A Virtuous Death

by Christine Trent

  “But there must be some reason why you’ve been able to get near her. Does she like you because you both wear black all of the time?”

  “Why are you so curious about my relationship with the queen, Mr. Meredith?”

  “Why, because I’m new around here, and you seemed to be in the best place to tell me how to make my way in with my employer.”

  “Your employer is the superintendent of the mews, and the crown equerry above him.”

  “That he is. But it doesn’t hurt to get the notice of those at the top, does it?”

  Had Meredith actually just winked at her?

  “Is there anything else you wish to know, Mr. Meredith?”

  He didn’t seem put out by her rebuffing his question. Instead, he changed subjects. “When I drove you and the queen to Cumberland Lodge, I heard you talking about your husband. He’s planning to build a dynamite factory?”

  Violet didn’t like this turn in the conversation at all.

  “Perhaps. What of it?”

  He shrugged. “Nothing. I’m just a curious fellow. How is dynamite usually used?”

  “My husband sees its greatest application in the opening of coal mines. He believes it to be safer than the current method of pouring black powder into paper cylinders inside drilled holes and igniting them.”

  “Most coal mines are in Wales, aren’t they? Do you think the miners will be safer underground because the mine is blown up with dynamite?”

  Violet remembered the article she’d read about the Mold riots. “Mr. Meredith, you have no accent, but are you by chance Welsh? Have you visited Flintshire before?”

  The color drained from his face. “Why would you suggest that?”

  So the art tutor may have been right about Meredith. She tried another question.

  “Did you know Miss Lillian Cortland?”

  He was recovered by this point, a cheeky grin on his face once more. “Can’t say that I did. Who was she?”

  “A young woman involved in the moralist movement. I buried her this morning.”

  “Is that right? Sounds tragic.”

  “It was, Mr. Meredith. Some think she may have been murdered.”

  He stared steadily at her, his expression not flinching. “Very tragic, Mrs. Harper. Why do you ask me?”

  It was time to disengage herself from his presence. “No reason. Look, we’ve arrived.”

  Meredith looked out the window. “I must be quick.” He scrambled out the door of the still-rolling carriage and somehow clambered up and over the roof to the groom’s stand. As the coach came to a stop, Meredith hopped down once more and helped Violet out as composed as though he’d been nothing more than a dutiful servant the whole time.

  As she removed her hand from his she whispered, “You think you are clever, Mr. Meredith, but you aren’t that clever.”

  He smiled cryptically. “Oh, but I am, Mrs. Harper. You have no idea.”

  9

  Violet was shaken by her encounter with Reese Meredith but wasn’t sure what to make of him. Had he somehow been impacted by the events in Mold and was now seeking revenge on the queen for it? But how would killing two of Louise’s friends amount to revenge? And how did Miss Cortland work into it?

  More important, what did Violet have to take to the queen? That Meredith was saucy and insolent? So were half the staff at any royal palace when not around their sovereign. That he’d been in the family’s private rooms uninvited? He wouldn’t be the first servant to take a peek inside an area where he had no business.

  No, Violet would have to catch him at something, although it had to be soon, and before he did something truly dangerous.

  Once inside, Violet, the queen, Beatrice, Louise, Bertie, and Alix were seated around the large, round table with Mr. Brown, who introduced Frawley, another outdoor servant who would be assisting with the evening’s event. Mr. Frawley didn’t look much like a ghillie to Violet, with his soft hands and skin pale from lack of sun, but the queen seemed to know him and welcomed him warmly.

  Violet hadn’t been in this particular room before. It was cozy by palace standards, despite its high and gilded ceiling. The furniture was more modest and the draperies less formal, although, like every other one of the queen’s personal rooms, it was filled with Albert memorabilia. Dominating this room was a marble bust of the man on the fireplace mantel. Near the fireplace was an easel containing a photograph of the queen and all five of her daughters gathered around the bust, gazing longingly at it.

