Violet thought of her own right arm, scarred by burns. “As long as it heals well, you will eventually not notice the scar anymore. Are you sure you don’t want to report—”
“I’m quite certain. I’ll not worry about what happened any further. God will preserve me to work another day, and when He has exercised all of His will through me, then perhaps some deranged man might be more successful than whoever attacked us the other day.”
Violet had to admire Josephine’s courage.
“And you? Have you reported that you were pushed into the street?”
“No. I didn’t see him, just as you did not see your attacker.”
Josephine nodded. “Perhaps God has much more for you to do, as well.”
That evening, Violet contemplated what she’d heard at Parliament that day. Mordaunt had implied that his wife was dallying with men who moved in the highest circles. The Prince of Wales had a less-than-stellar reputation, but surely Mordaunt wasn’t implicating Bertie, was he?
Even if he was, so what? It had nothing to do with Lady Maud, or Lady Marcheford, or Miss Cortland.
Did it?
Violet couldn’t even begin to put together a connection between a cuckolded husband and the deaths of two aristocratic women and a moralist.
Except that the two aristocratic women were like his hated wife, and the moralist represented a hated viewpoint.
Violet shook her head. No, it was just too fantastic an idea and completely impossible. Lord Marcheford was a far more likely suspect.
Whoever it was, had he ceased killing? If not, could Violet search him out before he tried again?
Sleep did not come easily that night.
10
Will retrieved a bottle of champagne and passed out glasses to Violet and Harry before holding up his own and offering a toast.
“To Morgan Undertaking’s previous and new co-owner! May you have an unending flow of customers who have died peacefully in their beds of old age.”
“Huzzah!” Harry said, grinning.
Violet could hardly believe she’d actually secured the deal with Will and Harry and was going to be running the shop again. It was all so familiar yet all so strange and foreign. Much like working for the queen again. Could she really just step into her old life again?
Harry put down his glass, which he probably could have crushed in his lion’s paw of a hand. “So, Mrs. Harper, will you and Mr. Harper be moving in upstairs?”
“That’s my plan, although I know it will need renovating.”
Harry nodded. “It will be good for someone to live over the shop, I think, to watch over it. Will Mr. Harper mind living above a stack of coffins?”
“Sam saw his share of bodies during the American Civil War. I doubt a few empty coffins will rattle him.”
“I suppose you will want to review this first,” Will said, going behind the counter and bringing forth an enormous old leather-bound ledger. It was the one she’d started years ago when she first came into the shop.
“There’s a ribbon in here marking the funerals coming up in the next few days. I figured I would handle those and you can start fresh with anything new.”
Violet accepted the ledger and ran her hand over it lovingly. Despite the coal fogs, the decrepit buildings, and the abundance of cutpurses, she was happy to be residing here again.
After she finished her celebration with Will and Harry, she went upstairs to look over her new lodgings. They ran the length and width of the shop and included a sitting room, study, dining room, kitchen with a reasonably new coal stove, bedroom, and small washroom with, happily, a flushing toilet.
The wallpaper was old and peeling, and discarded pieces of furniture, broken and with upholstery torn and stained, littered the rooms. There was a peculiar odor, as though a dozen cats had taken up residence. It was lucky she wasn’t superstitious, or the cracked mirror hanging at a precarious angle over the fireplace mantel would have her worried.
Was Violet even remotely capable of turning these rooms into a proper living space? As soon as Mary returned from Switzerland, Violet would enlist her help in making these rooms right again. She would wait for Sam’s return to move into them.
His return would, she hoped, be very soon.
Must all of my children be unmanageable? Victoria wondered. Of course, darling Beatrice was never a moment’s trouble. And Leopold was in bed most of the time. And although Helena was constantly complaining of phantom illnesses, at least she was agreeable to her mother’s wishes. The queen ran down the list of her other children, who were all either successfully married off or distinguishing themselves in military careers.
No, when it came down to it, it was just Bertie and Louise who caused so much grief. Bertie had always been wayward, but when had this rebellious streak appeared in Louise? It must have been after Albert left them. The poor girl just couldn’t cope with the loss of her father, and now she ran wild, proposing all sorts of unsuitable matches for herself, like the Reverend Duckworth. What was Louise thinking, nearly ruining her reputation by dallying with a commoner like that?
True, he might have brought her some much-needed spiritual guidance, but how much assistance could he actually have been in that realm, given that he was conducting himself in a most undignified manner with a royal princess?
Ach ja, the tears the girl shed when Duckworth was, naturally, dismissed. Victoria hadn’t heard such wailing and dramatic threats of self-destruction since, well, since Albert died.
But that was understandable.
And here Louise was again, bemoaning the dreadful fate to which her mother wanted to consign her, insisting that she was much more valuable to England by remaining at home, the way Helena had, and demanding to know the reason why she couldn’t be treated the same way.
“Little Miss Why,” Victoria said, reverting back to an old pet name for Louise that was inspired by her overly inquisitive nature as a child, “we would like it if all of our children remained at home, but most of you have a duty to me and to your country to marry one of our allies. Look here, we have a list of eligible and handsome princes, each of whom would be only too happy to call you his wife.”
