A Grave Celebration

by Christine Trent

  Violet was flabbergasted beyond measure. Wasn’t Dorn a valued servant of the Austrian Crown? Well, she couldn’t worry about it now. Once the fireworks began, it might be impossible to find de Lesseps in the crowds, and she needed to return to Dorn’s body before Sam got concerned and came searching for her.

  

  

  Violet eventually found de Lesseps once again seated upon his pavilion, surrounded by Louise-Hélène, Pasha, and a regally dressed couple. Fighting her way through the other dignitaries standing on the stage, Violet arrived at de Lesseps’s side, breathless. Once more, she begged a private audience with someone clearly irritated to grant it to her. “This ees my first opportunity to greet Prince Henry and Princess Sophie of Holland in days. We have barely spoken since the Nile cruise, and now you wish to create a disturbance. Very well.” He threw up his hands. “You will excuse me,” he said to the others, who graciously nodded.

  Prince Henry’s face was as long and sharp as Princess Sophie’s was small and squashed, an incongruity given that they were siblings. “Groeten,” the prince said. “We will enjoy fireworks now.”

  As if in response to Prince Henry’s comment, the first shower of color exploded in the air, in stripes of blue, white, and red, resembling the French tricolor flag.

  As the crowds oohed and aahed their appreciation, Violet led de Lesseps to a far corner of the stage away from the direction of the fireworks, and once more explained what happened. Where Franz-Josef was impassive, de Lesseps was outraged, only not for the reason Violet would have expected.

  “The audacity!” he exploded as though he were his own fireworks barrage. “How dare this man attempt to ruin my canal opening by dying like this! It ees most inconsiderate. I will talk to Franz-Josef about the quality of his servants. I find it highly unacceptable that he would bring along someone so ill as to create this ravage to my time of celebration. I will have—”

  “Monsieur, I do not believe the man was ill,” Violet said, getting irritated herself with his callous response. Was no one involved in the canal opening capable of the slightest bit of grief? She dropped her voice. “I think he may have been murdered. Poisoned.”

  “Again with this, madame? You are nearly hysterical, finding criminals behind every palm tree and sand dune. Perhaps you are also interested in seeing the celebrations ruined. Why else would you continue to suggest such things?”

  Another round of fireworks exploded, this time in the red and white of the Ottoman Empire. With de Lesseps’s attitude, Violet was starting to see red herself. “What you suggest is perfectly ridiculous, monsieur. There have now been three suspicious deaths in less than two days and I—”

  “None of them have been suspicious except in your own mind, madame. Besides, everyone knows that the Austrians are drug addicts and that ees undoubtedly how he died.” Thus having reached his own conclusion, de Lesseps held up his hands as if to ask if there were anything further to discuss.

  Perhaps Violet should have been used to this by now, but it chafed badly, especially since de Lesseps had given her nominal permission to conduct an investigation. Best to do what she could for Karl Dorn. “We must discuss what is to be done with the body.”

  “Have you spoken to Franz-Josef?”

  “Yes, and he wanted me to speak with you and take care of the matter. I recommend—” But there was to be no sympathy from de Lesseps.

  “I will have Pasha provide some servants to pick up the body and dispose of it so that this episode can be quickly forgotten. I have bigger things to worry about than this, Madame Harper. The future of the world rests on my shoulders.”

  As if to emphasize his words, another burst of fireworks plumed into the air, this time erupting in an ironic pattern of three bands: one red, one white, then another red one; the same as the Austrian flag that flew above Franz-Josef’s ship. Distracted by it, Violet’s gaze took in the pavilion in which she stood, and she noticed that Eugénie and Franz-Josef seemed to be in a cozy tête-à-tête onstage.

  Except they weren’t. In fact, at second glance they appeared to be arguing. Arguing so violently that Eugénie pulled away from the emperor and walked to where Prince Henry and Princess Sophie were standing. Eugénie presented her back to Franz-Josef, and with sagging shoulders he disappeared among the other royal onlookers.

