Stolen Remains

by Christine Trent

  “When was this?” Dorothy demanded. “Are you telling me that Cedric is here now?”

  “Indeed, madam. We arrived a few months ago and parted ways. On pleasant terms, of course, but in the way that friendships will sometimes do. I’ve taken on odd work here and there, but haven’t quite found my legs, so to speak. I read that old Lord Raybourn had died, and thought I’d come around to pay my respects if Cedric was here, but I wasn’t sure if he’d ever returned home or not. I sent a few letters, but they went unanswered.”

  Katherine looked at her husband. “We never received them.”

  Stephen patted her shoulder but addressed his own gaze to Godfrey. “And so what made you decide to land on our doorstep, despite getting no response to your letters?”

  Godfrey ground out his cigarette in the ashtray. “I came to the conclusion that after our run of poverty in France, he would be unlikely to stay away from his father, since old Lord Raybourn would be the one to fix all of his money problems. Cedric didn’t really have a reason to return to England unless it was to reunite with his family, did he?”

  Stephen’s face was as white as a shroud. “But Cedric didn’t reunite with us.”

  Godfrey frowned. “That doesn’t make sense. He must have shown his face to his father. This certainly dampens the purpose of my visit.”

  “Which is . . . ?” Dorothy said.

  “I was hoping Cedric might see his way to, er, rewarding me for my services during the war, as he promised. I showed the man a great deal of loyalty during his convalescence, and now he has surely inherited a great fortune. A few pounds sterling would be greatly appreciated.”

  “You intended to blackmail my dead brother?” Nelly said.

  “What? Of course not. First, he isn’t dead. Second, I have nothing with which to blackmail him. I just hoped he’d remember an old friend. I see now my hopes were misplaced.”

  After letting them know that he had recently moved into new lodgings so that Cedric could find him if he showed up, Godfrey left. The room exploded in fear and anxiety, with everyone talking at once.

  “How could Cedric possibly be alive?”

  “How dare he hide from his loving family!”

  “This isn’t right, no, not right at all. I say, it seems a rather nasty trick if it’s true.”

  But it was Katherine, her voice barely a whisper, who asked the most pressing question of all. “Did Cedric kill your father to hurry along his inheritance?”

  “Impossible!”

  “Ridiculous! He’s still dead by all accounts. How could a dead man collect an inheritance?”

  “I’d kill Cedric myself if he were here right now.”

  “He must have figured he’d never be caught because he was presumed dead, and now he plans on somehow returning and blackmailing us,” Nelly said.

  Dorothy gave her a look of disdain. “Blackmail us over what, you nitwit?”

  “There are plenty of secrets in this house.”

  “Hah! As if you wouldn’t run straight to the newspapers if you had hold of a single juicy morsel.”

  “I never—”

  Violet cleared her throat loudly to interrupt the squabbling. “Pardon me, but may I suggest that if your elder brother is alive, we should find him? It would clear up many questions.”

  “Yes, of course you’re right,” Gordon said. “After all, we don’t know this Godfrey brute from any other street person. He may have read the old man’s death notice in the papers, which surely included a note about Cedric’s death during the war, and decided to capitalize on it. How difficult would it be to make up such a story? Tending to Cedric on a hospital floor, indeed. He probably did intend to blackmail the family. Or garner false pity, and reap some rewards from the disbursement of the will. You are clever as always, Nells.” He gazed adoringly at his wife.

  “I’ll go to Scotland Yard with this revelation tomorrow,” Violet said. “Hopefully, we can determine the truth of Mr. Godfrey’s story, and, if it’s true, it will lead us to Cedric.”

  Stephen couldn’t contain his disdain. “A lot of good that will do. The police couldn’t find someone if he was hiding inside their overcoats.”

  After supper, Violet spent an odd evening in the drawing room with the entire Fairmont family, except for Toby, who showed up just as supper was served and went upstairs as soon as he finished wiping his mouth with his napkin. In total silence, everyone sat at his own activity. The sisters read books, Stephen had a newspaper spread in his lap, and Gordon surrounded himself with trays of pinned butterflies as he flipped through an illustrated guide to the winged beauties.