  As Brown explained what was to happen, Violet drifted off into her own thoughts again. Mr. Meredith certainly had mischief on his mind, but what about Lord Marcheford? He seemed a malevolent man, who had quite possibly killed his wife.

  Was that it? Had Lord Marcheford killed his wife, while Mr. Meredith had been responsible for Lady Maud and Miss Cortland? Was Violet dealing with two or more killers and it only seemed like one? She shook her head. None of it made any sense.

  “And now we will dim the lights, so that when the spirits enter the room they will nae be blinded. Mr. Frawley, will ye take care to extinguish the lamps? Ah, also, I seem to have forgotten my pocket watch. If ye would be so kind as to retrieve it. While he is gone, we will all join hands, to provide the energy for the spirits to join us.”

  How very perfect. Violet had paid no attention to Mr. Brown up to this point, and now she had no idea what to expect. She wished she could retreat back to St. James’s. She needed to coalesce all of her thoughts into lists that she could mull over.

  She tucked her right hand into Alix’s, while her left hand enveloped Princess Beatrice’s.

  The lamps were dimmed one by one, and soon there was only the glow of candles in the center of the table. Utter silence dominated the room, except for Bertie’s low sigh, which was quickly shushed by the queen.

  “Forgive us, spirits, for disturbing ye,” Mr. Brown said, his voice now a remarkable baritone. “We are a pitiful group of wanderers on this side who seek answers to difficult questions. Ye dinnae know how anxious we are to know your opinion on many matters.”

  Brown cleared his throat. “But we seek one of ye most specifically, His Royal Highness, Albert. Are ye there, Your Highness?”

  A few moments of silence were followed by a cool breeze passing over the table. Several of the candles went out, leaving only the barest glow of light in the room. Muffled gasps broke through the quiet.

  Violet shivered—from the cold, she hoped—and as the seconds ticked on, her mind wandered again. Should she go to Inspector Hurst and tell him about Mr. Meredith and Lord Marcheford? But how would Hurst react any differently than the queen? Violet had nothing concrete to tell either of them. Did she have the mettle to catch out the criminal herself? She’d done it before—

  Several short raps startled Violet back to the present. Next to her, Beatrice tightened her grip on Violet’s hand.

  Where had the raps come from? They seemed to fill the room.

  “Your Highness?” Brown asked, his voice low.

  Two more raps and a distant rattling.

  “Your Highness, thank ye for troubling yourself for us. Are ye aware of your dear wife in the room?”

  Two raps. Were they coming from beneath the table?

  Victoria sighed contentedly.

  “Your daughters Princess Louise and Princess Beatrice are here.”

  Two more raps. No, the sound was from above somewhere.

  “Do you see your son and his wife, the Prince and Princess of Wales?”

  The same two raps.

  “Your Highness, ye may also recognize Mrs. Harper.”

  Silence.

  “Your Highness, she was your undertaker.”

  Two sharp raps.

  Brown raised his voice once again. “We seek your wisdom, sir. The spirits wish for Mrs. Harper to uncover a certain foul and nefarious plot brewing in the halls of the palace. But she has nae been able to do so and your beloved wife grows worried. If you please, Your Highness”—Brown’s voice
dropped to just above a whisper—“help Her Majesty push the undertaker in the right direction.”

  Violet was reminded of a minister she’d once heard, who could modulate his voice up and down so well that the congregation was taken for a verbal voyage through stormy waters and left exhausted by the time they docked for communion.

  She braced for rough seas.

  A series of raps filled the room again. It was impossible to tell where they were coming from. It was as though they came from everywhere at once.

  “Yes, yes,” Brown said, his voice barely audible.

  The room went silent again and Violet supposed they might be done, but then the rapping began again. This time it was erratic: a few quick raps, silence, a single rap accompanied by that odd, distant rattling again.

  “Yes, I understand ye. Yes, I will tell her. What of—” The rapping increased in tempo, and so did Brown’s voice.

  “Your Highness, I feel your agitation. I cannae follow you. Ye must give me more time.”

  The noises dropped to a few intermittent knocks.