  The distraction, though, did not diminish Violet’s outrage. The utter callousness of these privileged people was causing her temper to heat up rapidly. “Monsieur, I shall not permit this. Herr Dorn is an Austrian who should be returned to his homeland, not tossed in some unmarked grave like an unwanted stray dog. I insist that he be preserved for the duration of the ceremonies so that he can be taken home and properly buried in a Christian manner wherever his family so dictates.”

  De Lesseps shook his head with outright disgust. “Madame Harper, you try my very soul. Bah, do as you will, just leave me in peace so that I can bask in my moment of recognition.”

  The Frenchman returned to Louise-Hélène, Eugénie, and the prince and princess of Holland, not once looking back at Violet. She would have happily left him in peace through the entire festivities were it not for the fact that no one seemed to care that men were dying at an alarming rate here.

  At least she had permission to take care of Karl Dorn, which would set her mind at ease, knowing she was doing all she could for the man. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be enough.

  

  Violet retrieved her new undertaking bag—now full with its transferred supplies from Newport—then directed Sam and the other Americans to move Dorn to Viribus Unitis. Sailors on the Austrian ship guided them down to Dorn’s quarters, which were near the emperor’s but of course much smaller and less ostentatious. Sailors hurried to place multiple lanterns in the room for illumination. Violet then requested a bucket of clean water, some soap, and a few rags, which were promptly produced for her.

  Meanwhile, the Americans started to unceremoniously drop Dorn onto the floor of his tidy cabin, but Violet intercepted them and instructed them to lay the Austrian on his bed. Mott and his men departed to watch what remained of the fireworks show, leaving Violet and Sam together with the corpse.

  “I’ve never actually seen you at work,” Sam said. “I admit I’m rather curious.”

  This gave Violet a quick flash of inspiration. “Would you like to help me?”

  “Help you? How so?”

  Sam hadn’t recoiled at the idea, which she took as a good sign.

  “Well, first, I need Herr Dorn to be comfortable.” She knelt down next to the body, and Sam followed suit. With a light touch, Violet began smoothing out Dorn’s clothing, which had become rumpled, and she lowered her voice to talk to him.

  “Is it true that you wanted to kill yourself, sir? I can’t believe it to be so. You would have done such a thing here, in the privacy of your cabin, wouldn’t you?”

  Sam stopped her as if she were losing her wits. “My dear, you are speaking to a corpse.”

  She nodded. “Yes, it calms me for the work ahead. I think it is also respectful of the dead. Perhaps part of his spirit remains, hovering and watching, until he is successfully interred.” Violet had never before uttered that tiny concern she always kept locked away in the back of her mind. “I need him to feel confident that I will competently care for him until the moment his body is committed to the ground.”

  “I see.” Sam grew very quiet as he watched Violet proceed with her work of disrobing and washing Dorn, then redressing him, working against time in case rigor mortis should set in soon. For her part, she became absorbed in the task and nearly forgot that her husband was present until it was time to embalm the body. She rose and went to her large, new tapestry satchel, nearly tripping over a small chest that must have slipped out from its resting place beneath Dorn’s bed. Violet shoved it back under with her foot and opened her bag. She was disappointed to remember that she had purposely not packed any of her embalming fluid, a concoction of ingredients known only t
o herself, as she didn’t want to risk the bottle breaking on the journey.

  However was she to preserve Dorn’s body until he could be returned home? It might be weeks before he was reunited with his family and buried properly. She frowned, thinking, and then suddenly remembered what she had seen aboard Newport.

  “Sam, do you think you could go topside and find me some pitch?” she asked.

  “You mean . . . what they use on rope?”

  “Yes. It preserves the rope against rain and salt, and it is sometimes used as a preservative for bodies,” Violet said.

  He nodded. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

  True to his word, Sam returned in a few minutes with a small bucket of the pine tar oil while she set out her implements. The potent odor quickly filled the tiny room. “I recommend that we work quickly,” Violet said as she positioned Dorn’s limbs into what resembled a comfortable resting pose.