“I won’t do it, Mother. I have too much important work to be done here.”
“What work? You perform secretarial duties for us, but you know that both Helena and Beatrice will take over for you.”
“I have to—” Louise stopped.
“You have to—what?”
Louise bit her lip. “Never mind.”
What was the girl hiding?
“It would please us greatly if you chose an eligible prince. Your sister-in-law, Alix, has proposed her brother, the crown prince.”
“You would send me to Denmark? Never to return?”
“It is a princess’s duty to her country to make a marriage that will form an alliance with another country. It establishes peace among the European nations. Vicky, Alice, and Helena have all done so.”
“Helena remains here, though.”
Victoria sighed. “Helena is a special case.”
“She isn’t. You simply prefer her company.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not ridiculous, Mother. I have no desire to leave England, nor do I wish to be a smiling puppet on the arm of some popinjay. I’ll marry an Englishman of my own choosing, or not at all.”
“Of your own choosing? Like Reverend Duckworth? As well you should blush, girl. And what Englishman is qualified to marry into our house? No, put your childish fancies away and obey your mother.”
Arguments, it was always arguments with Louise and Bertie. Yet niggling in the back of Victoria’s mind was the dearth of eligible princes in the houses of Europe with whom to attach Louise. Truth be told, Victoria had already married her children off into the important ones and the dynastic alliances necessary for Great Britain’s preeminence were already formed. Was it just tradition that caused her to compel Louise into a foreign marriage?
And
yet even the most noble duke of the land was steps beneath a princess. Victoria would be the laughingstock of Europe if the most beautiful of all her daughters was given over to some commoner, for anyone not of a royal house was, ultimately, common.
Louise’s misery, though, was palpable. In these moments, Victoria was never sure if she was mother or queen. What was she to do now about Louise, without Albert to advise her?
Violet looked up at the majestic façade of Buckingham Palace, apprehensive about her meeting with the queen, who had summoned her just an hour ago. Did the queen want to know her progress with the spirits? She had nothing to report.
Violet was unprepared for the real reason the queen had summoned her.
“You have become close to our daughter Louise, have you not, Mrs. Harper?”
If Violet had been summoned to the palace to answer this question, then this was not a casual visit. What did the queen know? Had she discovered Louise’s activities with the moralists? Did she want Violet to spy on her daughter? Or worse, was she about to accuse Violet of conspiring to hide Louise’s activities?
“I believe I am in her good graces, Your Majesty.”
Victoria nodded. “Our daughter Beatrice also seems quite fond of you. I am in possession of a problem, Mrs. Harper, one that you might be able to help me solve.”
Violet braced for whatever it might be.
“You see, we are both queen and mother, and, as such, sometimes we command and sometimes we persuade. It has been our experience that commanding is of little use with family members. Certain situations require tact and persuasion.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Sometimes, though, we employ both approaches. Unfortunately, our efforts using both command and persuasion have been unsuccessful with our daughter the Princess Louise.”
Violet was silent. Did the queen expect an undertaker to intervene in a situation where the queen’s command had been ignored?
“Our situation is a delicate one. Louise is an eligible princess, and a quality marriage must be made for her. We have presented her with several potential matches, but she has refused them all.”
“Are the men objectionable?”
“Only in that they are not British. Louise wishes to remain at home.”
“Like Princess Helena.”
“You are perceptive, Mrs. Harper. Yes, like Helena. Only Helena is a special case. Louise is quite beautiful and would be happily accepted by a foreign house whom we would wish to be friendly to our interests. Furthermore, no one in the kingdom is of sufficient rank to marry into our family. It hasn’t been done in centuries.”
Violet cringed. Why was she being put in the middle of a family squabble?
“We do not wish to involve any of the princess’s friends, who will go off tattling to their parents and ensure all of society knows of our difficulties. You have proved yourself discreet in the past, and we expect that you will be so again. Therefore, we command you—we wish for you—to talk to our daughter, to encourage her to make a proper marriage.”
Violet would rather climb into a centuries-old coffin containing a plague-ridden corpse than do this. Yet she couldn’t refuse the queen. What was she to do? Louise would never forgive her for appearing to side with Victoria, but didn’t she know what was best for her daughters? Nevertheless, Violet had developed a certain loyalty to Louise and felt she owed it to the princess to support her.
“Your Majesty, if I may be so bold as to say this, it might be good for your kingdom to permit the princess’s marriage with a duke or earl.”
The queen frowned, never a good sign. “And why is this?”
“Craving your pardon, madam, but an outsider, someone not of royal descent, might introduce new blood into the family. Many royal houses have suffered from too many . . . close . . . marriages, have they not?”
“What you say is true. But is introducing common blood the correct answer?”
“I do not claim to understand how these things work, Your Majesty, but is there not a special title or rank you could confer on such a man that the Princess Louise might choose? Such as that which was conferred upon the prince consort upon his marriage to you?”
