A Virtuous Death

by Christine Trent

  As for Mr. Brown, he was just behaving peculiarly, as if he smelled something afoot other than his usual spirits. There was no reason to think he’d actually done anything.

  But who else might be interested in these three women?

  Once finished with her fruitless examination of who and why, Violet made a third list on a separate sheet. This one she titled “Puzzles.” Here she hurriedly wrote down the torrent of questions that confused her.

  Why is Mr. Brown so wrapped up in this? Why is he so sly about what he knows?

  Bite marks—what insect are they from?

  Soiled cloths?

  What do Lady Maud, Lady Marcheford, and Miss Cortland all have in common?

  Why is the killer after both aristocratic young women and moralist young women?

  Was it possible that the murders of Lady Maud and Lady Marcheford had nothing to do with Miss Cortland?

  Who attacked Josephine and me in the street? Why? Was he after her . . . or me?

  With that done, Violet settled down at the table with her dinner and a stack of unread newspapers, determined to get caught up on the news while she ate. Undoubtedly, her mother would admonish her that she’d get indigestion by reading about the country’s tragic events while she ate, but Mother didn’t understand the iron stomach of the average undertaker.

  My, she was more than two weeks behind on reading. She decided to start with the most recent edition of The Times. It was filled with articles about the upcoming Henley Royal Regatta rowing event, the latest additions to the Royal Academy’s summer exhibition, as well as death notices and the usual assortment of dressmaker, ironmonger, and hair tonic ads. There was also a touching tribute to an ancient naval officer, Darden Hastings, who had recently died. The captain had served bravely with Lord Nelson at Trafalgar, the magnificent victory against the French fleet that every schoolchild was intimately familiar with now.

  Violet shifted uncomfortably. She’d been wearing her corset for too many hours and was feeling strangled. She removed her dress, wriggled out of her corset, and resumed her position in her chemise. Much better.

  She picked up other papers and skimmed them. Wait, what was this? It was an article detailing Sir Charles Mordaunt’s outburst in Parliament. The writer was clearly sympathetic to Mordaunt’s viewpoint about the Contagious Diseases Acts and his outrage over his wife’s perfidy.

  It must be said that our interview with Sir Charles was revealing. A man of great honor and high scruples, he was wounded to his core to learn that his wife was behaving as a common trollop.

  “It is these moralist women,” the member for South Warwickshire said, “who are sowing discord at the highest levels of the feminine realm. These moralists convince our wives, our mothers, our sisters, that they belong somewhere other than the domestic sphere. But what woman can be happy away from the warm fires of the hearth and the innocent babble of her children, children she is certain belong to her husband?”

  A delightful picture Sir Charles paints of the beauty of womanhood and all its glory. It is in our great nation’s best interest that we encourage our females to once again embrace and cherish the mantle that God has so graciously bestowed about them.

  Oh, poppycock. Did Sir Charles mean to say that Lady Mordaunt had no hand in the running of their estate, managing servants and ensuring bills were paid and supplies were delivered? Could he not see through the fog of his outrage that the sovereign of Great Britain was a woman? And the man would surely have apoplexy if he met Violet, whose hands had been sullied by the handling of thousands of corpses and who couldn’t tell the difference between a turbot and a tureen.

  However, the article made Violet pause. Sir Charles was angry at the moralists, whom he perceived as having influenced his wife into perfidy. Did he think all noblewomen had been so influenced?

  Furthermore, were there other men, like Lord Marcheford, who felt as Sir Charles did? Exactly how angry were they, and might they be moved to do something about it? Of course, this number of men could run into the hundreds, if not thousands, and chasing them all down would be a fruitless task.

  Violet stayed up late into the night turning things over in her mind. If only Sam were here to discuss it. With only a gas lamp for company, she paced the floors, reading aloud from her lists, hoping something might reveal itself in her spoken words. Nothing did.

  However, she kept turning Lord Marcheford and Sir Charles over and over in her mind. Was it time to call on each of these men? First, though, it was time to see Mr. Brown. It was time that man told her what he knew, and this time she would not shrink away from his posturing and chicanery.

