Shortly after the lunch hour, Violet found herself weary of traipsing about the streets of London. She was beginning to think that maybe she had embarked upon the wildest of goose chases.
And apparently all for naught.
Maybe it was as Sam had suggested yesterday—that the family of the “living dead” hadn’t employed an undertaker’s services and had purchased the coffin on their own.
And then there was Uriah Gedding, the stationmaster, insisting yesterday morning that no crime had been committed.
Yet there was just something like a guilty conscience that nagged at her. Just a little something about this whole affair that didn’t seem quite . . . right.
As she ventured into Chelsea, searching for the shop of one Augustus Upton, Violet could quickly see that this part of London lived up to its reputation as unconventional and bohemian, with the streets and cafes filled with oddly dressed and mannered artists.
She easily found the shop, located in a narrow but elongated building. The jangling of the doorbell announced her entrance. It was unnerving to say the least when a man popped up from a leather chair, strangely placed near the window of his small showroom. It was as if he were curled up like an octopus, waiting for unsuspecting prawns to float by so he could grab them. In fact, his dark hair was parted sharply in the middle, and thick strands hung down around his head like tentacles.
“Good afternoon, dear lady, good afternoon,” Upton said, pumping Violet’s hand up and down. He was around Violet’s age, and was fighting the bulge far harder than she was. In fact, Violet was quite certain she could see the telltale boning of a corset beneath his clothes. “Augustus Upton at your service. My deep sympathies for your loss. Devastating, I’m sure. How may I be of assistance in your time of need?”
“Actually, sir, my name is Violet Harper, and I, too, am an undertaker.” She extricated her hand from his sticky grasp. She knew she hadn’t met this man before; who could ever forget such pomposity? It was truly befitting to his name.
“You are?” He cocked his head at her in surprise. She half expected him to reach out a tentacle to inspect her. “Why, I guess you are in the traditional garb. Can’t say as I’ve met many women in this business. Did you inherit from your husband?”
Women commonly retained businesses that they had worked in with their husbands, and Violet was no exception, having inherited the trade from her first husband, Graham Morgan, now long deceased. It was not a period she preferred to dwell on or even discuss. She nodded briefly. “Yes. I came to see you because I understand you are an expert in safety coffins.”
This statement had elicited preening in the other undertakers she’d seen, who were then happy to show off their samples, as well as their knowledge of the contraptions.
Augustus Upton was no different.
“Dear lady, indeed, you have come to the right place. My knowledge of safety devices is unparalleled in London. No, dare I say, unparalleled in all of Great Britain?”
Violet hadn’t expected quite this much of a welcome to her questions.
“I am glad to hear that, sir. I am wondering if you—”
“Please, please, you must sit down.” Upton strode off as quickly as his corset would allow. He was obviously not used to wearing it. In moments he had returned with a delicate chair whose seat was covered in a deep-blue velvet. He placed it near his leather chair, and they both sat.
Upton templed his fingers together, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair. “Now, what can I answer for you?”
“I would like to know what type of safety coffin you feel is the best.” Hopefully he would quickly admit to a preference for bell coffins.
“Ah, there are so many types. I used my first safety coffin—an elaborate affair with multiple tubes and vents—about five years ago. I remember how devastated the family was when their loved one—an ancient woman, really, as delicate as parchment paper and not a likely candidate to survive the burial process—did not awaken and they—”
“Mr. Upton,” Violet gently interrupted, “did you find this type of coffin to be the best safety coffin?”
Upton frowned. “Mrs. Harper, if you wish to benefit from my vast experience, you must allow me to instruct you.”
Fortunately, he didn’t seem to notice Violet clamping her lips together to prevent herself from making a sharp retort.
“Now, where was I? Right, the Pemberton funeral. The family was simply aghast that old Mrs. Pemberton didn’t pop up hours later, after they had invested in the safety coffin. Nearly apoplectic, they were. I had to explain that purchasing a safety coffin does not result in an automatic waking of the dead. If it did, I’d be wealthier than the Crown, now wouldn’t I?” Upton chuckled at his own joke.
Violet stared past him, hoping that he would reach the end of his rambling anecdote soon. Alas, it was not to be.
“I remember well the Kingsley funeral, too. Every last one of them dead drunk during the proceedings, even the women. Some of them trying to crawl into the coffin to see if they could fit inside with the body. I had quite a time managing that one, I can tell you. Now if there was ever a time that a safety coffin was needed, that was it. You can’t imagine . . .”
Upton went on for several more minutes about various times that he had either used a safety coffin or wished he had used one. Finally, Violet couldn’t take another moment more and stood while he was in midsentence, stunning him into silence.
“I see, sir, that you have used many safety coffins on many occasions, but appear to be an expert in none of them, so I will take my leave—”
“Dear lady, you misunderstand me. Please, be seated, so I can be of more assistance.” He waved her down with his hand, and she reluctantly sat again.
“You have inquired about the best safety coffins. This type of coffin has proved very popular in recent years and comes in many varieties. There are trumpet coffins, escape hatch coffins—what I could tell you about those!—metallic burial cases, bell coffins—”
Violet found her opportunity inside Upton’s ongoing autobiography. “Bell coffins. What do you think of bell coffins? Are they effective?”