  Violet sat quietly with her lists, reviewing them and crossing off things that no longer seemed relevant, as well as adding in information about Godfrey’s unexpected visit. It felt productive, but wasn’t actually getting her any closer to an answer regarding the whereabouts of Lord Raybourn’s remains, or whether it was a suicide or murder. There were no interruptions, save a friend of Toby’s. With barely a nod to acknowledge the family, the friend scurried up to Toby’s room.

  When she could no longer keep her eyes open, Violet decided it was as good a reminder as any that a night of sleep would work wonders on her mind’s prowess, which seemed utterly devoid of cogent thought these days.

  She said good night and went upstairs, but once again found herself pausing on the stairs leading up to the attic rooms. Toby and the friend were talking, and what Violet overheard was disturbing.

  “. . . have your uniform yet?” the friend said.

  “Yes, I’m to be made lieutenant in his army.”

  “Already? Training is two years.”

  “. . . special dispensation . . . my family’s position.”

  The friend grunted. “Naturally . . . outpost you’ll join?”

  “Someplace far from here, I hope.”

  Whose army was Toby talking about? Was he involved in some sort of insurrectionist movement? Bored young men were easily led into the worst sorts of societies, most of them sounding perfectly idealistic, but ultimately proving to embrace wretched, ill-conceived notions.

  Violet’s heart sank to think that Toby might be involved with a group that might lead to his own injury or death—or to that of others.

  She continued slowly up to her room, completely mystified over what to do about it.

  A few minutes later, Violet heard Toby see his friend out. Despite sensing the impropriety of snooping, she hurried to her window overlooking the street below, in the hope of learning more about what they were up to. The gas lamps illuminated the street in a shadowy way, casting erratic light on people scurrying to and fro. Even in a quality neighborhood like Mayfair, it wasn’t wise to spend much time in the streets after dark.

  Her attention was captured as she saw Toby’s friend leave Raybourn House and step into the street. He was almost immediately approached by a man who stepped out from somewhere in the shadows beyond the reach of the streetlamps. The two entered into earnest conversation.

  Violet extinguished her own lamp and pressed her face closer to the glass in order to see more clearly.

  What in heaven’s name . . . ??

  It was James Godfrey talking to Toby’s friend. The two were arguing—no, wait . . . they were merely enthusiastic. How did Godfrey know Toby and his friend? What could they possibly have to discuss? Had Toby been aware of Cedric’s existence long ago? If so, why hadn’t he told anyone? The young man was full of secrets, for sure.

  The two men clasped hands and parted ways. Violet lit her lamp again, and sat down on the bed in her most unladylike fashion, chin in palm and elbow on knee, in order to think. Despite her determined appearance, her thoughts were a scrambled mess as she reflected on the conflicting possibilities.

  One thing she did know: Mrs. Peet had certainly had an interesting view down on the aristocratic world.

  The next morning, Violet rose early in order to make amends with Hurst by keeping him informed in a more timely manner on new facts. Inside the
same interview room where she had spoken with him before, Violet laid out for Inspector Hurst everything that had occurred in the past few days, from the bridge incident to the futile coffin hunt to James Godfrey’s unfortunate visit. Hurst nodded periodically as he listened, as though Violet had said something of vital significance.

  “The puzzle has more pieces than I thought. It would seem you are now one of them, Mrs. Harper.”

  “I can’t imagine why someone would want to harm me. I’ve been thinking it over, trying to make sense of it all. Stephen believes whoever it was only intended to distract us from returning to our carriage too quickly. But I wonder, is it possible that whoever pushed me at the bridge thought I was someone else?”

  “If true, the only person it could be is Stephen’s wife. What other woman wearing mourning would reasonably be out with him at dawn?”

  “You’re right, of course. I can’t imagine why someone would want to harm Katherine.”

