“We will gild a small part of the bottom rim of the cage. Every line that I have drawn should be gilded, and so we apply bole, a clay and glue mixture, to it first.” Mr. Caradoc opened up a squat, dark jar and dipped a stiff brush into it.
“Dear me, we seem to be completely out of bole,” he said.
“Shall I make more, Mr. Caradoc?” Beatrice said, leaving her own work to join her art tutor and Violet.
“An excellent idea. Most appreciated, Your Highness. You’ll find everything on the top shelf in the supply room.”
Once Beatrice was gone, Mr. Caradoc dropped his voice. “Mrs. Harper, it is most fortuitous that you are here. I’ve been in a quandary since yesterday, unsure whether to pass a message about this to the queen or wait for you.”
“A quandary about what, sir?”
“I try to mind my own business about the palace, indeed I do, but this is something that bears repeating.”
“What bears repeating?”
“I just don’t like to be known as a tattler, especially of those whose place is not perhaps as good as mine. Of course, I was most fortunate in the recognition I received while still a student at the Royal Academy and have parlayed it into a tidy position that will carry into my own private studio one day. Nevertheless, if something happened to Her Majesty I’d never forgive myself.”
“Mr. Caradoc, please speak plainly to me.”
“Yes, of course. Yesterday I happened upon a coachman loitering in the hallways. Said he was waiting for Princess Beatrice. He goes by the name of Meredith.”
Violet frowned. “I know of whom you speak.”
“You do? How are you on speaking terms with the stable workers?”
“One day I was in the mews looking for—never mind, what were you saying?”
Caradoc cleared his throat and dropped his voice further. “He said the most terrible things to me about the princess.”
“I don’t understand. What evil could anyone possibly speak against Princess Beatrice? She’s an innocent young girl.”
“It was more his opinion of serving a young girl. He told me that I was a slave and beholden to the upper crust. He quoted that Karl Marx fellow. Have you heard about him? Many would say Marx talks treason.”
Violet remembered seeing Mr. Marx once in the reading room at the British Museum. “I have. He wants the poor elevated above the rich, and recommends abolishing religion, property ownership, and capitalism in order to do so.”
“Yes, and Meredith is quite enthusiastic about Mr. Marx, to the point of being rabid. He made some talk about accomplishing his goals here, although what those are I hesitate to even hazard a guess. Meredith is much more radical than is warranted.”
“Was that all he said? He didn’t say anything specific that he planned to do?”
“No, Mrs. Harper, and that’s why I’ve been in a quandary. I think he may be a dangerous young man, yet he’s done nothing untoward. What would I tell the police? Or Her Majesty? That’s when I thought perhaps you could do something about it, given your friendship with the queen.”
Violet had discovered Mr. Brown in the stables one day, and now this coachman appeared to be engaging in treasonous talk, if not treasonous activities. Was this what Brown knew and was trying to convey to Violet?
Before she could ask Mr. Caradoc another question, Beatrice returned with the mixture he wanted. He nodded at her.
“Thank you, Your Highness. Now, Mrs. Harper, as I was demonstrating, we will apply a bit of bole to the line I’ve drawn. You see that it is a reddish brown, from the clay. I will burnish it against the canvas with this stiff brush . . . as such . . . yes, very good. Now we take this jar of size and apply it atop the bole. Size is a weak glue solution and will cause the gold leaf to adhere. Next I will show you what gold leaf looks like. . . .”
The art tutor was moving so fast Violet could hardly follow him. It didn’t matter, though. Her mind was on Mr. Caradoc’s revelation about the coachman.
When she was finally able to break free from the art lesson and say her farewells, she glanced at Beatrice’s eye portrait in progress, and it struck Violet that the eye being painted was very much like her own.
“Mother, have you seen this week’s Illustrated News?” Bertie asked as he and Alix entered Victoria’s private sitting room. He knew it always raised his mother’s hackles when he applied blunt force like this, without couching things in delicate terms, but he couldn’t help himself. Mother could be so blind where that idiot man was concerned.
