A Grave Celebration

by Christine Trent

  Violet wanted to know more about Ignatiev.

  “General, I noticed that you are friendly with the Empress Eugénie’s maid, Julie,” she said.

  He stared at Violet as if she were touched by madness. “I do not know this Julie.”

  Why was he lying to her?

  “I am certain that you do, sir,” she insisted.

  “I am not here for love affairs, Violet Rose. I am here for diplomatic purposes, and then I return to post in Constantinople. Dorn is dead from opium. Act or do not act, I do not care.”

  With that, the enigmatic Russian diplomat bowed stiffly to her and disappeared into the crowd, presumably to rejoin Grand Duke Michael.

  How peculiar all of these delegates were. Was there not one of them who was not hiding a secret, or trying to settle a score, or—

  “Finally! Where the devil have you been?” It was Sam, once more dressed in his uniform, his saber at his left side, his cane in his right hand. He stood proud and erect, the buttons of his jacket gleaming like brass jewels. Before she had a chance to respond, he peered searchingly into her eyes. “Something has happened.”

  Violet shook her head. “I have a great deal to tell you, but it will have to wait, I’m afraid. How is Herr Dorn?”

  “Safely cocooned. I think you would be pleased. By the way, Thaddeus and the others are in the party tent for the servants, and I was thinking . . .”

  She smiled. “Yes, we will be much more comfortable there.”

  Thus far, no one inside the palace had expressed even subtle surprise that Violet was alive. Either the attacker was at the servants’ party, or was far shrewder and more deceitful than she could have ever imagined. It would be interesting to note the reactions of those attending the other par—

  But before the couple could head out of doors, a piercing shriek tore through the reception hall as if a banshee had been let loose and was streaking through the air above them.

  Everything—the chatting, the music, the dancing, the drinking—stopped in a single instant. Violet’s heart nearly did, too, but Sam was already on the move. He grabbed Violet’s hand and began running toward the sound of the screaming, which was rending the air with its unceasing high pitch, while the other party guests remained frozen. Before she knew it, she and Sam were at the open front door, where she saw Eugénie’s maid, Julie Lesage, standing outside, holding a bloody shawl and managing to cry and screech at the same time.

  Chapter 23

  Violet attempted to quickly absorb the scene before her. Julie was clad in what was surely a cast-off dress of Eugénie’s, but the off-the-shoulder taupe-and-lavender gown had been expertly retailored, and if not for her hysterics, Julie might have looked like a member of the nobility herself.

  She clutched a floral-patterned fringed shawl that clearly did not belong with her dress. Julie held it up and shook it at Violet, expressing an emotion Violet could not understand.

  As the other party guests began to crowd around them to see what was the matter, Violet stepped outside and took Julie a short distance away, wrapping an arm around her and removing the woman’s fingers from the offending garment.

  “What happened?” she whispered, which had the desired effect of calming the maid down.

  “I—I— It is too horrible to describe, madame.” Julie sniffed, pulling a handkerchief from her sleeve now that her hands were free and dabbing at her eyes.

  “Try your best,” Violet said patiently. Sam had now joined them but stood with his back to the gathering crowd to give the two women privacy.

  “I was at the other party, there in the tent.” Julie waved at the house to indicate the festivities set up behind it. “It was very hot inside, so many people, you see . . .”

  “Yes,” Violet said. “The palace is the same, as well.”

  Julie sniffed again, but was now dry-eyed. “So I walked outside for a breath of the cool night air. As I wandered around to the front of the house, I saw the most dreadful thing . . .”

  Violet waited, but Julie clearly wanted to be coaxed along. “What did you see?”

  “I saw a man stabbed.”

  Violet blinked in astonishment. “Pardon me, are you sure of this? It is dark outside.”

  “Yes, madame, but you see how well lit the grounds are. I am certain of what I saw. Furthermore, I am certain I saw the man stabbed by a woman. I hid behind the house momentarily, frightened out of my mind. After all, what if this madwoman came after me? When I emerged, she was gone and I ran to the place where she had stabbed him and found . . . that.” Julie nodded at the shawl now in Violet’s possession. “I’m afraid my fear came out in a bit of the hystériques.”