  Over the next hour, Violet silently led her husband through the embalming process, first having him pour the pitch into her pump canister, then demonstrating how she made incisions at the femoral artery in the upper thigh and the carotid artery in the neck. Into each incision site, she inserted nozzles attached to long tubes connected to the pump canister. Violet worked the pump to begin flowing the pitch through it and into Dorn’s body. Once it was streaming adequately, she had Sam hold the embalming substance high in the air so that gravity would maintain the flow. She moved Dorn’s chamber pot next to the bed to serve as a collection receptacle for the man’s blood, which coursed out from his leg, pushed out by the pitch.

  “Good Lord, this stinks to high heaven,” Sam grumbled.

  “Yes, my own preparation isn’t nearly this bad. I’m worried that it will make his complexion an odd color, too, but I have a good blend of cosmetic massage that hopefully will improve his skin tone.” She looked down at Dorn and promised, “I will do my best for you.”

  Once he was embalmed, Sam took the chamber pot from the room without being asked, and returned with it rinsed out. Violet didn’t want to know how he explained that to the crew.

  With Sam observing and handing her implements, Violet completed the process, using a little more pitch in Dorn’s mouth and pressing it closed to prevent it falling open. She used a few drops of her own fish glue, which was an exceptionally clear adhesive, to seal his eyes shut. A hair combing, the application of Medium Taupe No. 6 on his hands, face, and neck, and Herr Dorn almost looked as if he were sleeping.

  Again considerate, Sam helped her with putting away her tools. Her work thus concluded, Violet thought to issue some instructions to the sailors for leaving the body undisturbed for the remainder of the journey in Egypt and back to Austria. But she remembered that sailors were a superstitious lot and so there was little danger of them entering Dorn’s cabin.

  She was more worried about someone climbing aboard and removing the body, but perhaps that was just nerves after what had happened to the bodies of the lumberyard owner’s son and the Egyptian ship captain. Surely no one would touch the valued servant of a royal delegation member.

  Violet remained quiet as she and Sam returned to their tent. They agreed not to return to the dwindling festivities so they could rest for the next day, which would feature a daylong picnic and a fancy ball in the evening. Lying in their new, luxurious tent, though, did not bring Violet sleep any more easily than she had obtained it last night aboard Newport. Her mind whirled with questions about the three dead men, whether their deaths were related or just a trio of completely coincidental accidents.

  Herr Dorn’s death might be explained away rationally, but the others . . . ? No, with one man stabbed and another violently struck, all within a single day, it was difficult to come to any conclusion beyond what she knew in her heart to be true.

  There was a murderer rampaging through the festivities, and his motive was unfathomable.

  Chapter 18

  November 18, 1869

  The new dawn brought fog and a misty rain with it, which perfectly complemented Violet’s mood and her muted gown of drab green. However, there were still more festivities scheduled for this afternoon and evening before the flotilla headed down to the terminus of the canal at the Red Sea tomorrow. She and Sam—who was in uniform again today, his ceremonial saber at his side—learned that the London-like weather was not an unusual occurrence in Egypt in November. Nevertheless, the visitors who had been in Egypt for several weeks said that it would all soon burn off, so at the recommendation of someone from the Italian delegation, she and Sam decided to stroll among the merrily striped, Ottoman-crescent-topped tents of the Arab chieftains. They were located along the Avenue of Franz-Josef between Lake Timsah and the canal, with the khedive’s palace as a backdrop.

  Apparently, the chieftains had been relegated to this area to greet delegation members, instead of holding honored positions themselves in the ceremonies.

  With their umbrellas in hand, Sam and Violet entered the makeshift street, and it appeared that all of the delegation had had the same idea, for the area was flooded with visitors carrying black umbrellas, all determined to lose themselves in revelry despite the gloom of the morning.

  Violet could easily see that the chieftains’ tents, unlike their own private tent with fabric walls, were merely tall canopies hastily staked to the ground. Despite their rudimentary design, though, many of them were variously festooned with green garlands, fluttering multihued ribbons, and dangling, clinking strings of colorful beads.

