At least Violet had learned that the family’s country estate was indeed in Surrey, which explained the tomb at Brookwood.
Audley swallowed the rest of his sherry. “Sure you don’t care for a glass? It’s a bit embarrassing to carry on alone.”
Violet shook her head again. “So your parents clasped Roger to them once more when he became engaged to Miss Latham?”
“Not at all, though they thought that marrying him off to her might curb his eccentric tendencies. Father even planned to give them enough money to buy their own estate as far away from Surrey as possible. Once he dropped dead after dinner, which we all assumed to be the result of some botched, self-inflicted experiment, my parents were so disgusted that they didn’t want Roger to share burial space with the family, lest his polluted spirit contaminate the rest of the Blount clan interred in the tomb.”
“But you say you were not angry with him.”
Audley poured a third drink. Was he nervous, or was this merely his habit?
“No, I was indifferent. If Roger wanted to waste his life mucking about in a laboratory, what did I care? I have my father’s estates and my future title to worry about, and could ill afford to waste time on the health of a dog and valet. I did feel bad about Margery, though. She deserved better than that imbecile.”
With no other information to be gleaned from Audley, Violet spent just a few more minutes in idle chat and left the Blount residence, thoroughly unsettled. She was certain that Audley had led her along on a leash, permitting her to stop and sniff at only very specific flowers. Had she missed something important? Had he lied to her? It was impossible that he had no idea who the family undertaker was, and she was fairly certain the viscount was enamored of Margery Latham. Whether his affection for her was reciprocated, or if the two of them had even been involved in an affair, Violet couldn’t be sure.
Had Roger really died of a fit of some sort? Was it just an unhappy coincidence that his family wasn’t overcome by his death, or was it possible that the earl or the countess had something to do with Roger’s death? It was truly unthinkable to contemplate a parent killing his child, particularly a child who has been nurtured into adulthood, but Violet had witnessed plenty of family intrigues and schemes in her years of undertaking.
She didn’t quite believe Audley’s cavalier attitude toward his brother. Did it hide some darker, more malevolent feeling? Something concerned with Miss Latham?
Violet eschewed a private cab and this time boarded an omnibus headed for Paddington. Midafternoon London traffic bustled, but at least she would return to the shop before the bankers, merchants, and other middle-class workers stampeded out of London on trains bound for points such as Richmond, Harrow, and Bromley.
Violet paid her penny fare and ignored the crying children, exasperated mothers, and harried servants seated around her, lost in thought about her visit to Etchingham House.
What was most frustrating was that she still had nothing on which Inspector Hurst could take action. Roger Blount’s family disliked him. So what? There was no evidence of foul play with his body; Violet simply didn’t think it had been handled properly.
And what if one of the Blounts had indeed had something to do with Roger Blount’s death? Didn’t that mean that his body had nothing to do with the first two she’d seen at Brookwood? For certain it had nothing to do with the attack in Hyde Park.
The omnibus came to a sudden halt near Marble Arch, which housed a small police station. The stop was explained a few moments later as an elegant carriage bearing the royal arms went bouncing past one side of the John Nash–designed arch. The arch could only be traveled under by the royal family, and then only during ceremonial events, but traffic stopped even when a royal coach drove past. Violet could not catch a glimpse of the carriage’s occupant to know whether it was the queen herself or one of her bevy of children.
Under the driver’s constant pestering of his trio of overworked mares, the omnibus gradually picked up speed again and Violet returned to her contemplations, closing her eyes to blot out the din and jangle of London’s streets in order to concentrate.
Was there any possible link between the various seemingly unrelated situations? Were some coincidental and others intentional? When it came down to it, how many different investigations was Violet actually working on?
A thought occurred to her. Audley had been reticent to tell her who the family undertaker was when surely he knew who it was. Violet knew Julian Crugg had many society clients. Were the Blounts among them? Had he asked the family not to reveal that he was Lord Blount’s undertaker because of the shabby treatment they intended for their son, which could only harm Crugg’s reputation?