“I think you would find it valuable for me to instruct you in the world of all safety coffins before you target just one of them.”
Violet might be in her dotage before he was finished. She tried another tack. “Have you ever sent bodies via the London Necropolis Railway?”
“I’ve done some third-class funerals at Brookwood,” he said. “As you may know, a third-class funeral is marked by vastly less pomp and plumage than a first-class funeral. In fact—”
“Yes,” Violet said, stopping him before he traveled too far down that rail line. “Have you ever conducted any first-class funerals at Brookwood?”
“First-class funerals? Why, I am renowned for my handling of funerals for the upper class. Not all of them want long laying-in periods for the corpse, you know, and I can have them in the ground like that.” Upton snapped the fingers of his left hand. “Complete with all of the fancy accoutrements a society family could want. I remember I once—”
“But Brookwood . . .” Violet pressed gently.
Upton smiled in an oily way. “Don’t most undertakers service Brookwood at some point, Mrs. Harper?”
Something in his tone had changed, and Violet worried that he might reach a tentacle out at any moment to inject her with his paralyzing saliva before dismembering her.
For all of his braggadocio, Mr. Upton hadn’t really answered a single question of Violet’s. Why was this? Was he naturally this self-absorbed, or was it a way to avoid her inquiries while still seeming to be cooperative?
It was time to leave.
Outside Upton’s shop, a light rain had started and she had no parasol. Violet sighed. Perhaps she should pick up a hansom cab, return home, and leave the remaining three undertakers on her list for tomorrow.
The rain continued overnight, but in the morning was just an irritating mist, intent on loosening hair
from beneath pins and hats. Violet stepped out of the cab in Chancery Lane, her damp list in hand, and proceeded to visit the remaining undertakers written on it. All three were in this area of the City of London, which was heavily populated with law offices and tailors to support judicial wardrobes, and Violet hoped to be done soon in order to return to her own shop.
Susanna had wanted to compare notes the previous evening, but Violet put her off, wanting to wait until she had visited these final three shops. Her daughter had pouted in disappointment but had refrained from discussing it.
By noon Violet was finished, but not before having a far more disturbing encounter than the previous day’s with Mr. Upton.
James Vernon’s undertaking shop was of average size. There was nothing particularly wrong with the shop except that it seemed unloved, as though Mr. Vernon had lost his passion for the profession. Although there were several sample coffins in the shop, there was little else on display. He also didn’t have the typical display counters of most undertakers, eschewing them for an ornate walnut desk to one side of the shop, heaped with ledgers and papers.
Where were his catalogs? His mourning jewelry cases? His urn samples? Perhaps he kept them in a back room and brought them out on request, which would be odd, in Violet’s opinion, but not wrong by any means.
Like his shop, Mr. Vernon was bland and uninspiring. He was much taller than Violet, reaching at least six feet, with pale hair and matching eyes. Those eyes were disconcerting, for the undertaker blinked constantly, as though he had a piece of grit lodged in each one. He was also considerably older than Violet. She wondered if his age explained why he had seemingly lost the ardor for undertaking. The man himself was polite enough, and more than willing to answer Violet’s questions.
“Certainly, I use the LNR quite regularly. When I come across bodies that have been abandoned or are unknown, I send them off to places like King’s College and St. Bartholomew’s for dissection. They pay well. Quite frankly”—Vernon dropped his voice even though there was no one else in the shop and he had already been speaking in a low monotone—“I find it an easy profit since I don’t have to do any preparation, it cleans up London’s streets of undesirables, and it helps the medical profession. I’m lucky all undertakers aren’t smart enough to do this. I probably shouldn’t have even told you about it.”
Violet put a hand to her chest. “Sir, are you hiring resurrectionist men?”
Vernon’s eyes flew open in a horrified look, his first moment of spirit that Violet had seen. “Of course not! I am respectable. Besides, that trade died out years ago. You should know that.”
There were both legal and illegal ways for medical men to obtain bodies for dissection, and the illegal means were horrifying to a religious British public, for they involved the disinterment of recently buried bodies. Night watchmen patrolled cemeteries for just this purpose—to prevent the unlawful snatching of corpses from graves by those called resurrectionists.
Vernon was right, though; the resurrectionist trade had largely died out many years ago. Nevertheless, the specter of grave robbing and intentional desecration of the dead was ever looming in society’s mind, along with the fear of being buried alive.
Undertakers could profit greatly on such fears, not only with safety coffins but also with burial devices intended to discourage robbers from breaking into graves. A representative from the Needle Brothers coffin factory once tried to sell Violet a “patent coffin,” an iron contraption with concealed springs that prevented its lid from being levered open by a robber. Mr. Vernon didn’t seem to have any such devices in his shop.
Violet returned to her questioning. “But the universities you mentioned are in London. How do you use the LNR?”
“The LNR is a convenient way to send bodies to the Royal Surrey County Hospital in Guildford, about seven miles from the Brookwood train station. Before my services, they had a devil of a time obtaining legal corpses for medical training.”
