Meredith responded with a glare.
“I’m referring to Lady Maud Winter, Lady Marcheford, and Miss Lillian Cortland.”
“These highborn folk got their comeuppance.”
“So you don’t admit to killing these other—bourgeois, I believe you call it—members that were close to the queen?” Violet said.
Hurst yanked Meredith’s arm up behind him. “Treason, murder. . . shall we add perjury to your list of charges, my boy?”
“You’re hurting me.”
“This is nothing compared to the rope. You won’t be eligible for the silk noose, either. It’s all hemp for you.”
Violet saw a glint in the coachman’s eyes as he relaxed in Hurst’s tight grasp. His next words were chilling. “My execution will make me a martyr. The proletariat will remember me for all time, and will move forward with Mr. Marx’s great plans. And I will be reunited with Margaret. And yes, that’s right . . . yes, I killed all of your fine ladies, and enjoyed watching them suffer.”
Hurst wrenched Meredith’s arm upward again. “We’ll take it from here, Mrs. Harper. Rest assured he will have a quick trial and conviction.”
The two detectives dragged Meredith out of the house.
“Well! That was quite the birthday surprise, wasn’t it, Bertie?”
“Yes, Mother. How many attempts on your life does that make now?”
“We believe we have lost count. So terribly frightening when it occurs,” Victoria said, patting back strands of hair that had escaped her widow’s cap.
“At least it happened inside the privacy of Windsor, so we won’t see the presses churning out extra editions to cover it,” Louise said. “Shall we call for new carriages to take us back, Mother, or do you want to proceed with this evening’s event?”
“This is a time for the family to be together, we think, so we will carry on as we have done so many times before. This has certainly been one of the most . . . stimulating . . . days of our reign, has it not?”
“Mother, you were almost killed,” Bertie said. “As were we all. We owe thanks to the undertaker’s husband.”
All eyes turned to Sam, who reddened as the royal family spoke their thanks all at once. He looked to Violet, a plea for help in his eyes. She smiled to see him drowning in praise.
The queen resumed what she was saying. “Yes, it has been a day of surprise and revelation, but now we wish to express what joy we have as we turn fifty years of age. So much has happened since we took the throne: the expansion of our glorious empire, numerous marvelous inventions, the births of our nine children, as well as their own marriages and children. We still face distress, though, in our son’s involvement in that distasteful Mordaunt affair, the ridiculous rumors of Mr. Brown, and, of course, the loss of our dearest—”
“Mother, you were talking about your joys,” Louise said.
“Yes, of course. We are joyful that our subjects love us dearly, as we are the most loving of monarchs, despite the disturbance with that young man. What was his name again?”
“Reese Meredith, Your Majesty,” Violet said.
“Hmm. We may have to see about the mews superintendent, Mr. Norton. He showed very poor judgment in hiring Meredith. But as I was saying, it is our hope that happiness will once again cover England when we see our daughter Louise successfully married. We have agreed to let her find an Englishman of her choosing, as we always want the utmost happiness for our children. . . .”
As the queen droned on, Beatrice tugged on Violet’s sleeve. “Mrs. Harper,” she said quietly, “you haven’t been back to paint with me.”
“You’re right, Princess. I’m sorry for it.”
“You’ll come back soon, won’t you?”
“I will.”
Beatrice grinned, reminding Violet of how very young and tender the girl still was, despite her maturity. Yes, Violet would visit Beatrice again soon.
Violet and Sam joined the royal family for an informal meal, and the queen opened token presents from her family, smiling and chatting as though all were right in her kingdom, now that the perpetrator of the murders had been captured.
Violet, though, wasn’t so sure. Meredith admitted to the killing of the three women, but how could he have enjoyed watching them suffer when they were made unconscious first?
No, it didn’t seem possible that Reese Meredith was the culprit, despite Hurst’s swaggering confidence in it.
It was time to plan another confrontation with Lord Marcheford and Sir Charles.
