Stolen Remains Read online

  “I understand.”

  “I guess the bright spot in it all is that with Grandfather gone, my mother might abandon all of her grand plans for me, enabling me to do what I want. Especially if Grandfather has left me something substantial.”

  “What would you do with your inheritance?”

  “I suppose I’d use most of the money to further some interests I have. I would also buy Aunt Dorothy her own place; that would be a kick.”

  “Why so?”

  An actual smile flitted across the young man’s mouth. “Poor Aunt Dorothy. They say she’s always been a bit homely. She always desperately wanted to be married and mistress of her own household. When an offer for her finally came, my grandfather scotched it. Something about the man’s family being associated with the Metropolitan Board of Works, involved in the flow of sewage out of London. They were rich as Midas, though, and I can only imagine the estate he would have purchased for his wife. Mums said Aunt Dorothy never forgave the old man for it.

  “Aunt Dorothy tried to act as mistress of Willow Tree House, but Mrs. Peet ruled there with a firm hand, and my grandfather seemed content to let the housekeeper have her way. So my aunt has never had a husband, nor a home to call her own. Sad, really.”

  “I’m sure things have been difficult for all of you.” Violet used her most soothing undertaker’s voice.

  “Especially Uncle Stephen. He was the one who loved the old man the most.”

  “Except now he is the heir to your grandfather’s fortune.”

  “I doubt he cares much about that. Uncle Stephen is as loyal as a collie.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by the return of Hurst and Pratt. Seeing Violet and Toby in conversation, Hurst gave her a quizzical look. “Mrs. Harper, might we have a word?”

  Toby stood. “Have your word here. I need to find something to do that doesn’t involve corpse-sitting.” Lord Raybourn’s grandson strode out of the house, his relief at escaping the house’s gloom emanating from him.

  Hurst and Pratt joined her in the drawing room. Violet had never before had so many unpleasant conversations in the presence of a coffin.

  “I see you’ve locked the coffin,” Pratt said. “Why so?”

  “To prevent anyone from having a look during visitations. Lord Raybourn isn’t fit for it.”

  Hurst arched an eyebrow at her but said nothing.

  “Do you do this often?” Pratt asked.

  “Not often, no. Lord Raybourn is a peer, making him special, and, of course, he is in gruesome condition.”

  “Right. So, your profession must also include techniques for making gruesome corpses presentable. Have you ever been involved in waxworking? Making prosthetic limbs?”

  Violet hesitated to answer such a question. Inspector Pratt was very close to inquiring about her professional secrets.

  “You seem fascinated by Mrs. Harper’s profession,” Hurst said. “Perhaps you should consider a new job as a mourner or grave digger.”

  “It was just a question,” Pratt mumbled, taking out his notebook and pencil.

  Hurst ignored him. “I see you were in deep conversation with the Bishops’ son. Did you learn anything?”

  Violet told the two detectives about her conversation with Toby.

  “So his aunt is a bit irritable. It doesn’t necessarily mean much. Not enough to hold up our other investigations into what occurred in Egypt.”

  Violet didn’t like the insinuation that the twin deaths at Park Street were a distraction.

  “Does this mean you will ignore these two murders?”

  “Two likely suicides, you mean.” He stroked his chin. “Perhaps it is not so bad that the queen is delaying the funeral, since it keeps the entire family under one roof while we conduct our other inquiries. Do you know how you can prove valuable to us, Mrs. Harper? Encourage some hostility among the Fairmonts. If someone should happen to be keeping a secret, he is more likely to break down and do something foolish under the anxiety of familial disputes.”

  “It seems to me that someone keeping a secret is more likely to commit another crime that way,” Violet said.

  “Which would be quite foolish, would it not?”

  “But you’ve already got—”

  “Before we go, you may be interested to know that we interviewed neighbors. Not much information to be had there. We talked to Lady Cowgil and Lord and Lady Wetherden, who live on either side of here. Both were very cooperative, undoubtedly seeking information from us, but had very little to share. They didn’t hear the gunshot, were unaware of His Lordship’s trip to Egypt, and did not know enough about his personal affairs to be aware of any bad relationships he might have.”

  “Did you speak with any of their servants?”

  “I saw no need. Both Lady Cowgil and the Wetherdens were anxious about when they could pay their respects, I think mostly in order to get a look at Lord Raybourn, so it is probably best that the coffin remain locked.”

  Pratt cleared his throat and nodded pointedly at Hurst, who scowled. “What is it? Oh yes, the cigarette. Go ahead, it was your uncovering.”

  “I took the stub to a well-known tobacconist in Haymarket, who told me that it was one of their own exclusive brands, and quite expensive. Not surprising, of course. They deliver boxes of them regularly for Lord Raybourn.

