A Virtuous Death

by Christine Trent

  Was Lord Marcheford truly insensible to his wife’s affair, or was he covering up rage over it?

  “Is Mr. Cape in London?” she asked.

  “Not anymore. I made it clear that he wasn’t welcome at Lottie’s funeral, so he scurried back to the family home in Dorset. I doubt London will be darkened with his presence again anytime soon.”

  “Did Lady Marcheford know of your plans to put her aside?”

  “Yes, and she frequently threatened to shoot me over it, although I knew she never would. Charlotte was always so full of feelings. When she loved me, she loved me passionately. When she decided she hated me, it was with hellish vigor. She was as mercurial as the Greek god Hermes.”

  “But you yourself were having an affair. She told me.”

  He lifted a shoulder. “I am the future Marquess of Salford, and as such would have lifted Charlotte far above her station, something for which she should have been grateful. I didn’t interfere with her private affairs, and she stayed out of mine. Her dealings with Mrs. Butler were public, and humiliating, and had to be stopped.”

  “What did you do to stop them?”

  “What every husband does. Ordered her to do so. Charlotte was terrible at obeying, though.”

  “And you, Lord Marcheford, are a terrible liar.”

  “And I’ll remind you, Mrs. Harper, that you are in my home, so have a care.”

  A delicate throat clearing behind her alerted Violet that they were not alone in the room. She turned to see a petite but elegant woman rise from a chair, her dress of pale gray and naval blue accenting eyes of liquid aquamarine. Why had Lord Marcheford let their argument go on as long as it had without making Violet aware of this woman’s presence? Was he hoping for Violet to embarrass herself? Did he want a witness for some reason? Or perhaps Violet was to be the source of amusement later.

  “Ripley, won’t you introduce me to your friend?” she said, her dulcet voice the whisper of butterflies.

  “Of course, my love. Lady Henrietta Pettit, may I present to you Mrs. Violet Harper? She is an undertaker of some renown, and was present for Charlotte’s—ah . . .”

  “How very curious, a woman undertaker,” Lady Henrietta said, airily holding out her hand, which Violet clasped. “I suppose there is no end to what common women can accomplish these days. Another drink, please?”

  Ripley reached behind him for a decanter on his desk and poured Lady Henrietta a full glass. “Thank you, darl—Ripley,” she said, sipping delicately at her glass as though she were a hummingbird dipping into a foxglove bloom.

  “Lady Henrietta is an old friend of the family, Mrs. Harper, and as such comes to visit for dinner from time to time. We were just having a drink before our meal. I’m sure you understand that I’ll need to wish you a good evening.”

  “One more thing, my lord. Why did you threaten me over my investigation into your wife’s death?”

  “When did I do such a thing?”

  “A week ago, when you visited me at St. James’s Palace. Surely you were not so far into your cups that you don’t recall it.”

  He gave Lady Henrietta a guilty glance. “I-I can hardly remember—oh yes, I was passing by and thought I’d stop in.”

  Stop in to a royal palace?

  “You thought you’d stop in to harangue me over your wife?”

  Lord Marcheford drained his glass and put it down. Another measured move? “No, of course not. I was out of my mind with grief. Grief and worry. Not only had I lost my wife, but I was in a precarious situation. I had widely disseminated my dissatisfaction with Charlotte, and I knew that some suspicion might fall upon me, especially with you poking around acting like she’d been murdered. I’d no desire to be falsely accused of doing away with my wife. Now, if you’re quite finished, Mrs. Harper, Lady Henrietta and I are famished.”

  Violet’s own stomach was grumbling as she left Lord Marcheford’s home. She decided to stop at the Grosvenor Hotel at Victoria station, one of the many new hotels popping up in London to serve the city’s growing railroad network, for her own dinner before going back to her rooms at St. James’s to freshen up for a trip to see Sir Charles Mordaunt. As with Lord Marcheford, she intended to drop in unannounced, hoping it would startle Mordaunt into some sort of confession.