Violet opened the note, written on Buckingham Palace stationery. It was from Beatrice, asking Violet to come for a private visit that evening and requesting that she come through one of the rear entrances, so that Victoria would not be aware of Violet’s presence.
I fear Mother might think I prefer your company to her own, and I shouldn’t like to face the wrath of that accusation.
Beatrice wanted to have tea together and play with her pet cockatiel. Again, Violet’s heart broke over the girl’s obvious loneliness. So many family squabbles to endure, with no girls her own age for friendship and comfort.
Violet ordered a light supper with Sam first, and over their meal they discussed what to do about her two suspects. Sam suggested that Inspector Hurst accompany her on her interviews for safety and to make an immediate arrest if she should wrest a confession from one of them. Violet thought Sam was neglecting the subordinate role this would place on Hurst, not to mention the inspector’s resulting consternation, but didn’t argue with the basic logic of her husband’s idea.
Thus satisfied that she would have her killer within the next twenty-four hours, she headed over to Buckingham Palace alone to visit Beatrice.
The palace staff were now used to her frequent coming and going and hardly gave her a cursory glance as she came in through a servants’ entrance and went up a rear staircase. There was no activity sounding from the royal apartments. The thought flitted through her mind that perhaps Alix was in distress in her pregnancy and everyone had abruptly departed for Marlborough House to attend to her. Perhaps they’d left in such a hurry that Beatrice had forgotten to send her a note.
Beatrice was not in her own bedchamber, so Violet went to her art room. That room was also dark. Violet entered and lit a couple of the oil lamps in the room. One lamp was near the birdcage by the windows, which energized the cockatiel into a few chirps and peeps.
“Hello, Peaches, why aren’t you covered for the night?” she greeted the bird. “Did your mistress leave in a hurry and forget? I think she forgot me, too.”
Violet sat next to Beatrice’s art table to wait. Surely the princess would be back soon to keep her date with Violet. With Peaches quietly whistling in the background, Violet leaned back and closed her eyes, trying not to drift off to sleep after her filling supper.
Really, she thought, as she put a hand over her mouth to cover a most unladylike belch, it will be good for me to stop the palace meals.
She rested for only a few moments when she smelled something pungent and familiar. What was it? Rousing herself, she attempted to find the location of the odor.
What she saw next stilled her. On the floor was a rag, very similar to the ones she’d seen at the death scenes.
Oh no, not the princess, too....
With alarm welling up in Violet’s throat, she ran into the hallway, rapping on doors and opening them. All of the rooms were unoccupied.
She stopped a maid who was closing drapes for the evening. “Where is Princess Beatrice?” Violet asked.
The maid stared wide-eyed at her, no doubt noticing her panicked appearance. “Most of the family went out earlier, ma’am, to Windsor, to dine with Prince Christian and Princess Helena.”
“And Princess Beatrice? Was she with the family?”
Now the maid was frightened. “I suppose so. She must have been. I don’t know, ma’am; no one told me to keep an eye on her.” The poor girl had tears in her eyes.
“Never mind,” Violet said. “I’m sur
e she’ll be back soon.”
Violet dashed off before the maid could ask her another question. As she fled the palace, she tried to think. Who had Beatrice, Lord Marcheford or Sir Charles? Who was the more likely suspect?
Sir Charles was an embittered man with a vendetta against the opponents of the Contagious Diseases Acts, even calling out Josephine Butler by name. His wife’s indiscretions had thrown more fuel on the fire of his hatred of the moralists. But he was a man of Parliament. Would he really resort to murdering these women when he could just have easily legislated them out of the way?
Unless he was stark raving mad from his wife’s peccadilloes.
What of Lord Marcheford, another man resentful of his wife’s activities with the moralists? But in Marcheford’s case, he had another motive, which was to be free to marry Lady Henrietta Pettit. Such desire could make a man do strange things.
But why take Princess Beatrice? She was just a child. She had nothing to do with the moralists.