  Sam spoke up now. “Were you alone in your walk?”

  Julie frowned. “What are you suggesting, monsieur? I was not having a tête-à-tête with a gentleman, if that is what you mean to imply. I am the lady’s maid to the Empress Eugénie of France.”

  As if that explained everything, including Julie’s avowal of her own virtue.

  Sam was not to be put off by her statement, though. “Where is the man’s body?”

  Julie turned and pointed at the tableau that represented the grand pavilion. The actors portraying de Lesseps and the khedive, as well as the musicians from the gazebo, were of course long gone now that there was no one to entertain in the entry line.

  While they waited, Sam went to inspect the location. Guests were beginning to spill out of the palace, catching the scent that what was happening outside was far more interesting than Pasha’s medals and the endless rounds of drinks and mindless chitchat.

  Violet wasn’t sure how long she could protect Julie, especially once Pasha—or, worse, de Lesseps—discovered what had happened.

  Sam returned quickly, his face thunderous. “Now tell me what actually occurred.”

  “What?” Julie said, confused. “What do you mean?”

  “You said a man was stabbed out there by a woman,” Sam said. “Yet there is no body there. Given that corpses have little mobility on their own, I ask you, where is his body?”

  “I—I—I cannot explain it,” Julie stammered. “I hid around the side of the house, and when I emerged, the woman was gone. I came to the house to report it, and as I neared the house, I found the shawl. That is all.”

  Sam wasn’t done with his accusations. “And after witnessing a murder, fearing for your life, and then traipsing across the grounds, it was only once you found the shawl that you set up your wailing alarm?”

  Violet’s husband had a point. She looked at the shawl in her hand. Did it belong to one of the women now crowding them, or had it been intentionally placed out here for some reason?

  Sam’s interrogation was interrupted by Eugénie’s arrival, this time on Franz-Josef’s arm, with de Lesseps close on their heels. “Julie, what is this?” Eugénie said.

  “Your Highness, it is a tragedy. I witnessed a murder!” Julie put a hand to her chest.

  “No, that is not possible.” Eugénie gasped, her eyelashes fluttering prettily as she grasped Franz-Josef’s arm for support. The emperor stood there stoically, although a look of confusion crossed his face.

  “Oui, I saw a man stabbed.” Julie dropped her voice. “By a woman.”

  Why did Violet feel as though she were in the middle of a play? Perhaps the whole affair could be moved over to one of the tableaux for better effect. Sam passed her a glance that told her he thought the same thing. “Wait here, I will go to the other party and investigate,” he whispered to her and slipped away.

  The drama continued to unfold between mistress and servant, but Violet should have known she could rely on de Lesseps to inject himself into the proceedings. “What is wrong with you, mademoiselle?” he demanded crossly of Julie. “Have you no thought for what your delirium does to my reputation? Was it impossible for you to report this quietly instead of heralding it to the world? Must the greatest project in history be discredited?” He threw up his hands. “Silly little strumpet, you are determined
to ruin me.”

  These were shocking words against the maid of the woman whom de Lesseps had been lavishing attention on—a sign of how exasperated he really was. More importantly, though, the Frenchman once more had no concern for a man who had died as a result of being in attendance at the canal celebrations. Violet’s immense irritation at this rose to the surface again, as de Lesseps began shooing everyone inside, insisting that they return to the dancing and merriment.

  As everyone else filed in, Violet examined the shawl in her hands. The blood on it was already dried, and it had stiffened the patches of material where it had adhered. There was so much blood that it was difficult to tell whether the shawl had been used to mop it up, or if the shawl was just a casualty in the stabbing incident. Perhaps she would try to find the woman to whom it belonged.

  A ridiculous idea, really, because the woman who had lost that shawl had probably long ago departed the party and discarded the clothing that went with the bloody item.