  Full and drowsy from turtle soup, salmon cutlets, and apricot tart, Violet strolled lazily back toward the palace, trying to ignore the feeling that her corset was strangling her. The sun was just beginning its drop in the sky. She needed to revive with a splash of water to her face before heading out to confront Sir Charles. Perhaps she should also consider a change of dress.

  Meanwhile, the air was pleasant and the redolent fragrance of freesia in nearby window boxes wafted over her. The profusion of blooms filling every window and doorstep was another reason Violet loved London, despite its grime and dust. It was just another one of the city’s many contradictions, the way it—

  “Pardon me, madam, I was wondering if you can tell me where the London Lock Hospital is. I’m trying to find my sister.”

  “You’re some distance away, sir. You’ll need to take a train to—” She turned to see who inquired but was stopped by a strong hand clamped over her mouth, a piece of rough cloth between her teeth and her attacker’s fingers. Violet tried to jerk away violently, but she was no match for her attacker’s powerful arms. A strange and horrible odor overcame her, and she felt herself floating, as though she were a tiny coal smut, drifting away to soar over buildings and parks.

  The smell was familiar, though. Yes, it was what she smelled on the fabric she’d found in Lady Maud’s mouth and near the other two bodies. Now she knew the fabric had been soaked in some sort of poison. Whoever had murdered those three women was about to murder her, too.

  Struggling to keep her eyes open as the man was pulling her in one direction—did he plan to throw her in the street again?—her feet stumbling along uselessly, she still maintained a few vague thoughts. Such as, if this was poison to kill her, then what were the bite marks from? Was she to have bite marks that no one would ever notice? Would he continue killing women? Was Violet destined to die without knowing the truth?

  No, of that one fact she was sure. It was important that she not die today.

  Summoning her last reserve of strength, Violet managed to open her mouth beneath the cloth. As he pulled the cloth tighter against her mouth, his fingers slipped in between her lips.

  Violet bit down as hard as she could but was near to losing consciousness and so was certain her bite was no stronger than the butterfly whisper of Lady Henrietta’s voice.

  Somewhere far in the distance above her—or was it below her or next to her?—Violet heard an angry shout followed by a string of curses. The cloth was whipped away from her face, and she felt herself being pushed to the street, as when she’d been with Josephine.

  Except this time she had no idea if there was an oncoming cab, omnibus, or other vehicle that would cause her death faster than the poison. She yielded to unconsciousness.

  11

  Reese was burning with anger. Having just returned from his errands, he was berated by Mr. Norton for not being available to take Prince Leopold’s doctor to and from the palace. Reese was used to the occasional cuffing and ear boxing, although it was getting harder and harder to tolerate it.

  He shook his head. He couldn’t let his irritation get in the way of what was important. Mr. Norton was nothing but a flea, to be picked, crushed by a thumbnail, and wiped on Reese’s pants. He must keep his eye on the goal, the mission, what was important.

  He shut the door to the room he shared with Roy Beckham, another groom. Beckham was training a new Cleveland Bay, which would eventually be used by the queen’s guard, and would be gone until sundown for certain. Reese examined his purchases, not easily obtained.

  He hefted the detonator in his hand. Such a small item for the power it could unleash. Was it too much? Was his plan too great, too spectacular? No, he must not allow fear to overcome
him now, not when he was so close.

  Margaret, you will be avenged, and I will be responsible for changing the course of history as a result.

  He’d considered seeking a private meeting with Mr. Marx to explain his plan to him, to seek his approval and blessing, but changed his mind. If Mr. Marx was waiting for the event to happen and Reese somehow failed to make it happen, he would look like a fool before the great man. No, better to execute his plan and have Mr. Marx admire him afterward.

  Who knew what position Marx might offer him as a result of his successful daring?

  Reese unrolled a package containing several cylindrical sticks wrapped in paper. How remarkable to think that such innocent-looking rods could be responsible for utter devastation, were they only placed properly.

  Despite all of her prudish airs and prying nose, Reese supposed he should have been grateful to Mrs. Harper for her assistance in the matter, for it was her talk about her husband’s involvement in dynamite that gave Reese the idea in the first place.