Except that Beatrice was often in Violet’s company and certainly Violet might be accused of being a member of the moralists. Had the girl’s note been faked to lure Violet to a place where she would join the princess in her fate? If that was the case, Violet had been left with no clues.
Where was the girl? With Sir Charles or Lord Marcheford? Think, Violet, think.
Sir Charles had more political connections to see his goals accomplished. Lord Marcheford, though, was vain, arrogant, and condescending, with no love for his wife’s social circle.
Violet ran from the palace, hailing the first cab she saw. She should go to Scotland Yard to fetch Inspector Hurst, as she’d promised Sam. There was no time, though. Every second was precious if she was to find Beatrice alive.
Her mind was made up. She would risk seeing Lord Marcheford alone.
Lord Marcheford’s irritation exuded from him like a noxious gas as he stood primly inside his study. “I hardly believed it when the butler said it was you again, Mrs. Harper.”
“Sir, I have no time to exchange barbs with you. Where is the princess?”
“Who?”
“Do not attempt to delude me. I know that you have taken Princess Beatrice from Buckingham Palace. Is she here?”
“From Buckingham Palace? I had no invitation to go there. Why would I take a twelve-year-old girl? I’ve no interest in tea parties and dolls. What is this madness of yours? First you accuse me of causing my wife’s death; now you blaze your way into my home with nonsense of my having kidnapped a royal princess.”
Violet regretted her methods. Perhaps it would have been better to go to Inspector Hurst first. He would have known how to handle this. Besides, now that she was here, seeds of doubt were sprouting inside her head. Had she been rash in coming here? Should she have thought this through more?
Violet’s only choice was to think it through now. She decided to approach Lord Marcheford more tactfully.
“My apologies for my brusqueness. If you will humor me, I wish to ask you something, sir.”
He reached for a decanter and two glasses, pouring himself one and then tipping the bottle toward Violet as if in question.
“No, thank you,” she said.
“Suit yourself. I find that a finger or two of whiskey helps settle the nerves when faced with hysterical women. The women are usually in more need of it than I am.” He put aside the second glass and sauntered to a high-backed chair, its upholstery so perfectly plush that it might have just been covered yesterday.
“Now, what is your question, Mrs. Harper?” Lord Marcheford said, occupying the chair with aristocratic boredom while not inviting her to sit down.
Something was dancing at the edges of her mind, if only she could grasp it. Something to do with Lady Marcheford’s affair.
“Tell me, what was the name of Lady Marcheford’s paramour?”
“Why? Do you think Cape was involved?”
Violet tapped her foot impatiently. Lord Marcheford responded with an eye roll.
“Very well, it was Henry Cape, Lord Blevins’s younger brother.”
“You said he was involved in activities of which you did not approve. What were they?”
Lord Marcheford took a long swallow from his glass. “Would this be a second question, Mrs. Harper? Very well, you need not thrust a mental dagger through my heart. It wasn’t so much that I didn’t approve, just that his activities were laughable. How he ever thought he was—”
“Lord Marcheford, please, I haven’t much time and lives hang in the balance.”
“How very dramatic of you. Cape thought himself a poet and a painter, in both of which he demonstrated himself little more than a dilettante.”
A man of the arts. Mr. Cape didn’t sound like a man interested in murdering women, but she had to be sure.
“Was Mr. Cape angry about anything that you know of?”
This elicited a self-satisfied smile from Lord Marcheford. “He was probably angry at his own stupidity. He has been in and out of debtors’ prison for months. His brother refuses to assist him. It’s another reason why I couldn’t fathom what Lottie saw in him.”
So not only was there no decipherable motive on Mr. Cape’s part, but also most of his time had been occupied in a cell.
“Your wife was friends with Lady Maud Winter. There was a rumor that Lady Maud had recently found a beau. Do you know who it was?”
Lord Marcheford emptied his glass. “Lottie never mentioned anyone, and she and Maud were quite close in their shared love of that dratted moralist movement. Are you sure you aren’t confusing her with Miss Cortland?”