  “My instincts tell me that you were a specific target, Mrs. Harper, but we can’t rule anything out.”

  “Is there anything you have ruled out?”

  Hurst scowled. “We’ve so little to go on. Of course, the queen’s interference created this additional affliction of the kidnapping, since Lord Raybourn was not buried promptly. So the primary question is, who killed Lord Raybourn? Secondarily, who killed his housekeeper?”

  “So now you don’t believe she committed suicide, either?”

  Hurst cleared his throat. “Ahem. She may have; it’s impossible to say.”

  Hurst continued. “Our third question is, who kidnapped Lord Raybourn’s body? Our last and most puzzling question is, why was he kidnapped? The answers to these questions might point to one person or several people. There may also be circumstances we do not yet understand. For example, his kidnapping may have nothing to do with him personally.”

  Violet struggled with impatience. The detective was sermonizing on what she already knew. The interview room’s door opened and Inspector Pratt entered. “Sir, I’ve written up the details of our visit with the theater owner whose ticket seller was murdered—oh, Mrs. Harper, a delight to see you.”

  Hurst motioned for him to take the other chair in the room. “Mrs. Harper has just informed me of some interesting happenings in connection with the Lord Raybourn case. Mrs. Harper?”

  She repeated for Pratt what she’d told Hurst.

  “She and I were about to discuss some possible theories we have to explain the tragedies.”

  “Did you tell her about the resurrectionists?”

  “I was about to do so. Mrs. Harper, in your line of work, I’m sure you’ve heard of resurrectionists?”

  “Yes, it was one of my own thoughts. I visited as many undertakers in the London area as I could to see if any of them might have been involved, but never discovered any information of value.”

  “Of course, such men don’t seek ransoms for the bodies, as they have ready buyers.”

  “Lord Raybourn’s body wouldn’t have been much use to a resurrectionist, since he was embalmed. It makes good dissection difficult. But the kidnapper wouldn’t necessarily have realized he’d been embalmed.”

  “Unless he was taken by one of these bizarre religious cults. We’ve been watching the Order of the Golden Dawn closely. They incorporate Egyptian motifs into their rituals. An embalmed body might be preferable to them.”

  Violet had never heard of such a cult.

  “Conversely, it may have been an elaborate prank,” Hurst continued. “It wouldn’t be the first time some porridge brain cooked up such an idea.”

  “If this was a prank,” Violet said, “it was elaborate in the extreme. They had to secure a hiding location—which was clearly not the cold store at Smithfield—where no one would find it. A coffin is no easy thing to hide. And to what end? A bit of money? Some notoriety? Moreover, if this was just a prank, why haven’t they told us where to find the body?”

  “Perhaps they aren’t finished blackmailing the family. I admit, it’s been a most peculiar case. I never expected it to require so much attention, but we have no further progress from our informants in Egypt so we may as well focus our minds on it.”

  The three of them stayed in the room another hour, turning over one theory after another, with no firm conclusions made. As Hurst rose to signal that their meeting was over, he said, “Is there anything else you wish to tell me?”

  Violet thought about the argument she’d overheard among the siblings, where Nelly said something about keeping Stephen’s secrets. What did she mean by that? Reference was made to these secrets again today in front of Mr. Godfrey.

  Not to mention Toby’s clandestine behavior.

  Some instinct cautioned Violet not to reveal the information. It will keep, it whispered.

  “Not that I can think of. I’ll come back as soon as I know more.”

  “I think perhaps Mr. Pratt and I will go round to see this Mr. Godfrey. Just to pay a friendly visit, if you will, to discern where Cedric Fairmont might be hiding. Would you care to come along?”

  This was the friendliest the inspector had ever been. “I would very much like to come.”

  Hurst’s massive presence intimidated Godfrey’s landlord enough that he immediately gave them access to his tenant’s rooms.

  “This shouldn’t take long,” Hurst said, looking around at the sparsely furnished room with few belongings. “Look for anything whatsoever that connects Godfrey to Cedric Fairmont.”

