. It was certainly possible that Miss Cortland had died of an illness, but . . .

  On a whim, Violet rolled down one of the woman’s stockings and removed it from her foot. Grasping Miss Cortland’s foot in one hand, she examined it. “You have the heel of a hard worker, madam,” she said. “Already so rough and calloused. And your large toe so bent. I’d say you’ve been wearing shoes that are too tight, although whether that was for fashion’s sake or afford—wait, what’s this?”

  Between that bent toe and the next one were exactly what she was looking for. Two tiny bite marks.

  Who or what in heaven’s name was running around London biting the knees and toes and necks of the city’s aristocratic young women? Besides being aristocratic, all three of the bodies Violet had inspected were of women involved with Josephine Butler as well as Princess Louise. Was one or the other of the two women the reason behind these deaths? But why? Both were involved in the moralist movement behind the repeal of the Contagious Diseases Acts, but why would anyone care so much about those acts that he would unleash some deadly insect over them?

  Violet ran to the edge of her own imagination about the possibilities as she carefully washed and prepared Miss Cortland for burial. Was it a military man, mad with syphilis and fearful that he might be discovered if Mrs. Butler’s reforms took place? Or perhaps someone in Parliament who wanted to prevent a repeal vote? But again, why such drastically morbid measures?

  Her mind drifted back to Lord Marcheford. Lady Marcheford said he had a mistress. Would he have had the will to kill Charlotte, either over his mistress or because of his disdain over her activities with the other moralist women? Would his disdain extend to killing the rest of them, one by one?

  Perhaps it was time to have a conversation with His Lordship, if she could do so without becoming a victim herself.

  8

  Violet was pleasantly surprised to receive a note from Princess Beatrice asking if she wished to come to the palace to paint with her the following morning. She accepted the young royal’s invitation and was curtsying before the girl soon after breakfast.

  “You may sit here, Mrs. Harper,” Beatrice said, opening the door to her art room and indicating a prepared spot in front of a canvas. “I’ve assembled all the paints and brushes you might need. I thought you might copy Peaches while I work on another eye portrait.”

  Beatrice pointed to a cockatiel with bright orange cheeks in a gilded cage in one corner of the room. Someone had skillfully placed a length of damask around the cage, and it puddled on the floor around the base of the birdcage stand.

  “After we paint a few hours I will call for luncheon, and after we dine I thought we might walk in the gardens.”

  Once again, Violet was struck by how lonely the poor girl was, despite her mother’s cloying attentions. “Princess, I am a willing student, but I know very little about oil paints. My only experience with a brush is as it pertains to mourning jewelry.”

  “I will show you. Here are your pigments, which you will mix with—”

  They were interrupted by the arrival of Beatrice’s art tutor, who entered the room drying several long horsehair brushes with a cloth. “Ah, Mrs. Harper, isn’t it? We are glad to have you back. Are you here for a lesson?”

  “The princess was just about to demonstrate—”

  “Yes, Her Highness is becoming quite proficient in her craft. Perhaps we will leave her to finis
hing her current work while I tend to the mundane details of showing you what to do.”

  Beatrice sat down at her own table, her expression crestfallen as she picked up her own brush, dipped it in a sepia-toned mixture, and applied it to a partially finished sliver of ivory. The girl would probably be quite talented at creating a mourning piece, such as what Lady Hazel Campden had made. Undoubtedly, Beatrice’s mother was ensuring her daughter had an unending stream of work to do in homage to Albert, so it was no wonder she was a talented eye portraitist.

  “Here, Mrs. Harper, you see we have several containers filled with powders. They are your pigments. We shall sprinkle some ochre down like this. . . .” Mr. Caradoc tipped a container forward and tapped some into a small ceramic bowl.

  “Now we will add in some linseed oil.” From a thick brown bottle he poured a slick substance. The odor was exactly that of a finished canvas, so Violet now knew where the smell came from.

  Mr. Caradoc used a glass pestle to grind the pigment powder into the linseed oil. After a few twists with the pestle, he handed the apparatus to Violet. “Now you try.”

  Violet continued the blending until the art tutor was satisfied.

  “If you were truly my student, I would spend weeks teaching you how to draw. But as I suspect this is mostly a social call, I encourage you to experiment freely.”

  Violet certainly couldn’t argue with his assessment, except that Mr. Caradoc was interrupting the social visit.

  “I presume you are painting Peaches, Mrs. Harper?”

  “Yes, it was what the princess recommended.” Beatrice’s back stiffened at the mention of her name.

  “Then you should probably learn how to gild, so that you can paint a more realistic birdcage. First, I will draw a couple of the wires of the cage with a charcoal pencil, as such. . . .” Mr. Caradoc quickly sketched on her canvas and almost immediately had made a reasonably good outline of the cage on it.