Violet caught her breath. “What do you mean? You told me before that you’d never heard of Miss Cortland.”
“To the contrary. You asked me if I knew her. I’d never met her, but knew of her from Lottie.”
Violet felt the same urge to fling the man from a window that she’d experienced with Mr. Brown. She clamped her lips together to avoid saying something she might regret, allowing Lord Marcheford to continue.
“Miss Cortland was involved with a man. Someone Lottie said was highly inappropriate. He and Cape knew each other, I believe. In fact, Lottie probably introduced Miss Cortland to her beau.”
Violet blinked as a thousand jigsaw pieces clicked together at once. She suddenly knew, without question, what had happened. As she continued silently arranging the puzzle her host continued his usual rant.
“These moralist women will come to no good end. Why they won’t stop their activities I’ll never understand. Why didn’t Lottie listen to me? She should have never—”
Violet left Lord Marcheford, his complaints barely registering in her mind.
She arrived back at Buckingham Palace, returning to Beatrice’s art room after verifying with palace staff that the royal family had not yet returned.
She picked up the rag she’d seen earlier. It didn’t smell of chloroform. Yet the odor was unmistakable in the room. It seemed to be coming from Beatrice’s desk. Hoping she wasn’t violating too many rules of propriety, Violet looked in the drawers below the expansive table, lifting out tubes and pots, opening them, and sniffing their contents.
Nothing.
Violet was determined to find it. Dropping to her hands and knees, she went under the table. Yes, the smell was much stronger here. She ran a hand along one side of the table support. Still nothing.
As she ran her hand along the other support, though, her fingers found a depression in the wood. She pressed into it, heard a latch click, and a slim, upright drawer popped open.
Inside was a bottle of liquid. Before she even unstoppered it, she knew what the contents were.
Chloroform.
Violet heard a noise. She crawled out from under the table and set the bottle on the table, then went to the expanse of windows to look down, thinking that perhaps she’d heard the royal carriages pulling up. The courtyard was empty.
The door slammed behind her. Violet whirled around.
“Mr. Caradoc, y
ou startled me. The princess asked me to meet her, but she isn’t here.”
“No, the family is off to Windsor to dine with Prince Christian and Princess Helena. It would seem congratulations are in order, Mrs. Harper. You listened to me regarding Mr. Meredith and now he is in custody for the tragic deaths of those young women.”
So the princess was safe. “Yes. I’m not quite sure he is the culprit, though.”
“Really? Yet he stands accused. And he admitted to their murders.”
“Mr. Meredith was certainly guilty of attempting to murder the queen, but as for the other women . . .” Violet instinctively took a step backward.
“You think someone else is responsible for Lady Maud, Lady Marcheford, and Miss Cortland?” Caradoc said.
“Yes.”
“And who might that be?”
“I believe you may already know who it is, Mr. Caradoc.” If she screamed, were there staff close enough by to hear her? What weapon was at hand? There were brushes and paints nearby, but none were likely to injure him. She took another step backward.
“Me? How should I know? I’d like to hear your theory, though, Mrs. Harper.” He grinned, and Violet knew the sinister mind behind that smile.
“It was you, of course. I admit you had me fooled when you reported on Mr. Meredith to me. I believed you to be a devoted royal servant.”
“Interesting. Please, continue.”
Violet went on. “I realized that I kept looking for what the murdered women had in common, without looking for what the men in their lives may have had in common.”
“And what is it that they have in common?”
“Art. For some reason, you have built up resentment as Princess Beatrice’s art tutor. Lady Marcheford’s paramour, Henry Cape, already knew you—”
“Of course, we met at the Royal Academy. But knowing a fellow artist doesn’t make me a murderer. Have you gone mad from corpse vapors?”
“—and Lady Marcheford was friends with Miss Cortland because of their moralist activities together. You took up with Miss Cortland. You were her secret inamorato.”
A Virtuous Death Page 26