“No, you know it upsets our digestion to read the paper with breakfast. We suppose something is troubling you?” She used a napkin to cover the remains of her breakfast and picked up her cup of tea.
Alix sat down, a hand to her swelling abdomen. Soon she wouldn’t be able to wear a corset and would retire from any public appearances.
“Yes, Mother, and it should be troubling you, as well.” Bertie waved the latest edition in the air and snapped it open. “Listen to this.
“ ‘. . . and so we have on good authority that Her Majesty is not only a devotee of the spirit world, which is common knowledge, but that her Highland servant, Mr. Brown, is the sole medium through which she contacts her long-dead husband, the prince consort. Through tarot card sessions and séances, the queen’s ghillie contacts the prince consort so that the queen may ask his advice on personal matters and those pertaining to her sovereignty.
“ ‘Does the queen disgrace herself by secreting herself away with Mr. Brown exclusively? Are there no other mediums who can communicate with those who have gone to the Beyond, that she must be in private with this man who is not her husband? Surely London teems with female spiritualists, who would be more fitting for the situation.
“ ‘Is there a reason the queen holds this particular servant in such high regard? Is there more to this relationship than that of mistress–servant?
“ ‘We wish Her Majesty many years of good health and an ever-expanding empire, but kindly suggest that she consider her standing and reputation on the world’s stage.’ ”
Bertie threw the paper down in disgust. “It’s appalling.”
“Yes, the papers say the most dreadful things sometimes. They’ve always done so, as you well know.”
“Mother, this is more than merely ‘appalling.’ You are the queen, and the newspaper is all but suggesting you and Brown are lovers.”
“Bertie, language!”
“I hardly think that pointing out the truth is cause for reprimand, and it is hardly the point. Mother, you must dismiss that man, lest this grow into an unmanageable scandal.”
Victoria slammed her teacup against its saucer. “And we hardly think that you are in a position to lecture us on the Klatsch and Skandal. You know more about the gossips than I do.”
“The press has merely noted my high spirits. I have never—”
“Let us remind you that Mr. Brown tends to our needs, both spiritual and domestic. He has been devoted to our person for many years, and was likewise devoted to your father before he passed on. If your dear Vater were here now, how pained he would be by your attitude. But he was taken from us by an illness he never should have had.”
Now Mother would thrash him with the thinly veiled reminder that Father’s death was all Bertie’s fault. He had to stop her before she flayed his back open with that verbal cat-o’-nine-tails again, as she’d been doing for the past nine years.
“You’re changing the subject. At hand is what you will do about Mr. Brown and his increasing stain on this family.”
“We will not do anything about our faithful servant. He gives us great Komfort in times of distress, and those moments occur more and more frequently.” She gave Bertie her iciest stare.
His mother was summoning up the stubbornness for which she was so famous. It was best to slightly change subjects.
“Has the undertaker discovered whatever it is Mr. Brown said was lurking about in the palace?”
“Not yet. Mr. Brown recommends a
séance, which we will have tomorrow. Perhaps you and Alix could join us. He says we are sure to make contact with your dear papa, to seek his advice on the situation.”
“After everything I just said, you still insist—”
“Darling,” Alix said. “I do feel a bit of discomfort. Might we return home so that I can nap? Perhaps we can return later to continue our visit.”
“There’s nothing wrong, I hope?” he said.
“No, no, I think I just need some quiet time.”
As they walked arm in arm downstairs, it occurred to Bertie that Alix was making up her pain to end the quarrel between his mother and him. She was quite skillful about it, too. Hmm. Perhaps he hadn’t given Alix enough credit for her diplomatic abilities.
Maybe it really was time he ceased his dalliances and became the devoted husband his own father once was.