  Violet caught up with Mr. Brown in the Buckingham Palace gardens, where he was bent over in the morning sun, examining the foreleg of a horse he must have been exercising. She hoped they were far enough away from the palace not to be noticed and that the queen wasn’t in one of her morose moods, staring out the windows.

  “Mrs. Harper, have ye come to fix Angus’s shoe, or do ye prefer to put him straight into a casket?” Brown laughed at his own joke.

  Good Lord, it was only nine o’clock in the morning and the man reeked of spirits.

  “No, I have come to have a frank discussion with you, sir.”

  “Have ye, now? Well, you’ll have to walk along with me, then. Angus needs to return to the mews so I can wallop the farrier in his bean for such a sloppy job on him.”

  What an incongruous sight they made: the prim, black-garbed undertaker and the unkempt ghillie in plaid, walking together on a path bordered by a profusion of summer blooms in clumped riots of purple, red, and pink, as Brown coaxed the gelding along.

  “I’ll have the truth from you this morning, Mr. Brown, with no double-talking, no smirking at my ignorance, and above all else, no suggestions for tarot card readings, séances, or chats with spirits.”

  “My, you’ve got a burr in your saddle this morning, don’t ye?” He said it mildly, further irritating Violet.

  “Tell me what it is you know, sir. What supposed treachery lurks behind the palace walls that frightens you so much that you resort to tricks and chicanery to convince the queen that I need to investigate whatever it is. Furthermore, why me? Why is it that you do not tell her yourself?”

  Brown stopped, and Angus snuffled in protest behind him.

  “Bear in mind, Mrs. Harper, that the queen enjoys the readings and such. Ye deal with the hard, cold facts of the dead. The queen likes to stay in the world of the living, even imagining that the dead are still with her. I help her with it, it comforts her so she can manage her daily life, and that, madam, is that. Besides, your unbelief in spiritualism makes ye a hard wumman.”

  “It makes me practical.”

  He shrugged. “As ye say.”

  She pressed him further. “Still you are not answering my question.”

  Brown glanced about to be sure there was no one nearby and resumed walking. “What I know I cannae tell the queen, for to be deliverer of the news would make her question how I came by the information. And that answer would cause an anger I dinnae care to witness. She might be angry enough to dismiss me.”

  “Dismiss you? That is hardly likely.”

  “You do not know the reason.”

  “Then tell me, Mr. Brown, what do you know and how did you come by the information?”

  Brown patted Angus’s nose, reaching into his pocket for a sugar cube and feeding it to him. “Just a little further, laddie, and we’ll have you fixed in a tick. Now, Mrs. Harper, I suppose ye’ll plague me to my grave unless I tell you, but ye must swear not to tell the queen.

  “Her daughter the Princess Louise has been involved with a woman named Josephine Butler, one of these new moralists who propose to seek rights for prostitutes. The princess meets with these moralists in the mews, which is where I was trying to guide ye.”

  “Well, I have some news for you, Mr. Brown. She already knows about Louise’s involvement with the moralists.”

  “So ye finally
told her?”

  “No, she told me.”

  For once, Violet had the upper hand over Brown. His mouth fell open. “Ye make a jest. She’d of told me something like that. She’d ’ave banished the lass, or married her to the first hunchbacked foreign prince who came along.”

  “Blood is thicker than water, Mr. Brown. Her Majesty has problems enough with her child—in other areas—that she decided not to banish her or condemn her to a marriage sight unseen.”

  “She told you this?”

  “Not directly.”

  They had reached a rear entrance to the mews courtyard. Brown put a finger to his lips. “Follow me, Mrs. Harper.”

  He led her to the stables, where he handed Angus’s reins to a stable boy, then led her through the building into the carriage house, straight to the coronation coach. He pulled out the elaborately carved steps, opened the door, and offered Violet his arm.

  “I—we—cannot sit in here. It is the queen’s coach.”