  Violet folded the crusty shawl as best she could. She, too, should go back to the party until Sam returned with news. As she looked up, she noticed that Pasha and his son stood together nearby, as they had inside the palace, observing her closely but not saying anything. A short distance away from them, General Ignatiev stood behind a pillar, his attention focused on Pasha and Tewfik.

  Violet felt chills run up her spine as she scurried back into the party.

  Chapter 24

  The orchestra had resumed its joyful tunes, and the partygoers, disappointed that there had been no actual murdered body to view, returned to their self-absorbed dancing. Violet knew she couldn’t walk around carrying the grisly piece of evidence in her hands, and so determined to find a place to tuck it away until after the party was over. Surely there was some sort of cloakroom in one of the halls near the reception room.

  She avoided meeting anyone’s curious glance as she made her way through the crowd and down a promising corridor. Unfortunately, all she found were a few bedchambers, presumably in use by certain dignitaries whose status was such that they would not be relegated to tents, no matter how luxurious the outdoor accommodations were. Violet retraced her steps back to the reception hall and followed another arched corridor, her heels echoing against the tiles beneath her feet. She quietly poked her nose into another room, which was clearly a makeshift cloakroom. It was furnished with ornate floor mirrors, clothing trunks, and a variety of plush ottomans where weary attendees could rest in private. There were also hooks on the walls and multiple clothing racks consisting of brass pipes set into oak feet atop wheels.

  Gaslight sizzled from a chandelier in the ceiling, illuminating the mass of shawls and men’s jackets that had been shed in here as the night had gone on. The cloakroom was a jumbled mess, yet it felt very cozy, and so, after hanging the shawl on a hook dangling from a clothing rack, Violet succumbed to the temptation to take a rest herself. She headed for a tufted fainting chair, carved to resemble a swan, the imagery further enhanced by its snowy white upholstery. Violet leaned back with only the gaslight as her immediate company, with the distant rumble of the party barely registering with her.

  With her eyes closed, she reviewed the facts of the deaths that now stood before her.

  Yusef Halabi had died the first day here, during the fireworks or just prior. Stabbed.

  Captain Naser had been killed while en route to— Where, exactly, had the captain been heading? He had suffered blows to his chest.

  Karl Dorn had died from some kind of poisoning. Perhaps it was absinthe. General Ignatiev stated that it was opium. Franz-Josef seemed little perturbed by his servant’s death.

  De Lesseps was greatly perturbed by all of the deaths, but mostly for what it did to his dignitas.

  The general had spoken with Julie in secret during the Dinner of the Sovereigns and lied about it. Was that relevant to anything, or had Violet simply witnessed an amorous assignation?

  Julie claimed to have witnessed a murder, but there was no body to support her claim, just a bloodied shawl.

  Julie had also sought Violet out with suspicions about servants being targeted for death. Was it a reasonable theory?

  Violet had nearly become a corpse herself.

  There were certainly grudges abounding here in Ismailia. Mariette resented de Lesseps. Tewfik Pasha was angry at his father. General Ignatiev seemed to harbor suspicions toward Pasha and had also been humiliated by the British. De Lesseps was outraged by the British perfidy at slipping Newport to the head of the flotilla. Louise-Hélène was intimidated by Eugénie. Julie despised Isabelle.

  Violet put a hand to her head. This was the first time she could recall in her role as an amateur detective that she had literally no suspects. Or perhaps everyone she had encountered was suspect. There was certainly enough malice to go around.

  What was she missing? What had she forgotten?

  She opened her eyes once more. There was very little of this puzzle in which she could form connections or relationships. Perhaps some ancient Egyptian curse had settled over her. She yawned and swung her legs back around to the floor. Surely Sam was back now, and perhaps he had discovered something important.

  As Violet started to rise, she noticed what she had not seen when she first entered the room. At first, she froze, unwilling to believe it. No, it had to be a mistake. Willing her feet to transport her to a large ebony trunk, she closed its open lid for a full view of what lay partially obscured behind the storage box.

  Not again.