Speaking of shabby treatment, certainly Crugg had his own reasons to be angry at both Violet and Susanna, and might have been trying to attack either of them in the park. How would he have known that they would be in Hyde Park, though? Well, it was entirely possible that he had followed them.
Or paid someone else to do so.
Violet hopped down from the omnibus stop in Paddington, her stomach rumbling. She wondered what delicacy Mrs. Wren had planned for them tonight, then wondered if she should stop somewhere for tea. Seven o’clock was so very far away.
As she made her way through the streets after picking up a slice of savoy cake spread with jam, she decided that Margery Latham had clung to Julian Crugg not because he was standing nearby but because she knew him. Perhaps Audley hadn’t covered for Crugg to protect the undertaker’s reputation but because Crugg knew what had happened to Blount and was protecting the family.
It was an interesting idea. It made Violet even more sure that Crugg was somehow connected to the first two living bodies at Brookwood, although she wasn’t sure how.
By the time she arrived back at Morgan Undertaking, Violet had warmed decidedly to the idea that Crugg was not the innocent he protested he was. Despite the outburst she knew she was facing, Violet decided it was time to visit him again.
When Violet announced to Sam that she intended to confront Julian Crugg again, he insisted on accompanying her, stating that his protestations at the wisdom of such a visit were clearly falling on deaf ears. Violet didn’t resist his overprotectiveness. She hadn’t been too enthused about calling on Crugg, anyway, imagining that he would either forcibly remove her from his shop . . . or do worse, if he was indeed their Hyde Park attacker.
They went together around midday, once Violet had finished visiting a family who had lost their matriarch. The old woman had just died at the exceedingly ripe old age of ninety-nine, leaving behind so many children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren that Violet had asked the woman’s daughter to make up a list of them for the obituary.
Harry had stayed home to care for his wife, who was not faring well with her unborn babe. The child was already struggling to make an entrance, and its parents were struggling to keep it content a while longer. Predictably, Susanna was quite happy to mind the shop while Violet went on her errand, only cautioning her mother to “Watch for Mr. Crugg’s fangs” as Violet and Sam headed out.
The cab dropped them off in Regent Street, and they walked into the alley where his shop was located. Strangely, the “Closed” sign was in the window and no lamps were burning inside.
“Perhaps he’s gone for the day,” Sam said.
“Perhaps, but you’d think his assistant would be here.” For good measure, Violet turned the doorknob. To her surprise, it was not locked and the door easily pushed open.
The two of them stood at the threshold, neither quite sure whether to enter. Finally, Sam made a sweeping motion. “After you, Wife.”
“Mr. Crugg? Mr. Trumpington?” she called out tentatively as she stepped into the shop, knowing instantly by the stagnant, undisturbed air inside that there was no one there. A sense of relief washed over her, as she was actually dreading having to confront him.
“I suppose he forgot to lock the door before he left,” Sam said.
Maybe s
o, but it seemed counter to Crugg’s fastidious and exacting nature. He was a man who would never forget to lock the door behind him.
While Sam lit lamps out front, Violet wandered into the back area of Crugg’s shop and illuminated that room with one of several lamps hanging on the wall. It was neat and tidy, without a pen or sheet of paper out of place. There was no one in the room. Perhaps Crugg really had forgotten to lock his shop before his departure. She would pay him the courtesy of leaving a note so that he—
“Violet !” Sam called, the urgency in his voice startling Violet. “Come here.”
She returned to the outer room. Sam stood in the center of the shop’s safety coffin display, next to what appeared to be a bell coffin.
“Sweetheart, I believe I’ve found Mr. Crugg,” Sam said grimly, holding open the coffin lid and showing her what was inside.
9
Violet joined Sam and peered into the coffin. She shuddered to see Julian Crugg lying inside, as calmly reposed as if he were merely napping. Violet couldn’t be sure, but she guessed he had been dead mere hours. Ironically—and perhaps cruelly—there was a string tied around the forefinger of his right hand, which linked to an alarm bell.