  Inside the tents, the chiefs, in their customary cultural garb of simple white garments topped with wide belts and fur-trimmed robes, called out eager invitations to passersby to come in for coffee, sherbet, and other appetizing treats. Some did so while stretched out on divans with attentive servants surrounding them. Others stood in the doorways of the tents, hawking their exotic wares in broken English and French to the many European visitors.

  Toiling horses and plodding donkeys shared the street with the throng of pedestrians. Not even the valiant efforts of certain workers, whose sole purpose was to push carts up and down the street and scoop up the fresh dung, could keep up with the ever-increasing number of droppings. Violet found herself time and time again swiftly sidestepping piles of fresh manure, steaming and rank in the warm, drizzly morning.

  Spotting someone he recognized, Sam led her to a gaily striped tent where a bearded chieftain lay inelegantly sprawled on a cerulean-blue divan set low on a gold-patterned carpet. Violet imagined he neither sat down nor rose without the help of several people.

  The chieftain laughed throatily as Sam ushered Violet into the tent. With a wave of casual salutation, he indicated that they should find a seat among the other occupied divans that surrounded his like palm trees about an oasis.

  They folded their dripping umbrellas and handed them to servants, who already were holding their hands out expectantly. They settled on a red-and-gold-striped divan, with Violet sitting at one corner that abutted the corner of another sofa.

  On the far end of the neighboring divan was Sergeant Purdy, who greeted Sam enthusiastically. In the center of the sofa was Théophile Gautier, who was passing a long, thin carved pipe with a jewel-encrusted bowl to the man who sat on the corner adjoining Violet’s seat. A sweet aroma wafted up from the pipe, mercifully masking the stench of the street dung.

  Purdy had cleaned up considerably since Violet initially met him two nights ago. He had trimmed his hair, and his lean frame and handsome but weather-beaten face marked him as someone who had spent many a day in the saddle.

  Introductions were made. The chieftain’s name was Yamlik, and the unfamiliar man on the divan next to Violet’s was a Prussian named Richard Lepsius.

  Lepsius, with flowing white hair and mustache and tiny round glasses perched on the end of his nose, held an air of gentleness around him like a soft blanket. He was an Egyptologist who had led a scientific expedition to Egypt in the early 1840s, and then returned to teach at the University of Berlin. Three years
ago, he had come back to Egypt for another expedition, whereupon he had discovered the Decree of Canopus.

  “What was this decree?” she asked. Violet was woefully ignorant of Egyptian time periods, rulers, and accomplishments, despite the Egyptomania that had been sweeping over her country in waves since Napoléon’s failed campaign here against Ottoman-British forces seventy years ago. Certainly she knew that the entrance to the Egyptian Avenue path within Highgate Cemetery in London was constructed to evoke ancient Egypt, with its bold columns decorated at the base with plaster palm fronds, but such was the extent of any contact she had had on the subject outside of shallow travel booklets.

  “It is an inscription on stone, Frau Harper, written in three languages: Egyptian hieroglyphs, Greek, and ancient Egyptian script. Obviously, the Greek on it helped us decipher the Egyptian parts, and we learned that it was the record of a great assembly of priests held at Canopus in 238 BC, which honored the pharaoh Ptolemy III Euergetes and his queen, Berenice. You have perhaps heard of the Rosetta stone that Napoléon’s men discovered? That dates to about 196 BC, making the Canopus Decree older.” Lepsius sucked on the pipe several times, then leaned back against the divan and blew a column of smoke up into the air. “I do not claim, however, that Canopus is more important than Rosetta, you understand. All of our finds are critical in the understanding of ancient Egyptian culture.”

  “You must know Monsieur Mariette, then,” Violet said. “He has written a book on the digs under his auspices.”

  “Yes. Mariette is renowned for what he has done in discovering the ancient sites. As for me, my work has been largely in cataloging papyri, drawings, and other archaeological remains, as well as a small attempt in establishing a chronology of Egyptian history. I am honored that the prince asked me to be a member of his delegation.”