  Violet didn’t know whether to become as hysterical as Julie or as stoic as Franz-Josef. She took a deep breath and shoved the trunk aside, dropping to her knees at the body that lay before her.

  It was Caleb Purdy.

  He looked like a rag doll that had been tossed upon its back, his arms and legs askew, his fists tightly bundled together as if he had wished to strike whoever had come after him.

  What was worse was the manner in which he had been killed. A gorgeously engraved saber had been driven deep into his midsection, the blade now spattered with blood almost up to the brass hilt. The poor man had survived the savage carnage of war, only to be brutally murdered like this. His expression was twisted in agony, and Violet could only imagine how excruciating his last moments had been.

  Dear God, a fourth body. Was this who Julie had witnessed being murdered a short while ago? He could have been brought here through a rear entrance while everyone was distracted out front. It seemed a foolish burial place, but none of the killings thus far had reflected much cunning in terms of body disposal.

  Other than the attempt on her own life.

  She hardly knew what to do with Purdy’s body. Remove the saber? But it might look terribly suspicious if, after all of her grousing about the deaths that had already occurred, she strolled back into the ballroom dragging a bloodstained sword behind her as though she herself were the murderess. No, she would have to leave him in his unfortunate position until witnesses were brought in.

  Violet took one of his clenched hands in both of hers. “Mr. Purdy, you cannot tell me who did this to you, but I promise I will find out on your behalf and will bring justice to you. To you and the captain and Karl Dorn and Yusef Halabi.” She squeezed his hand, knowing he couldn’t feel a thing, and that was when she noticed a rough object sticking out of his fist. It brushed against her skin.

  She put his fist in her lap, ignoring the incongruence of a dead man’s pale limb resting against her fancy green dress. Rigor mortis had not set in yet, informing Violet that the death was fairly recent despite the dried blood, and she carefully uncurled his palm to find a small paper-wrapped package, tied off at both ends, much like a Christmas cracker. Curious.

  “I hope you will not mind if I take a look at the little present in your hand,” she said as she removed it and untied one end.

  She stared at the sticky brown mass inside, which looked like a failed cooking experiment. She sniffed at. It was familiar, with a faint floral—oh! Violet reared b
ack as her heart skipped a beat. She had caught this same aroma on Herr Dorn after he died. Was this opium?

  How had Dorn and Purdy both managed to obtain this substance? To Violet’s knowledge, the two men had never even met each other. Although Dorn might have died from it, clearly Purdy had not, given that the bloody mess on his chest meant he had been alive when he was stabbed. Had the opium not worked to kill Purdy, leading his murderer to resort to more . . . guaranteed . . . means?

  How interesting that General Ignatiev might have guessed right about Dorn. Or perhaps he had been leading Violet down the path upon which he wanted her to tread. Regardless, she now had even more questions to be answered.

  Violet sighed heavily and rose to her feet. She had to find de Lesseps and Pasha to inform them of yet another death.

  “Who did this to you, Mr. Purdy? And what I do not understand is why would he want both you and me killed. Is there simply a madman on the loose, or do you and I know something that we don’t realize we know?”

  Violet shuddered to think of how much danger she might still be in at this very moment from a stranger. Or, worse, from someone at the canal celebrations who had smiled at her and pretended to be a friend.

  Chapter 25

  Violet, de Lesseps, Pasha, and Hassan Salib stood together in the cloakroom, staring at Caleb Purdy’s dead body. Sam had not yet returned to the palace, so she faced the situation on her own.

  De Lesseps reacted as explosively as Violet had imagined he would. “I have been treated with treachery yet again. Yet again! These Americans are liars and cheats! You, Pasha, you hired them to form your military, but you hired criminals. One can only imagine that they had too much liquor and began brawling with one another, resulting in this—this—mort. Or maybe you have a different contrivance, eh? Perhaps you planned to use these soldiers to intimidate all of the other delegates, even killing unimportant people. You think, ‘I will make the world bend the knee to Pasha.’ But they are so wild they begin killing each other!”