Sam stood by stoically, still holding the coffin lid. His years in the recent war in America had made him as immune to death as Violet was. “What do you think?” he asked, in a tone that suggested he knew exactly what she thought.
“I think I am right in my assertion that something very terrible has been happening.” She bit back her thought that Crugg now lay in a coffin much as Violet once had, courtesy of James Vernon. Except Vernon hadn’t really tried to kill her, had he? And he certainly hadn’t tied a bell to her. So was this the work of someone else?
“You think his murder is related to the doings at Brookwood and Hyde Park?” Sam asked. “How could that be?”
Violet held up her hands. “I don’t know, but I have a suspicion this was not the act of some random thief who was discovered in the act of stealing money.”
Sam lowered the coffin lid, which banged lightly against the box, sealing Crugg up again. “Well, if this was the man responsible for the attack on Susanna, I can’t say that I’m particularly sorry at his demise.”
Violet agreed, but didn’t voice her opinion that the attacker was probably after Sam’s wife, not his daughter. Another thought came to her mind. “It’s curious that Mr. Trumpington, his assistant, isn’t here, either. I wonder if . . .”
“You think something happened to him, as well?”
“Honestly, I’m more confused than ever, but we should consider the fact that he may have gotten in the way of whoever did this.”
“Or maybe this is Trumpington’s handiwork. It wouldn’t be surprising to learn that Crugg was a difficult employer. Perhaps Trumpington was berated to the point that he simply exploded, and this was the disastrous result.”
Violet arched an eyebrow. “Exploded, like a bundle of dynamite?”
“Not at all like dynamite, Wife. More like a volcano.” Sam gave her his sternest look, which had her smiling inappropriately over Crugg’s dead body.
Instantly serious again, Violet knelt on the floor and lifted the lid. “My apologies, sir, for my dreadful behavior. We did not get on well at all in life, but you don’t merit derision in death.” She began to close the lid again, but remembered something and opened it up again. “And please be assured that your death won’t go neglected. I’ll not rest until I determine who did this to you.”
She felt Sam shift next to her and looked up to see him rolling his eyes. “Do you plan to undertake the man, as well?”
Violet shook her head. “No, that is for his family to decide on. But I will certainly try to find out who did this to him. He deserves at least that much.”
Her husband sighed. “We’ll have to go see Inspector Hurst again. He won’t be able to ignore you now.” He put out a hand and helped Violet up.
“You’re right. But first, wouldn’t it be helpful to have our own look around? Before we summon the police?”
“What are you looking for?” Sam asked.
“I have no earthly idea. Something that would give us a clue as to who might have been here and done this.”
“Maybe Crugg was murdered elsewhere and brought here later.”
Violet considered this. “No, it would have been too difficult to haul his lifeless weight here without someone seeing him.”
“I disagree. All the killer needed was a covered wagon. This shop is far enough from Regent Street for the murderer to have unloaded him into here without detection. The bell string on the finger was a coarse gesture, though. Was it a message?”
The thought sent shivers down Violet’s spine. “More importantly, was it a message for me?”
They were silent several moments as they contemplated the gravity of what Violet had said. Finally, Violet turned away from the coffin. “Let’s see what we can find.”
She and Sam went through the undertaker’s shop as unobtrusively as they could, starting in the outer room and making their way to the back. They worked silently but efficiently together, picking up everything and always setting items precisely back in their places. As they searched Crugg’s desk, Violet found several items of interest. First was a silver pocket watch, its case filigreed with the subtle shape of a bell on it. Possibly a funeral symbol Crugg had had specially made, or perhaps it was a gift from a safety coffin supplier. Next to it was a woman’s hairbrush, a common enough item for an undertaker to possess but not typically stored inside a desk. A half-full bottle marked “Laudanum” also lay in the drawer, with a label glued to the front of it, listing all of its benefits for curing cases of nerves, vapors, and imbalances. It didn’t surprise Violet, given how high-strung the man was. She wished he had used more of it.
