A Virtuous Death

by Christine Trent

  Some beds contained two women, each barely hanging on to her side. Several patients looked as though they were burning up with fevers. One woman was hunched over a bedside commode, rocking back and forth and groaning as she expelled waste. A few bored physicians sat at bedsides or stared apathetically out of windows.

  On another floor was a men’s ward, housing about a dozen men who had submitted themselves voluntarily for treatment of their sexual diseases.

  “That is the difference, Violet,” Josephine said. “The men come and go as they please and get medical care if they so choose. The women are forced into the lock hospital. Both have the same problem; why such substantially different treatment?”

  “Why are they called lock hospitals?” Violet asked. “Because the women are locked in?”

  “No, it comes from the old leprosy hospitals, which came to be known as lock hospitals because of the ‘locks,’ or rags, used to cover the lepers’ lesions.”

  Violet had visited a workhouse once before and was hard pressed to decide which conditions were worse: those of the workhouse or the lock hospital. Surely as many people died in each.

  After Violet and Josephine completed their tour of the hospital the sky was still pelting the streets, so the two women agreed to take a cab together to Josephine’s headquarters, whereupon Violet would take it back to St. James’s Palace.

  The rain had been steady since Violet left the palace, and now the piles of horse droppings in the roadway were crumbling into the swirl of water on the granite.

  A steady rain usually resulted in a mucky mess in the streets, followed by a human stampede to laundries.

  Violet lifted the hem of her dress. She would undoubtedly be in the stampede.

  As was true earlier, the cab stand nearest the hospital was crowded with Londoners looking for dry passage to their destinations, so Violet and Josephine decided to try their luck finding a cab elsewhere. With umbrellas up and offering little protection, they plodded through the crowds to a side street, hoping it would be less busy.

  It wasn’t.

  “Let’s try one more block up,” Josephine said.

  They pushed on through the thronged street, but it was no less crowded in another block. “Let me try to hail a cab here,” Violet said. She stepped away from Josephine and looked both ways up and down the street.

  “Oh, I believe I see an available one coming from—” Violet didn’t finish, for someone came from behind and shoved her violently onto the pavement, into the path of an overloaded furniture delivery truck. She landed on her right cheek and felt an agonizing burn from the street scraping up her face. Frozen in pain, she was unable to move as she saw the oncoming truck bearing down upon her. Four horses scrambled to obey their master’s command to stop. Violet saw the panic in their rolling white eyes and heard a woman scream.

  The driver stopped, but not before the horses had scattered pebbles and wet dung into Violet’s face.

  “What in the name of—?” the driver bellowed, jumping down from his box as Violet struggled to get up. Other passersby, seeing that Violet had a rescuer, continued on their way as if nothing had happened. The driver offered her an arm, which Violet gratefully accepted.

  “Are you ill?” he asked.

  Violet shook her head, still too shaken to form words.

  “It’s not often that women go tumbling into the street,” he said. “And if you’ll pardon my saying so, you look a fright. You’re bleeding, madam.”

  She touched a gloved hand to her face and it came back wet, but who knew if it was blood or rain? “My umbrella,” she said weakly.

  “Here.” He retrieved it, along with her hat, from where they had each flown several feet away. “Do you need me to take you somewhere? A hospital?”

  Violet was too wet at this point to be saved by an umbrella, although at least it had made it through unscathed. “No, I’ll be fine. My friend . . .” She looked around. Where was Josephine?

  The driver nodded and resumed his trek, guiding his horses carefully past her.

  Violet finally saw Josephine, huddled nearby in the doorway of an abandoned shop and clutching her left arm in her other hand.

  “What happened to you?” Violet asked.

  “Nothing. I’m fine. You’re injured, though.”

  “It’s not serious. I’m sure I look—and smell—worse than it is. Did you see who pushed me?”

  Josephine shook her head as she stepped out of the doorway. “Come, we must get your face attended to.”