“The prince consort was a prince of the House of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha!”
Violet bowed her head in deference.
“And yet, Mrs. Harper, there may be truth to what you say. We shall think on this.”
“As you wish, ma’am.”
The queen was silent, not dismissing her, so Violet waited. Finally, the queen spoke, more to herself. “We had hoped that sending Louise off to the Continent, to busy herself with begetting heirs, would not only get her over the deaths of her friends, but cure her of the need to dally about with the moralist women.”
“I—I—Your Majesty, you knew about this?”
“Mrs. Harper, we are not queen without some ability to monitor our children’s activities. We had hoped if we ignored it long enough, Louise would tire of it, much as she did her dolls and other playthings. We have also been too worried about Bertie’s transgressions to give much thought to it.”
Violet didn’t dare ask how long the queen had known, nor how she knew. Had Beatrice told her mother what they’d overheard in the mews that day? Or had Mr. Brown told the queen in the first place and was using the story about the spirits as a way of amusing the queen? Was Violet just a pawn in some foolish game? If she was, she’d personally cane Mr. Brown with a mourning stick.
“You are perceptive, Your Majesty.”
“Not entirely. What we weren’t sure of was whether or not you knew, Mrs. Harper, but we have our answer now.”
The queen was much smarter than her perpetual mourning suggested. Violet wondered what else Victoria knew.
“You may be wondering about my conclusions regarding Lady Maud’s and Lady Marcheford’s deaths, Your Majesty. It is my opinion that both were murdered.”
Victoria didn’t act shocked at all. “Does Scotland Yard agree with you?”
“I don’t think Scotland Yard is particularly interested in the deaths of two sickly young women.”
“We see. And how did you come to your conclusion about Louise’s friends?”
“Ah, yes, well, I was moved to believe so by what I saw—”
“You were moved? Did the spirits finally visit you, Mrs. Harper?”
“Oh, the spirits, yes. I suppose I would say that I have been visited by someone whom I could not see.”
Victoria clasped her hands together. “This is marvelous in our eyes. Mr. Brown will be so pleased to hear it. To think that our dearest Albert has been guiding them into your path. Perhaps it is time for another séance, so that you can report to the prince consort on your discoveries and receive more guidance.”
Again? The plague-infested coffin was once more looking attractive. “Your Majesty, might I suggest that if the spirits wish to continue their, ah, interaction with me, might it not be better for me to communicate privately with them, to obtain all of their secrets and thus resolve their mysteries for myself?”
“We suppose that makes sense.” The queen was crestfallen. “But if you have not figured things out within a week, we will definitely call on Mr. Brown to conduct another séance.”
One week. Violet would most certainly have everything solved by then, come plague or pestilence. Anything to avoid another one of Mr. Brown’s conjuring tricks.
Violet’s mind was thoroughly muddled as she left Buckingham Palace. She stopped at a stationer for writing paper and a new pen. She picked a hefty fountain pen made of elm, a wood she thought made the most elegant coffins.
She headed back to St. James’s to sit and think in the calm of her own rooms. Not that her rooms were that calm. As usual, she had clothes and documents piled everywhere, as though a whirligig lived here. How did she feel qualified to call the lodgings over Morgan Undertaking messy? At least Mary would help her take those in hand.
First things first. She requested some dinner be sent up, then mov
ed her dresses and underclothes into a single pile on the bed and arranged the documents into three piles: letters, newspapers, and funeral records. At that point, her dinner arrived and the aroma of roasted goose caused her stomach to grumble with anticipation, making her realize that she hadn’t eaten in many hours.
Before lifting her fork, though, she decided it was time to organize her thoughts with some lists. She pushed aside her untouched food tray and drew out some paper, her new elm fountain pen, and a bottle of ink. She made two lists, drawing a long, vertical line to separate them. She titled them “Why” and “Who.”
Inspector Hurst undoubtedly had far more sophisticated terms, she thought, but it was a start. Under “Who,” she listed her suspects, such as they were, with guesses as to what motives they might have under the “Why” column:
Lord Marcheford—to get rid of his wife for another woman; anger at moralist movement
Sir Charles Mordaunt—revenge for his wife’s infidelities; anger at moralist movement
Reese Meredith—revolutionary tendencies
Mr. Brown—?? (seems impossible)
The problem with Violet’s list of motives was that they didn’t seem to fit across all three women. Lord Marcheford’s anger at his wife’s involvement in the moralist cause didn’t justify Lady Maud’s death. The same was doubly true for Sir Charles: Why kill Lady Maud and Lady Marcheford, two women not associated with his wife at all?
Mr. Meredith had done nothing specific, but his anger seemed directed at the queen. What could Louise’s friends and a young woman in the moralist cause have to do with him? Didn’t revolutionaries tend to things that were, well, showy and exhibitionist? Like when royalist plotters planned to kill Napoleon Bonaparte in 1800 with their machine infernale, which exploded but missed its target. That sounded more like what Reese Meredith would plan if he was truly a revolutionary, not just a few random murders.
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