  Violet saw Brown nodding sagely in the candles’ glow. Once the knocks stopped entirely, he said—once again much more quietly—“Thank you, Your Highness, for this informative news. I will pass your greetings on to the queen and your children.”

  The rattling started again and faded away. They all still sat at the table, hands clutched in the near darkness. Beatrice’s hand was moist in Violet’s own, although Alix’s was ice-cold.

  Were they to stay posed like this forever? Did the queen have no idea that Mr. Frawley was Brown’s accomplice in this?

  Mr. Brown grunted, and both Beatrice and Alix released hands with Violet. Mr. Frawley returned, sweating but holding up the brass watch by its chain. “My apologies, Mr. Brown. I had difficulty finding it.”

  “As it turns out, we did well enough without it. Kindly relight the room.”

  The gas lamps soon came on again and Violet blinked to regain focus in the light. The queen’s face was practically beatific.

  “Mr. Frawley, you missed Mr. Brown’s connection with the prince. It is always such a comfort to everyone to sense his presence. If only the entire nation could benefit from it.”

  “Indeed, madam,” Mr. Frawley said as he stepped into the background like a footman waiting upon a dinner table.

  “Now, Mr. Brown, do tell us what the prince said. It isn’t fair to keep us in suspense.”

  The queen’s ghillie smiled and inclined his head. “As you wish. The prince extended his felicitations to his children, cautioning them to be respectful of their mother and to be ever mindful of their positions in the world.

  “He had special words for you, madam, but I dinnae dare repeat them, lest they shock the ears of young Princess Beatrice. Suffice to say that your husband misses you.”

  The queen brought a hand to her mouth as if to cover her shock, but her sparkling eyes spoke delight at what she’d heard.

  “All of that in a couple of noisy bangings? How very clever,” Bertie muttered.

  Brown continued as if he hadn’t heard the prince. “He also reassured me that Lady Maud and Lady Marcheford are at rest and at peace. Justice, though, must be found for them. Mrs. Harper, it is someone in this room who has the answers you seek. Ask and ye shall receive. He also makes a request of you, that you remember that those who hide in the open are often the most concealed.”

  “What does that mean?” Violet asked.

  “I don’t know. Those that live in the Beyond can sometimes phrase things in a way that is difficult to decipher.”

  “What nonsense,” Bertie said.

  Did Brown mean Louise? Himself? Violet knew better than to ask him directly, since all she would receive would be a veiled, obscure response.

  “That’s all?” Victoria said. “We had so hoped to learn more about what the spirits inside the palace want.”

  Brown spread both hands in his defense. “Madam, I can only repeat what the spirits tell me.”

  Bertie stared at the queen incredulously. “Seriously, Mother? You believe this to be the work of a true medium? He obviously used Frawley to conduct this trickery.”

  “Hush, Son. You have no understanding of Mr. Brown’s deeply empathetic connection to the other world.”

  Alix comforted Bertie, who glared at Brown so murderously that Violet would have believed him guilty of Lady Marcheford’s and Lady Maud’s deaths, if he’d had any reason to want them dead.

  Bertie abruptly rose with such force that he nearly knocked down his chair behind him. “I believe we have concluded our little séance. Mother, how nice that you’ve had a chat with Father. Beatrice, Louise, we will see you again for Mother’s birthday.” He nodded stiffly at Violet, and he and Alix took their leave.

  His abrupt departure resulted in Victoria’s lengthy exposition on her willful and unloving son and what Albert would have done if he were not relegated to the spirit world.

  Now, though, everyone else in the room was looking at Violet, as if waiting for her to make some pronouncement about how she would fulfill Albert’s request.

  It was proving to be a very long afternoon.

  Violet folded up the note she’d been handed, a request from Mrs. Butler to meet her at a coffee shop near the moralist’s headquarters. She assumed Mrs. Butler wanted to discuss some aspect of Miss Cortland’s funeral expenses or perhaps the installation of a gravestone.