  “ ’Tis the only place private enough on the palace grounds that I can tell ye this.”

  He shut the door behind him. Now Violet was locked up with Brown and his foul breath inside this glorious, regal coach, with its crimson velvet seats, thick and tufted, and matching velvet draperies hanging along the sparkling glass.

  “This is the rest of it, Mrs. Harper. You think that I must have stumbled onto the moralists’ meetings because I am always in the mews, preparing for Her Majesty’s afternoon rides. Nae, I learned of it another way.” He leaned closer. Violet tried to keep from looking revolted.

  “Ye know the queen doesn’t like it when her unwed servants find their hearts’ desire. They end up marrying and then leaving Her Majesty’s service. If I told her how I came by my information, she would nae understand my . . . disloyalty.”

  “Are you saying—”

  “Yes. I’m quite taken with the Lady Hazel Campden, and I think she is fond of me, too. She told me of the princess’s involvement with the moralists, but if I told the queen that I learned this while caressing one of her daughter’s friends, I would nae be long of this world.”

  Violet digested this information carefully, while trying to remember exactly who Lady Hazel was. Had she been at one of the mourning jewelry sessions? Violet couldn’t remember. No, wait, Lady Hazel was the tightly corseted, barely breathing young woman who was so talented at painting the mourning scene on ivory.

  She was involved with the crude, imbibing Mr. Brown? Utterly inconceivable.

  “I see,” she said slowly. “So you concocted your plan about the spirits to let the queen know while also protecting yourself.”

  “And to protect Lady Hazel. She’s society, of course, and cannot be seen with a servant. I’m nae merely a servant, but I’m nae society, either. A sticky situation, ye see, to be untangled before I could think about telling the queen about us.”

  “Lady Hazel is not a member of the moralist group?”

  “Nae. She is just an innocent. It was nae my desire to tattle on the princess, but the queen needed to know the sort of trouble her daughter was finding for herself. I devised my plan around the tarot card readings, guiding Her Majesty to seek your assistance, knowing ye’d figure it on your own. Lady Hazel thought my plan was brilliant.”

  Violet nodded, still startled to learn that Mr. Brown was dallying with one of Louise’s friends. He must be in his mid-forties at least—and his dissipation made him look older than that—while Louise’s friends were in their twenties. Of course, who could understand the desires and longings of men and women for each other?

  “I knew that a bunch of hens meeting together over the problems of prostitutes could nae lead to anything good, and might eventually cause terrible problems for Her Majesty, so I had to figure out a way to let her know. But now, it seems as though she knew all along. I still dinnae understand why she had no reaction, why she dinnae say something to me. I am her most beloved servant.”

  Brown shook his head, bewildered.

  Everyone keeps secrets, Mr. Brown, both the dead and the living.

  “Your secret is safe with me, sir, but I must ask: What do you know about the deaths of Lady Maud and Lady Marcheford?”

  “They were sick, weren’t they? Tragic, the young lasses dying like that. I can’t imagine losing Lady Hazel so soon.”

  It was so strange to hear Mr. Brown going on like a lovesick calf. Stranger still was the thought that Lady Hazel didn’t mind his foul habits.

  “Did you know Miss Cortland? She was a worker in Mrs. Butler’s moralist movement.”

  “Nae, I don’t know this name.”

  Could she believe him? His story certainly rang the bell of truth, but even liars had been known to pick up a hammer and strike a true-sounding note.

  Finally released from the coach, the miasma of Brown’s foul breath dissipating in the air around her, Violet left back through the stables while Brown went to tend to the lamed horse. As she entered the courtyard, she encountered Mr. Meredith. He was in drab, loose-fitting clothing that was covered in dust. Pretending to doff the cap he did not wear, he bowed exaggeratedly to Violet.

  “Forgive my appearance, Mrs. Harper. I’ve been training a new gray today and am not fit to be in your presence.”

  Why did the coachman always seem to be mocking her?