  While Pratt went through various drawers and Hurst inspected wall and floorboards for anything loose, Violet examined Godfrey’s mattress and bedding. It reeked of spirits and sweat. She wondered if he was so thin because he was malnourished. He would come to a bad end one day if he didn’t cease being an inebriate.

  After feeling around in his pillowcase and the bedcovers, Violet lifted up one side of the mattress. Tucked underneath was a packet of envelopes. She extracted them and scanned through them. A letter from a law firm, several bills, an advertisement from a tailor, and . . . what was this? She tossed the other envelopes onto the bed and opened one that had neither an address nor postage on it, so it was possibly a letter that had merely been handed to someone.

  James, I believe our time has come. Fleur is plaguing me; I can hardly get away from her carping about marriage. I should never have told her I was the son of a viscount. It’s as though she looks at me hoping she’ll find my eyes have turned into diamonds and my teeth into pearls that she can pluck and sell. I must get away from here. What say we return home? I have an idea, actually.

  The letter was undated.

  “Inspector, you may be interested in this.” Violet held the note out to Hurst.

  “So Godfrey was telling the truth,” he said, after reading it and handing it to Pratt. “At least in broad terms. Mr. Pratt, I believe you and I will wait here for James Godfrey’s return so that we can have a little chat with him. Mrs. Harper, it’s best if you don’t stay.”

  Violet gladly left the men to their police work, having no desire to witness what might happen later, but an unhappy thought pained her the rest of the day.

  Was it possible that Cedric Fairmont returned to England, hoping to secretly reestablish relations with his father, but was perhaps rebuffed? Maybe Cedric eventually killed his father in rage, either for rejecting him or for refusing him money.

  Or maybe Violet’s imagination had the better of her. She needed a hot cup of tea, a few hours of light reading, and a good night’s sleep to clear her mind. Tomorrow was her scheduled trip back to Hyde Park with Mary, and surely the world would seem brighter and clearer after a day with her friend.

  The day was chillier than it had recently been as Violet and Mary made their way across the parade ground, where English kings and queens had once reviewed their troops, into Hyde Park and to the boat rental pier. Occasional puffy clouds, tinged with gray, dotted the sky. They seemed to want to pour down a good English rain, but it was as though the clouds fel
t they weren’t numerous enough to produce a soaking rain, so they were merely biding their time for an eventual onslaught. As a result the cloud cover was enough to prevent the sun from warming them.

  As Violet once again settled into her role of rower, maneuvering the craft around the small island set in the lake near the boat launch, Mary brought forth a loaf of stale bread, breaking off small pieces and tossing them out to the eager swans, whose long necks ricocheted back and forth as they targeted the yeasty tidbits and gobbled them down. The trees all along the edge of the water, carefully planted to suggest a casual wildness, induced a sense of tranquility, despite the multitudes of people all along the pathways crisscrossing the park on either side of them.

  “Shall we go all the way to the Italian Gardens?” Violet asked, referring to the other end of the winding lake, where an ornately sculpted garden with multiple fountains, walkways, and statuary beckoned visitors to stroll about.

  “Yes. Do you suppose we could secure the boat there and walk around?”

  “An excellent idea.”

  Violet continued rowing until she reached the Serpentine Bridge, which crossed the lake and created a divider between the part known as the Serpentine and the far narrower portion called the Long Water. Carriage traffic thundered overhead as they passed beneath the bridge. Violet estimated that she had another quarter of a mile to row through the Long Water before reaching the Italian Gardens. After a brief rest, she continued rowing.

  A group of four boats approached, filled with reveling young men joking, splashing water at one another with their oars, and being generally unaware of everything around them. Violet guided her own craft to the right, next to the tree line on shore, to enable the band of carousers to pass them without upsetting their own craft.

  She struggled to stay away from the other boats, as well as to avoid getting caught up in the wiry brambles and fallen limbs that were prevalent along the edge. The water was shallower here, so she laid one oar down in the boat and used the other to try and dig into the soft earth beneath them, in an attempt to anchor them.