  Since this was a business-related call, Violet once again donned her tall black hat with its trailing black ribbons, one of the hallmark symbols of her trade. Peering between the drapes of her room, she saw that it was raining, the drops pelting the hot granite blocks of the street and hissing in steam. At least the rain washed away some of the coal smuts that perpetually floated through the air.

  She’d intended to walk part of the way to the coffee shop, but perhaps not. Grabbing her wood-handled umbrella, she joined the other Londoners in the street who were darting to and fro, trying to stay dry.

  The cab stand was crowded and few cabs were available, making Violet late to her meeting with Mrs. Butler. Nevertheless, the woman greeted her enthusiastically with a kiss to the cheek.

  They sat before a window and ordered cups of chocolate and a plate of shortbread to share. They talked pleasantries until the white-aproned server placed steaming cups and a platter of sweet biscuits before them.

  “So, Mrs. Butler, did you wish to discuss Miss Cortland? I trust you were pleased with her funeral and have no complaints? Perhaps you are interested in adding—”

  “Please, call me Josephine. And actually, no, I wished to see you about something else. I understand from Louise that you are investigating Miss Cortland’s death as a murder. Please, don’t look surprised. The princess and I are closer friends than anyone knows, for obvious reasons.

  “It seemed to me that if you are looking further into Miss Cortland’s death, there is something you need to know.” Josephine paused.

  “Yes?”

  “I am loath to say anything about my associate that could be misconstrued, or could add to the pile of grievances her parents had against her.”

  “I understand. Whatever you say will remain confidential with me, Josephine. And you must call me Violet.”

  “Thank you. I thought you’d be discreet. Miss Cortland was stepping out secretly with a young man.”

  Violet frowned. “That’s not so unusual. Young women sneak out with young men behind their parents’ backs all the time, despite their parents’ best efforts to preserve their daughters’ virtues.”

  “Yes, but this particular young man was wholly unsuitable for her.”

  “Was he in a lower class?”

  “Not at all. That’s the problem. He was in society.”

  “Then why was he a problem?”

  “He was married.”

  Violet dropped her pastry. It fell into her lap and rolled to the floor, leaving a trail of buttery crumbs on her dress.

  “You say he w
as married? To whom? Who is he?”

  “I don’t know. As I told Louise, Miss Cortland never offered a name, so secretive was she about it. I didn’t want to pry into a distasteful situation. I just knew that—according to her—he was desperately unhappy in his marriage, but then, they always are, aren’t they?”

  “You never met him?”

  “No, he never came around to the association headquarters, but why would a man of his class do so? She always met him in parks and other places. It’s a tragedy the sin that people commit in their marital unions, Violet, whether it be with willing partners or if they pay for the opportunity.”

  “I suppose in that case it was rather ironic that Miss Cortland was trying to help prostitutes, yet allowed herself to fall prey to a man.”

  Josephine nodded sadly. “In my work, I have chosen to focus on the poor girls who are paid for their services, since, despite the money, they are often the least willing and most abused.”

  As Mrs. Butler went on to talk about some of the tragic cases she’d seen, Violet was connecting several things together in her mind. If she was right, there was a definite link between Lady Marcheford and Miss Cortland, and Violet didn’t like where it was pointing.

  What could she even do about it? Confronting Lord Marcheford was out of the question, and Inspector Hurst would only laugh at her supposition.

  How confident was she of her theory, anyway?

  “Have you ever seen a lock hospital, Violet? Let me take you to the London Lock Asylum in Kensal Green. It’s near the St. John the Evangelist chapel, so that the women can be ministered to there. Their customers, of course, receive no spiritual counseling.”

  They took a train to the hospital. It was located across the street from Kensal Green Cemetery, a public burial ground where Violet had overseen many interments. How ironic that the women who died inside the lock hospital would not have been permitted burial in the cemetery.

  The hospital itself had around a hundred beds, filled with women wearing tattered gray gowns, beneath tattered old bedcovers. The decrepit fabric looked right at home with the cracked plaster walls whose dull green paint was peeling off in dismal sheets.