  “When I went upstairs with Mr. Bishop earlier, I asked him if he knew where Lord Raybourn’s tobacco box was. At first, he pretended not to know whether Lord Raybourn had a special storage place for his cigarettes, then he said he had no idea where it was. When I suggested that Mr. Hurst and I would conduct a search for it, he suddenly remembered that it was in Lord Raybourn’s study, which is attached to His Lordship’s bedroom.

  “He followed me up and I opened the tobacco box to find it full of one particular kind of cigarettes, with only two empty slots. I asked him when Lord Raybourn had given him the other one. Mr. Bishop said that he buys his own, that he and his father-in-law had the same taste in tobacco, but Mr. Bishop was nervous for sure. His hands shook and his eyes did the dance of the guilty—”

  “The dance of the guilty?” Hurst interrupted him. “For heaven’s sake, Mr. Pratt, stick to facts.”

  “Ahem, right. So he made up some excuse about his wife needing him and would I pardon him and he bundled out of there faster than a—well, it was quick.”

  Violet nodded. “So you think that Mr. Bishop had had some kind of secret meeting with Lord Raybourn upon his return, one in which his father-in-law offered him one of his prized cigarettes, and that something transpired between the men resulting in Mr. Bishop murdering Lord Raybourn.”

  “That’s Mr. Pratt’s idea. Or, he and his father-in-law simply enjoyed the same brand of cigarettes. You can never tell with the aristocrats. They can have hearts of stone or hearts of goose down. What would be your own theory, Mrs. Harper?”

  “I haven’t one. I can only say that Mr. Bishop seemed genuinely fond of his father-in-law.”

  “I’ve seen men kill for nonsensical reasons. In a case I solved a few years ago, a man threw another from Waterloo Bridge because he lost his bet over a cricket match. I don’t think heated passions are confined to the lower classes. Let that be a lesson to you.”

  “Yet you say you don’t think Lord Raybourn was murdered, by Mr. Bishop or anyone else in the family.”

  “What I’m actually saying is there is enough doubt he was murdered that I don’t want it to delay Mr. Pratt and myself from looking into Lord Raybourn’s affairs in Egypt. That’s where I think the real mystery is.”

  After the detectives left, Violet checked through the accessories trays and totaled up the Fairmont purchases for Will’s ledger, then went back downstairs to tend to Mrs. Peet. Her eyes were still open and now her jaw hung slack as though in a perpetual scream.

  Violet reached out a hand to Mrs. Peet’s hand. Still stiff, but gradually relaxing.

  “Do you want me to wait to prepare you?” Violet asked softly as she dug
out her undertaking bag, dropping in the cloth bag of tools.

  As she was about to depart, she heard a knocking at the rear door. Who could that be? Perhaps some deliveryman? Or a florist dropping off a spray of camellias for the family? Violet stepped through the butler’s pantry, scullery, and larder to answer it, finding a housemaid in the stairwell, one hand behind her back.

  She couldn’t have been much more than a teenager. Despite the warm day outside, the young woman shivered. She seemed startled to see someone not in a uniform at the door. “Excuse me, my lady, I thought to speak with . . . with . . . another maid, perhaps? I brought this for Mrs. Peet.” She produced a handpicked bouquet of pink-and-white apple blossoms from behind her back.

  “Those are lovely, Miss—?”

  “Rebecca, madam.” The girl curtsied.

  “I am just the undertaker, Violet Harper. How may I help you?”

  “I heard about Mrs. Peet. These are for her.”

  How in the world had news traveled that quickly?

  “Thank you. They will be much appreciated.”

  The girl gave no indication that she would leave, instead peering over Violet’s shoulder at what might lie beyond.

  “Is there a message I can pass on to the family?” Violet asked.

  “Oh no, madam, I would never presume to think the family would have a care what I thought. I was just wondering . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, if perhaps I might be able to say good-bye to Mrs. Peet properly. We’ve all been talking and we agree that we never saw her as the type. She was very kind to me. More than once did she help me carry carpets in and out for beating. She even . . . protected . . . me once.”

  “Protected you from what?”

  The girl’s eyes grew wide. “I shouldn’t have said that, madam. Forgive me. May I see her, God rest her soul?”

  “I’m not sure it’s a good idea. She’s not really ready yet.”

  “Mrs. Harper, I know what she did to herself and I know she won’t look normal. I grew up on a farm and have strangled and chopped the head off many a hen. I can endure the sight, I promise.”