He gazed fondly at Alix, who was chattering sweetly about donating baby clothes to an abandoned mothers’ charity, her face flushed with the exertion of walking down the staircase to pick up their carriage. Such a gracious and beautiful princess deserved a constant and steadfast prince.
Yes, the minute he tired of Lady Vane-Tempest he would devote himself wholeheartedly to his wife.
St. James’s Palace, London
“Madam, you have a visitor.”
The servant bowed and left Violet to figure out that whoever had come to see her was in one of the receiving rooms downstairs. The staff was still very uncomfortable with the undertaker-in-residence who had been foisted upon them, especially with the knowledge that she was preparing for a third burial in less than two weeks.
To her surprise, it was Lord Marcheford who awaited her, anxiously anticipating the whiskey being poured for him by one of the hundreds of liveried servants who roamed the palace. They all had very specialized roles in a hierarchy that was unfathomable. For all Violet knew, this man’s entire role might be to make guests comfortable inside this room.
“My lord,” she said, dipping into the smallest of curtsies. She was learning quickly how far down to dip, depending upon the rank of the lord or lady she was addressing and upon what point she was trying to make.
On seeing her, Lord Marcheford took a huge swallow of the swirling brown liquid in his glass. “Mrs. Harper.”
He then stared at her expectantly.
What? Was there something on her face? Then Violet remembered that she was the hostess in this situation, even though she was just an undertaker temporarily occupying palace space.
“Please, won’t you be seated?”
They sat across from each other on matching striped settees of pale pink. Violet’s black gown was a stark contrast to the elegant, soft surroundings she sat in.
Ripley stared moodily into his glass, saying nothing.
“My lord, is there something I can help—”
He looked up. “I understand you are investigating my wife’s death.”
“Who told you this?”
“Princess Louise, who else? What I want to know is why you are doing so. What is with all of you harpies, pursuing the idea that Charlotte was murdered when you know positively well that she died a natural death?”
“You seem quite convinced.”
“Of course I am. I’m her husband. I knew my wife was ill, a fact she tried to hide from others. You are disgracing her death by supposing someone may have murdered her.”
Violet folded her hands in her lap to remain as calm as possible. “But aren’t you the least bit curious, my lord? What if someone may have had a grudge against Lady Marcheford?”
“A grudge? Over what?”
“Perhaps over her moralist activities with Princess Louise and Mrs. Butler.”
“Good Lord, that Butler woman is depraved. Charlotte must have lost her senses to get involved with that harridan. Wait, what are you implying?”
“I am implying nothing, sir. I merely find it curious that a loving husband, distraught over his wife’s sudden death, should make it a priority that no one investigate the peculiar circumstances surrounding her demise.”
Lord Marcheford swallowed what remained of his whiskey and slammed the glass down on the table next to him. “There are no peculiar circumstances! Lottie was ill. She was coughing up blood and losing stamina. You moralists are running about acting as if no one ever died of consumption before. It’s embarrassing my family and me.”
“I am not a member of the moralists. I am only—”
“But you will be. You’ve been poisoned by that Butler woman, and soon you’ll be prancing up and down Whitehall, carrying signs and protesting the lot of a bunch of fallen women. At least you aren’t a member of society, because then your husband would have to pack you off to the country until you learned a lesson.”
“Is that what you attempted to do with Lady Marcheford? Send her away to the family estate? Were you perhaps unsuccessful at that and needed to take more drastic measures to stop her activities? Or were they measures to ensure you could marry elsewhere?”
Lord Marcheford reddened. “You’ve no idea what you’re saying, you deranged crow.”
“Believe me, my lord, I’ve been called a crow more times than I can count. You’ll not frighten me with your name-calling and brute force.” Violet stood to end the conversation, and so did he.
“Listen to me,” he said. “I’ll not have this preposterous rumor stain the earldom. I’ve idled away many years for it, and when I inherit, there will not be a cloud of innuendo hanging over me. Do you understand me?”