  He rewrapped the gelignite sticks and the detonator. He’d tried to find dynamite, but it wasn’t available anywhere in Great Britain, so this coal-mining explosive would have to do.

  He buried his treasure deep inside the chest at the foot of his bed, which contained all of his worldly goods. It was an unwritten rule in the mews that no one ever bothered another man’s chest, so he had no fear that Beckham would go snooping inside it.

  Now he needed to check the schedule for the queen’s birthday celebrations, coming up in just four days. It would be a splendid moment to make a bold display against the tyranny of both the bourgeoisie and the Royal House of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha.

  He’d managed a feat that required no other soul for assistance, just a bit of luck and careful planning. He also needed there to be no last-minute changes to the queen’s plans. That was the problem with the rich; they could do whatever they wanted, when they wanted, no matter the inconvenience to anyone else.

  What were all of these faces hovering over her own? Violet shook her head to clear her mind and immediately regretted it. Her head clanged like a church bell tolling a death.

  “Madam, you’re alive!” exclaimed a woman’s voice.

  All of these people, crowding her, staring at her. “I cannot breathe,” she whispered.

  “Everyone, away,” came a commanding male voice, followed by a strong arm around her shoulders. “May I help you up?” he said.

  Violet nodded and soon found herself upright, facing a kindly older gentleman who wore a dusty apron over his rotund belly. “I was pulling my evening loaves from the oven and setting them out to cool when I saw that man attack you.”

  Violet leaned gratefully on the baker’s arm. Her legs were wobbly, although she supposed she should be used to being shoved into the street. “Did you see who it was?” she asked.

  “Alas, no. It all happened so quickly that by the time I threw down my loaf board and made it outside he was gone.”

  “Did you notice anything about him at all? Was he tall or short? Well or poorly dressed? Anything at all?”

  The baker shook his head. “I’m sorry, madam. The only thing I noticed was that he wore a hat pulled low over his brow, as though it didn’t fit him properly. It made it impossible to see his features. He also wore a long cloak—strange in this weather—that covered anything else he was wearing.”

  “Thank you, anyway.”

  “I’ll fetch a bobby,” said a young boy wearing a telegram delivery uniform.

  “No, please, I’ll be fine. I don’t want to cause trouble. I can just walk from here.”

  The baker laughed gently. “You are in no condition to walk, Mrs.—?”

  “Harper. Violet Harper. Thank you for your assistance, sir. My lodgings are but a short distance from here.”

  There was nothing more to see, so the onlookers drifted away, back about their business. The baker, however, held firm to Violet’s arm.

  “I will hail a hansom cab. I insist.”

  In moments, it seemed, a carriage had pulled up and a driver was tipping his hat at her, pretending not to notice her undoubtedly frightful state. “Farewell and God bless you,” the baker said as he handed her into the cab and gave the driver some coins. He slipped a card into her reticule. “Here’s where you can find my wife and me when we’re not at the bakery.”

  As the horse ambled off, she realized she’d not even gotten the man’s name. She searched through her reticule for the card:

  MR. AND MRS. ZACHARIAH MERRILL

  CHRISTIAN REVIVAL SOCIETY

  SERVING MEALS TO WIDOWS, ORPHANS, AND

  THE UNFORTUNATE AT THE CEMETERY

  ON WHITECHAPEL HIGH STREET

  TUESDAYS, THURSDAYS, AND SATURDAYS

  “BUT WHEN THOU MAKEST A FEAST, CALL THE POOR,

  THE MAIMED, THE LAME, THE BLIND:

  AND THOU SHALT BE BLESSED; FOR THEY CANNOT

  RECOMPENSE THEE: FOR THOU SHALT BE

  RECOMPENSED AT THE RESURRECTION OF THE JUST.”

  Violet laughed in delight. When she’d worked on the mysterious situation involving Lord Raybourn, his grandson, Toby, had worked for the Christian Revival Society and Violet had passed a peaceful afternoon helping to serve soup to the East End’s poor. How ironic that the man who helped her in the street was part of the Society, especially after she’d just mentioned it to Josephine.