  They walked together slowly, as Violet had sustained what would surely end up as many purple bruises. Josephine, she noticed, still clutched her arm. “Tell me what is wrong,” Violet said.

  “I’m quite all right. I just bumped my arm.”

  Violet stopped and tugged on Josephine’s hand. It came away smeared with blood and Violet inspected the other woman’s arm. “Good Lord, you’ve been stabbed.”

  Josephine snatched her hand away from Violet’s and continued walking. “I said it’s nothing.”

  Her own injuries forgotten, Violet said, “How can you say this? You’re the one who needs attending to. You might bleed to death. You need help.”

  “You don’t understand. In what I do, there is a certain element of society that not only doesn’t approve of what I’m doing but is willing to go to certain lengths to stop me.”

  “Are you saying that you know who attacked us?”

  “No, I’m saying that if it gets out that I was stabbed, no matter how minor the injury, then men and women will be afraid to join my cause. I can’t allow that, and so we will keep this matter to ourselves.”

  “I was nearly killed so that some unhinged lunatic could attack you?”

  “Probably. I must apologize. I should have warned you that association with me can have terrible consequences, as poor, dear Miss Cortland learned. God has always protected me in this righteous cause, but I can’t say that everyone else has so much insulating cover.”

  As they continued walking in silence, it occurred to Violet that Josephine wasn’t necessarily the target. It may have been she.

  Worse, perhaps the attacker actually meant harm for both of them. But other than planning a funeral for the recently departed Miss Cortland, what did she and the great moralist leader have in common?

  Friendship with Princess Louise.

  But why would that result in an attack in the middle of the street? Did someone hate Louise so much that he was willing to kill everyone around her? It simply made no sense. The more Violet dwelled on it, the more confused she became.

  Surely there must be an answer right in front of her, one that she was unable to see.

  Violet dropped Josephine off at her headquarters, ensuring the woman made it inside safely. Josephine paused in the doorway and turned back.

  “Violet, if you’ve no plans on Tuesday, would you like to accompany me to Parliament? They are having a discussion over the Contagious Diseases Acts that you might find interesting.”

  Violet was about to politely decline when she realized there might be others in attendance who disliked what Josephine and her compatriots were doing. Might this be a chance to discover who had attacked her and Violet?

  “I would be delighted.”

  Reese was nervously excited as he left the meeting, his senses on alert, as though he’d been given supernatural powers and was unsure when to use them. It proved a much better feeling than mourning for Margaret, and he thought maybe he was on the verge of doing something truly remarkable that schoolchildren would study centuries from now.

  Mr. Marx had thoroughly whipped up the crowd tonight. The man’s eyes blazed when he spoke, so impassioned was he about his arguments, arguments that made so much sense it was amazing that they’d never been implemented in society before.

  Marx envisioned a new society, populated with men who would be devoid of selfishness, greed, laziness, hate, fear, or any other undesirable trait. They would be utterly healthy, of great intelligence, ha
rdworking, and infinitely talented.

  Reese saw that potential for himself.

  This new man would, through his industry and talents, develop a society of such abundance that any individual could partake of all that he needed just as easily as today’s man partakes of oxygen in the atmosphere. His near perfectness meant that there would be no need for governments or armies or police or courts or taxes. Each man would voluntarily minister to the well-being of others.

  What was Marx’s slogan that they had all chanted? Oh yes: “From each according to his ability, to each according to his need.”

  Thus there would be no need for anyone to own land or any property and instead it would be redistributed for everyone to work upon. No land ownership meant a classless society, and Reese would be the equal of men such as Lord Christie. Men like those who owned The Times would be swept away. If only the revolution had come sooner, perhaps Margaret wouldn’t have died at the hands of soldiers answering to the bourgeois mine owners.