He grabbed Violet’s damaged arm and shook her, bringing his face close to hers so that she smelled the sourness of his whiskey-laden breath. “I will do whatever it takes to ensure I am a respected peer of the realm. No simpleminded, gullible little undertaker will ruin what I’ve waited so long for. You may be assured of that, Mrs. Harper.”
“You may not be aware of it, my lord, but you are touching my person. Remove your hand from me at once.”
“Yes, well.” He shook her away from him. He went to the sideboard and poured himself another whiskey, downing it in a single gulp. “I’ll take my leave now. Don’t forget what I’ve said.”
After he stormed out, Violet sat back down, rubbing her arm. It hurt where he’d seized her, and she hoped she wouldn’t be bruised. What pained her more than her arm was her own thoughts.
What was the real reason for Lord Marcheford’s visit? To simply scare her? Did he genuinely believe his wife died of consumption, or did he wish for everyone else to believe it?
What might the heir to a title do to ensure his succession went smoothly? Murder his wife? Violet shook her head. Despite his boorish character, she couldn’t quite accept him as a callous wife killer. Besides, if he’d killed his wife to smooth the path for his inheritance, for what reason would he have killed his wife’s friends? To throw suspicion away from Lady Marcheford’s death?
Something just wasn’t right with that theory.
Then there was Mr. Meredith, a sly and undoubtedly shrewd member of the mews staff. But how could someone who chafed against the royal family possibly have been hired at the palace? It was highly unlikely. Was Mr. Caradoc perhaps mistaken in his assessment of the young man?
Who was guilty? Lord Marcheford, the future Marquess of Salford and despiser of moralists; or the newly hired groom, Meredith, who was agitating against the aristocracy?
She’d spent enough time with Lord Marcheford. Perhaps it was time to visit Mr. Meredith.
It had required all of Violet’s skills to ensure that Reese Meredith was her driver for the short ride to Buckingham Palace to attend yet another of the queen’s desired séances. Violet intended to use the time to ferret out a murderer.
“Good evening, Mrs. Harper,” Meredith said as he held out a gloved hand to help her into the enclosed carriage. A groom stood on the rear boards. “How fortunate I am to escort you back to the palace.”
The man was all smiles and charm, but Violet shivered inwardly as she recalled Mr. C
aradoc’s report of the man. “Thank you,” she said.
Meredith shut the door and jumped onto the driver’s box while Violet leaned back to decide how to corner Meredith in conversation once they arrived at their destination. They’d barely left St. James’s courtyard when Meredith pulled the carriage off the road. Why, he was entering the drive to Marlborough House. Were they picking up the Prince and Princess of Wales?
It didn’t seem likely that they would be forced to share a vehicle with an undertaker.
The carriage stopped well before the house’s main doors, and after some commotion and discussion from above Meredith opened the carriage door and hopped in to sit across from her, as the groom took over driving back out of Marlborough House.
“Pardon me, what are you doing?” Violet said. She was no refined lady, but she knew that Meredith’s unseemly behavior was not only startling but also unnerving. However, he’d certainly taken care of her problem with how to corner him. He’d cornered her instead.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Harper; I mean no harm. I just wanted to talk to you, and I figured you wouldn’t mind a bit of company. I’m Reese Meredith.”
She nodded once at him. “I remember who you are, and I certainly hope you intend me no harm, since we are in a royal carriage, positioned between two royal palaces.”
He grinned. “Harming you would be most unwise. I’m just very curious about you. You’re an undertaker, yet you seem friendly with all of the women in the palace. Do they have you around in case a body drops?”
“Are you of the impression that people in palaces simply drop dead for no reason?”
He considered this. “No, they always die for a reason. I just don’t understand why an undertaker would be around all of the time. Isn’t it bad luck for the queen to be around you?”
Violet sighed. “No, the queen isn’t permitted to be around death itself; hence she doesn’t attend funerals. There is no rule against her being near an undertaker.”
A Virtuous Death Page 16