  With one piece of the puzzle solved—she hoped—Violet went on to capture her next prey. From Buckingham Palace it was but a short walk to her next destination. Mounting the steps of the Tate residence, a stately affair in Belgravia that was surely on tourists’ lists of places to gape at, Violet hoped her strategy of showing up unannounced would unsettle Lord Marcheford enough into revealing something.

  She told the rigid, bored butler who answered the door that she was one of His Lordship’s deceased wife’s friends, come to pay her condolences. It wasn’t too much of a fib, since the relationship between a corpse and an undertaker was a very personal one.

  She was escorted up a flight of stairs whose balusters were gold leafed and whose newels were shaped like leopard heads. The Marchefords were lords of the manor and made sure every visitor knew it.

  Lord Marcheford’s mouth dropped as Violet entered his study, a room full of photographs, engraved trophies, and leather-bound books all attesting to Marcheford greatness. He was standing next to an antique globe housed in an elaborate wood floor stand, an amber-filled glass in one hand and a cigar in the other. His guard was lowered for mere moments before he quickly resumed his usual sardonic and caustic demeanor.

  “Mrs. Harper, have you come to secure another body? Not my own, I hope. Jeffries said you were one of Charlotte’s friends. A clever façade.”

  “It is not a façade in that I am your wife’s advocate in discovering who killed her. If she were alive, she would no doubt call me a friend for that.”

  “If she were alive, you wouldn’t be here, and I probably wouldn’t be enjoying this bottle of Pernod Fils absinthe I had imported from France. Do you drink absinthe, Mrs. Harper?”

  “No.”

  “A pity. I find it calms my temper. I’ve no doubt you could use a glass or two yourself.”

  Lord Marcheford was attempting to wrest control from Violet, and she wasn’t about to let that happen. “My lord, I’ve come to resolve our last conversation.”

  The earl drew deeply on his cigar and leisurely blew a great cloud of smoke upward. “I wasn’t aware that a resolution was needed.”

  “It is.” Violet noticed he wasn’t inviting her to sit down. Very well, her point could be better made standing, anyway. “When we previously spoke, were you aware that one of Mrs. Butler’s associates had been murdered?”

  “No, why should I take note of anything that woman does?”

  “Do you deny now that you hated her?”

  “Of course not. I only deny that I know anything about her and whoever her associate was.”

  “Had you ever met Miss Cortland?”

  “No, I can’t say that I have ever met
Miss Cortland.” He tapped the cigar into a silver ashtray on top of the globe’s wood enclosure. It was a slow, deliberate, and, Violet thought, practiced move, designed to give him time to think.

  “I’ll ask you another question.”

  “Are you preparing to join Scotland Yard, Mrs. Harper?”

  “Sir, do not mock me.”

  “Is that what you think I’m doing?” He tossed the half-smoked cigar into the ashtray. “Perhaps I’m just tired of this discussion.”

  And Violet thought dealing with Mr. Brown was difficult.

  “I think you may have killed Lady Marcheford because she was involved in the moralist movement. It embarrassed you, my lord, a man so proud of his family’s reputation. Miss Cortland was probably one of Lady Marcheford’s friends and you were outraged at her influence over your wife, so you murdered her, too.”

  Marcheford stared at Violet for several long seconds, then burst into laughter. “My dear Mrs. Harper, I don’t know what sort of fumes a dead body puts off, but they must be toxic indeed to give you such ludicrous ideas. Charlotte’s involvement with Mrs. Butler was the least of her problems. She was meeting secretly with another man, and I was considering divorcing her for it. And indeed, if I were to have committed these supposed murders, your boldness would find you requiring your own services.”

  Violet ignored the jibe. “Did you know her paramour?”

  “Of course I did. Lottie thought she was clever, but there was little she did that wasn’t done in an obvious manner. She was running about with Henry Cape, Lord Blevins’s younger brother. Not a shilling to his name, will never have a title, and always mooning about with his lines of poetry and his silly Pre-Raphaelite paintings. I’m sure it was all very romantic for Charlotte.”