  “Bourgeois” and “proletariat” were two words Reese had learned to love and use regularly. The bourgeois were those who owned everything and used the wealth thus created to oppress the proletariat, or working class. He rolled the word “proletariat” around on his tongue again. It was an exciting word, full of significance and opportunity. Too bad he couldn’t use it on any of the other stable workers, lest they become suspicious of him.

  More than anything, though, Reese approved of Marx’s means to achieve this perfect society. To establish equality, the proletariat must overthrow the bourgeois by riots or the creation of unions or by any other means necessary.

  Hadn’t this been Reese’s own plan all along? To eradicate those who were responsible for the wanton destruction of life? To create long-lasting change in society?

  Marx had further expounded on his critique of a capitalist economy, but Reese’s mind was too full of possibilities to listen to the man go on about the abolition of religion in society to make his plan work or his confidence that the miracles of science would eventually change human nature itself.

  No, Reese was confident that he’d found someone who could eloquently express precisely what he himself thought. If the enthusiasm of the crowd was any indication, Marx’s communist revolution was coming to England, and Reese’s actions would propel him to the forefront of the movement, maybe even earning him public recognition from Marx himself.

  Perhaps he should consider expanding his plan even further. What were one or two more deaths when it meant a brand-new world?

  He whistled as he made his way back to the mews, unaware that another member of Marx’s audience observed his departure with interest.

  To get away from all of the madness surrounding Buckingham Palace, Violet made plans to visit with her old friend Mary Cooke, a mourning dressmaker of some renown. The two women had become friends years before Violet had moved to the Colorado Territory, through their respective occupations in funeral work.

  Mary was twenty years older than Violet, yet her face was still youthful, this despite marriage to a man who was feckless and weak and caused Mary no end of heartache.

  They met for a light luncheon at a hotel near Mary’s dressmaking shop.

  “Violet, my dear, what happened to you?” Mary jumped up from the table at the sight of her.

  “I had an unfortunate encounter with some street gravel. First, tell me about yourself. How is business? Have you heard from George?”

  Mary’s eyes immediately clouded over. “He is still in Switzerland. I begin to despair of him ever returning home.”

  “He always does.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.” The women ordered carrot soup and larded fillets of rabbit. “Would you like to go with me to Morris, Marshall, and Faulkner?” Mary said. “They sell decorative work. Stained glass, furniture, embroideries, that sort of thing. I want to look at their fabrics. Mr. Morris is a designer and is known for his interior fabrics.”

  “Are you planning to redecorate?”

  “Yes, my—our—bedchamber. I think George would be pleased to see it redone on his return.”

  Violet could believe that. George Cooke was quite fond of spending money. His latest disappearance had occurred after he lifted some jewelry and money Mary had hidden underneath a floorboard of her shop.

  “I’m thinking of perhaps having the room repapered. The firm was hired to do some rooms at St. James’s Palace, you know.”

  Which meant that they were probably very expensive and beyond Mary’s budget. Yet what wouldn’t the woman sacrifice for her wayward husband?

  “I would be happy to accompany you. I’m considering buying back into Morgan Undertaking, and Sam and I will move into the rooms above the shop if I do. I might need some wallpaper and draperies myself.”

  Mary smiled. “We will have a lovely afternoon. Now, you must tell me why you hurled yourself into the street.”

  Violet recounted everything in detail for her friend, from the queen’s initial summons to Miss Cortland’s funeral yesterday. By the time Violet was done, she and Mary had polished off their meals and tasty servings of gooseberry tarts and were halfway through a bottle of sherry. Mary didn’t utter a word during Violet’s tale, only asking a question when she was certain Violet was done.

  “So you think that this Lord Marcheford may have murdered his wife, as well as his mistress?”

  “That’s just it. I’m not sure. There is something very dark about him. Being dark isn’t much to go to Scotland Yard with, though, is it?”

  “No. And anyway, the heir to a marquess would never commit a murder on his own, unless he was in a fervor of madness. He would hire someone to do it for him.”