“I see.” Violet understood the importance of anatomical research, but she cringed at the thought of what the bodies must look like afterward. “Have you ever lost any of these bodies?”
“Lost them? How could something as large as a body be lost?” He looked sincerely confused.
“What I mean is, has a body ever turned out to be alive and therefore lost to death . . . and lost to the hospital?”
Vernon shook his head and admonished her in all seriousness. “Mrs. Harper, dead bodies don’t reanimate themselves.”
That was what Violet used to think.
The following morning, Sam and Benjamin wanted to visit the British Museum to view an exhibit of medieval law documents. Pleading headaches, gout, tuberculosis, and a number of other illnesses to avoid the tedium of staring at parchment covered in faded Old English, Violet and Susanna remained behind to discuss their findings from the interviews each had conducted. Sam’s final bribe upon leaving was that Violet would miss out on the dishes of ice cream he and his son-in-law planned to have on the way home.
That was a sacrifice Violet was willing to make. Susanna, she noticed, was also thoroughly relieved not to accompany the men on their journey.
The two women sat together in the dining room since the sitting room was too messy. Violet told Susanna of all her visits, including those to Mr. Upton and Mr. Vernon, while Susanna spoke only of her interaction with Mr. Crugg. The girl was wound tightly with excitement over it.
“You were right, Mother, he does despise you.”
“I think of it more as his having an aversion to me.”
Susanna shook her head, her blond hair still loose and unpinned this morning and bouncing along her shoulders. “I’m fairly certain he would be happy to see you burst into flames.”
Well, that was certainly disappointing. “What is it you think he’s hiding?”
Susanna pondered the question for a moment, then said, “I’m not sure. He didn’t want to discuss any specific bodies he’d sent to Brookwood, so I think he’s your most likely suspect. And, really, if he’s gotten wind elsewhere that one of his bodies ended up alive, is it any wonder he won’t discuss it?”
“Hmm, that is true, dear girl. And who are we to force him?” Violet sighed. “I suppose what we are left with, once again, is that no crime has been committed. At least not one that the law recognizes. I guess the matter is over with.”
Violet found herself unexpectedly disappointed not to have an investigation at hand. Even more surprising was the fact that Susanna looked crestfallen, as well.
3
Harry was busy with a funeral at Highgate Cemetery in London today, so Violet took charge of accompanying another body on the LNR to Brookwood. Several days had passed since she and Susanna had discussed the undertakers they had visited, but the subject still nagged at Violet.
She had gone back to her daily routine of meeting with the grieving, preparing the dead, and visiting with cemetery directors. Interestingly, Susanna had begun tagging along, offering to help Violet and Harry with their daily duties. Although Violet adored Susanna, and had enjoyed every minute of working together in Colorado, this shop belonged to Violet and Harry. It didn’t seem right to have Susanna involved on a daily basis, even if she didn’t want any pay for her work.
Violet had the uncomfortable feeling that it might be time for Susanna to go home to Colorado.
She had easily convinced Susanna to take care of the shop today while she and Harry attended to their individual errands. Now, as the early-morning necropolis train pulled out of Waterloo station, with both the conformist and nonconformist funeral vans packed full, Violet willed her usual queasiness away by looking out the window at the thin fog swirling around the carriage like smoke from a recently extinguished fire. Once she felt settled, she took out her copy of Richard Blackmore’s latest novel, Lorna Doone, from her large reticule, but after only two minutes of attempting to read in the shadowy early-morning light, she felt nauseated again.
It seemed there was nothing e
lse to do but dwell on the man who had seemingly risen from the dead the last time she was at Brookwood. Everything about the situation bothered Violet, from Mr. Upton’s long-winded soliloquies that said nothing to Mr. Vernon’s side business with anatomists, and especially Julian Crugg’s refusal to discuss anything having to do with Brookwood. Susanna thought Crugg was lying, and Violet wished she had been present to see the man’s demeanor for herself.
What bothered Violet the most, though, was that maybe she was wrong about safety coffins. Maybe they really were useful. Maybe they could prevent the unintended burial of live persons due to the incompetence of some of those in the funerary business.
Had she ever been responsible for burying someone alive? The thought made her far sicker than the train ride.
Violet stood on the platform at Brookwood North station, surrounded by coffins waiting to be buried in the nonconformist section of the cemetery. At least this time the horse-drawn biers were already present and loading up coffins. To her dismay, she noticed another bell coffin, again with Mr. Boyce’s maker’s plate on it. Had this coffin been shipped by Crugg, Upton, or Vernon? Or had it perhaps been sent by one of the other undertakers they’d interviewed, someone who hadn’t stood out to them?
Again Violet had to remind herself that even though she felt the safety coffin was morally reprehensible and someone happened to have been saved by it last time she was here, no crime had been committed.
Realizing that it would be some time before a bier was ready for her own coffin, she ventured over to Mr. Boyce’s coffin, knelt down next to it, and stroked the top of it. It was a finely crafted piece made of white oak, with an inlay of dark walnut around the sides and in the top. This man or woman had wealth and was sure to have a first-class funeral.
The Mourning Bells Page 5