“Aha!” Sam said triumphantly, holding up what looked to be a journal. It was tattered along the edges, and most unlike something Julian Crugg would use. “Found this cleverly propping up one desk leg. I imagine we’ll find something interesting in it.”
Violet closed the drawer she was searching through, and together they opened up the journal and stood side by side, poring through it. Violet was soon disappointed. It just seemed to be a ledger listing names and dates of bodies Crugg had handled. There was nothing detailed, such as type of funeral, cost, or the name of the nearest relative for each listing, but each undertaker had his own way of handling things. It wasn’t how Violet would do it, but there was nothing wrong with Crugg’s ledger.
Except... “Why do you think he would have stored this on the floor, practically as a piece of trash?” Violet asked.
Sam looked perplexed. “To hide it from others? Who would casually walk in here and notice it down there?”
Violet was struck with another thought. “Maybe it belongs to Mr. Trumpington. But I suppose the same question still applies. And why hide the thing? There’s no information of any value in it.”
Sam shut the ledger and returned it to its place under the desk. “These are questions Inspector Hurst will have to answer.”
They departed Crugg’s shop to seek out the detective at Scotland Yard, but not before Violet checked on Mr. Crugg once more. A pocket watch dangled from a chain clipped to his vest. Either Crugg had more than one watch, not an unreasonable idea, or the watch in the drawer belonged to someone else. But whom? Mr. Trumpington? Then why wasn’t he wearing it? Or did it belong to an unknown party who might know something about what had happened in this shop today?
As they made their way to Scotland Yard, Violet made a bizarre observation. Today she had found the first actual murdered body in the string of funeral oddities besetting her lately, and it belonged to the man whom she had blamed for all of those irregularities.
Sam was wrong; Inspector Hurst was more than capable of continuing to ignore her, despite the fact that she now brought him the news of a dead body. In fact, he laughed outright when she told him of their findings. “An undertaker died inside
one of his own coffins? That’s a tale worthy of a Poe novel,” he joked.
“Inspector!” Violet admonished as severely as she knew how, even though she felt a twinge of guilt over having been recently irreverent herself. “A man has been murdered in his place of business and it is not an amusing matter.”
“Mrs. Harper, you say he has been murdered, but you are not expert in knowing the signs of it. Yes, I know that you have had some luck in the past, but you have also been grossly wrong before. Need I remind you of your misidentification of Lord Raybourn’s body? Your peculiar passion for your work makes you overly excitable sometimes. You must leave such determinations to us. I’ll send a couple of men over to check him out, don’t you worry.”
Next to her, Sam was tapping his cane ominously against the floor. Violet shot him a look of warning. Please, Sam, let me handle this.
“Of course, Inspector. I just think it might be helpful to confirm how he died.”
Hurst intertwined his fingers. “Very well, Mrs. Harper, why are you convinced that the man was murdered?”
“Because he was lying inside one of his own coffins with a bell pull around his finger.”
“I see. Perhaps he did himself in.”
“How would he have done that?” Violet asked, frustration rising that a corpse lay stuffed ignominiously inside a coffin while Hurst toyed with her. Would he never trust her instincts?
“You lot of crows have a peculiar sense of humor. Crugg probably thought that it was a riotous way to go, hanging himself on a rope timed to come apart over a coffin.”
Before she could stop him, Sam thundered, “You dolt, that is an insanely complicated way to commit suicide. And there was no rope, just a man shoved into a box with the lid on top of him.”
Hurst gave Sam a sharp look, admonishing him without a word to be respectful of the detective’s station. “Very well, Mr. Harper, I said I will put some men on it. I would just caution Mrs. Harper not to see nefarious doings in every death she comes across. Lately, she seems to find wrongdoing even in living bodies.”
The Mourning Bells Page 16