  Violet contemplated Mary’s opinion as she poured a final glass of sherry for herself. Was she right? Was a lord above sullying his hands? But whom would Lord Marcheford have hired?

  Reese Meredith, the coachman, flashed through her mind. Was he the type who was willing to commit murder for the right price?

  She shook off the thought. Impossible. How could Lord Marcheford be acquainted with Meredith?

  Perhaps it was time to find out exactly how Mr. Meredith had acquired his job.

  Violet and Mary left the hotel for Mr. Morris’s shop, located in Red Lion Square. The expanse of windows at the front of the shop was brimming in a joyful kaleidoscope of color and patterns covering tables, chairs, and wall hangings, with lengths of brightly tinted fabrics draped over everything. The two women stood outside, gazing in and trying to catch their breath over the profusion of styles, unlike anything they’d ever seen.

  “Shall we go inside?” Violet said.

  “In a moment.” Mary took a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking,” she said, “of going to Switzerland to retrieve George.”

  “You mean, like a package?”

  Mary laughed, despite the tears welling up in her eyes. “Yes. I need to know what he’s doing when he runs off on all of these buying trips for watch parts. I worry that things aren’t what he says they are.”

  Violet squeezed Mary’s hand sympathetically. “My friend, you may not like what you find.”

  “You’re right. But I have to know.”

  “Perhaps you should hire a detective to track him and report back to you.”

  “I’ve thought about that, but no, I must do it myself. If I go, then I will just be a wife surprising her husband. If all is well, and then he comes home to a newly redecorated bedchamber, he will be doubly surprised. I never need tell George that I was suspicious of him. If I hire a man to spy on him, and he discovers anything . . . dubious . . . about George’s activities, I will have to admit that I was having him followed. It makes me look as if I was mistrustful.”

  “You are mistrustful.”

  “But if my fears amount to nothing, I wouldn’t want George to know I doubted him.”

  Violet didn’t think Mary’s plan would have good results, but she understood her friend’s desire to simply know. “Well then, we’d best get you
r room redecorated so you can be on your way.”

  They spent the afternoon in the company of Mr. William Morris himself, who unrolled bolt after bolt of richly dyed wallpapers for Mary’s inspection. For a few hours, Violet forgot about death.

  The next morning, Violet stepped into the superintendent’s tiny office inside the mews. Unlike the spotlessly maintained stables and courtyard area, this cramped room was dusty and heaped forlornly with broken harnesses, torn box blankets, cracked carriage lamps, and stacks of books on horse care. The horses themselves worked in better conditions. Despite the slovenly appearance of his office, the man himself was painstakingly groomed, his thinning hair combed and oiled and his nascent paunch well controlled with a waist cincher.

  “Yes, madam?” Mr. Norton said, with an air so bored he might almost be an aristocrat.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a couple of questions.”

  “We’ve been instructed to help you whenever possible.”

  “Thank you. I was wondering how it is that the staff here, particularly the grooms and coachmen, obtain their positions with the palace.”

  “That’s an odd question. Why do you wish to know?”

  “If you could perhaps just help me . . .”

  Norton cleared his throat. “Of course. Our men come with impeccable credentials. Many have served in Her Majesty’s cavalry, and have distinguished service in the Crimean War, the Indian rebellions, or the Opium Wars.”

  He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a folder. “Others come with unimpeachable references from quality people.”

  “Quality people?”

  “Usually a peer. Certainly no one less than a baronet. Is there someone specific you want to know about?”

  Violet wanted desperately to ask about Reese Meredith, but there was no point in tipping Norton off that she was suspicious of him.

  “No, you’ve answered my question. Thank you, Mr. Norton.”

  She didn’t see him frowning and scratching his carefully arranged hair as she left.

  Bertie was making a final attempt to convince his mother of Brown’s unsuitability to serve in the palace, appalled that not only was he having to supplicate himself over that donkey, but also his mother, the Queen of England for heaven’s sake, was too blind to see that Brown was undermining her reputation.