  Violet also remembered that she’d promised Toby that she would return to do more work for them. Perhaps she should plan to go back soon, on one of the days listed on Mr. Merrill’s card, so that she could thank him properly at the same time.

  By the time Violet arrived back at St. James’s Palace, she felt better, despite garnering raised eyebrows among the staff, who considered her no better than an unwanted cat they couldn’t get rid of because she caught an occasional mouse, She took a Beecham’s powder for her throbbing head, changed out of her dress—it would need Mary’s expert needling to make it acceptable again—and into her nightdress, then went to work on her hair, pulling out all of her pins, brushing it out, and tying it up for sleep.

  As she went through these motions, she considered all that had happened today. Why had she been attacked again? It was much more likely now that the attack upon her and Josephine was intended for Violet, but if so, why did Josephine seem to be hiding something?

  Furthermore, how did Violet’s attacker know where she was to be on both occasions, both on a visit with Josephine and on her return from Lord Marcheford’s home? The only human being who knew of her visit to Lord Marcheford was the earl himself. Had he followed her from his home, then waited for her outside the hotel?

  What was it that Mary had said? A lord would hire someone to do such foul work. Was that what he had done? Sent someone after Violet? Had he somehow learned of her visit with the moralist and sent someone there as well?

  There was a difference in the attacks, though. The first time, whoever it was had merely pushed Violet into oncoming traffic. This time, he’d tried to poison her. Which reminded her, did she have the soaked cloth? In all of the aftermath, she’d not had presence of mind to think about it. She went through her reticule. Besides Mr. Merrill’s card, there was nothing new in it. Yet she did still have the fabrics she found with the other women’s bodies. Perhaps it was time to get an expert opinion on them.

  Chief Inspector Hurst looked at Violet with distaste. “Mrs. Harper, if you don’t mind a frank opinion, you look as though you’ve been knocked flat by a coffin sliding off a bier. What happened to you?”

  “I can always rely on you to speak your mind, Inspector. Your assessment is not far from the truth.” She described for him the two attacks.

  “Have you a suspect in mind?”

  “Yes, but I can hardly believe it to be true.” She then told him her suspicion of Lord Marcheford, leaving all of her other notions unspoken until she could explore them further.

  “An accusation against a peer, or the son of one, is serious, Mrs. Ha
rper.”

  “I make no formal accusation yet. In fact, there is something else I wish to investigate.” Violet produced the cloth she’d found near Lady Marcheford. The odor was nearly faded but still there.

  Hurst sniffed at it and shook his head. “I don’t know what this is, but I know of a surgeon who is an expert on poisons. You should show this to him.”

  “A surgeon?”

  “I realize he does not carry the stature of a physician, but this man knows his business.”

  “Very well, I will see him.” He couldn’t possibly be any worse than some of the coroners she’d encountered as an undertaker. Most of them were arrogant fools and from such unlikely professions as barber, butcher, and politician. Few had any idea what they were doing. If Inspector Hurst thought this surgeon competent, she would trust him.

  Finally, Violet might get an answer to all that clouded her mind.

  The ironically named Mr. Leech looked as though he belonged in robes at Oxford, not in a sweaty surgery removing limbs. He wore wire-framed glasses containing thick lenses and moved nervously, as though fretting about being on the verge of discovery of some great sin. His tousled hair suggested he spent large amounts of time worrying his fingers through it.

  However, he was as informed as the inspector said he was.

  “Chloroform,” he said, after taking a gentle whiff and handing it back to her.

  “What is that?”

  Mr. Leech went to a bookcase groaning under the weight of books that were heaped on the shelves in an utterly disorganized fashion and pulled out a book buried under four others. He flipped inside the book until he found the page he wanted.

  “ ‘Chloroform: a clear, colorless, heavy, sweet-smelling liquid, used as a solvent and sometimes as an anesthetic.’ ”

  He snapped the book shut. “You weren’t poisoned; you were anesthetized. The queen employed chloroform during the births of her last two children, Prince Leopold and Princess Beatrice, thus giving it social acceptability.”