  Violet wasn’t sure about that—a dead human being was a far different sight from slaughtered dinner—and she might have made a mistake by giving in to Mrs. Peet’s demands to see Lord Raybourn’s dead body, but the girl reminded her of a young Susanna, so she let her in anyway. True to her word, Rebecca didn’t act mortified at all to see Mrs. Peet stretched out on the table, but merely gazed sadly at the housekeeper.

  “Do you think she felt a lot of pain?” she asked. “It’s always so quick with the chickens.”

  “It’s hard to know,” Violet said.

  “She must have been very brave to do this to herself, don’t you think? To deliberately put a rope around your neck? To be so brave and yet so sad at the same time.” Rebecca shook her head.

  “You said that Mrs. Peet once protected you from something. What was it?”

  Rebecca bit her lip. “It was more like someone, Mrs. Harper. Would have lost my honor had she not stepped in. Some men think any housemaid is theirs for the taking, don’t they?”

  “Was it Lord Raybourn?” Violet asked gently.

  Tears filled the girl’s eyes. “I mustn’t talk about this. I promised Mrs. Peet I wouldn’t.” She laid the bouquet on the housekeeper’s chest and fled the house.

  Violet turned back to Mrs. Peet. “What other secrets were you and Lord Raybourn hiding? Did you discover Lord Raybourn making advances on Rebecca and kill him in a fit of anger? Was the subsequent guilt too much?”

  Violet put a hand to the side of Mrs. Peet’s face and gently pressed. Rigor mortis was passing. “Are you ready now for your beauty treatment?”

  As with Lord Raybourn, Violet washed Mrs. Peet’s body, assembling the needed materials from the kitchen and scullery. How ironic that mere days ago, Mrs. Peet had gathered these items up for Violet herself. Unlike her employer’s preparation, Mrs. Peet wouldn’t receive an embalming treatment. Instead, Violet focused first on washing the body, then set to work on improving the housekeeper’s appearance as much as possible through cosmetics and other artifice.

  Something had to be done about the eyes. Violet pushed the woman’s lids down with her thumbs, but they refused to stay shut. Should she sew or glue? She’d sewn Lord Raybourn’s eyes shut, but in this case . . .

  From her undertaker’s bag, Violet retrieved a small brown bottle and an eyedropper. After undoing the bottle’s seal, she inserted the eyedropper and filled it, then gently squeezed glue along the lid edges of first Mrs. Peet’s right eye, then her left eye. Violet then put her supplies down and gently pressed the lids shut on each eye, using the thumb and forefingers of both hands. Those arresting green eyes would never be seen again.

  Satisfied that the lids would remain closed, Violet took out a needle and spool of wiry thread. She threaded about eighteen inches of the filament and stitched an end from a spot behind one ear, down around the chin, then back up and behind the other ear, making several more stitches and tying off the thread. This was another method to prevent the jaw from gaping open. Some undertakers used “invisible” stitches inside the mouth to lock the gums together, but Violet preferred to invade the body as little as possible. With a high-collared bodice or shirt, no one would ever notice what Violet had done.

  Violet studied her handiwork. “Just a bit of cosmetic massage will cover it all up, won’t it?”

  She retrieved her tray of tinted creams and brushes, holding up various jars to the light drifting in from the transom windows. “I think you need Deep Beige Number Seven, which will help cover some of the remaining bruising on your face.”

  She unscrewed the pot and swirled a brush in it, then applied it to the woman’s face with an artist’s eye for symmetry and precision, being careful to daub extra cream along Mrs. Peet’s eyelids to cover a couple of drops of congealed glue that had seeped out. She also applied the cream heavily to the woman’s neck to mask the rope burns in case her clothing would not cover them, as well as more lightly to her shoulders and the tops of her hands.

  Having given her as near to a fleshlike appearance as possible given the circumstances, Violet pulled out another tinted pot, this one of rouge, which she brushed heavily across the woman’s cheeks and lips, and more lightly on her forehead, chin, and hands. “Now it almost looks as if blood is flowing through your veins. Your appearance is so much better. Now for the finishing touches.”

  Violet shook out the dress she’d selected for Mrs. Peet, examining it and looking down at the body, wondering how long it had been since the housekeeper had worn this dress. She’d gained some weight since she’d purchased it.

  With the usual struggle it took to do it by herself, Violet replaced Mrs. Peet’s undergarments, omitting a corset, an item far too difficult to lace up and tighten on a cooperative human being, much less the leaden weight of a corpse.

  Mrs. Peet’s dress was even less accommodating.

  “No worries, I know just the thing that will have you looking like a society debutante.”

  Using a pair of scissors that had fallen to the bottom of her bag, Violet cut a slit down the center of the back of both the skirt and the bodice. She put Mrs. Peet’s arms through the armholes and laid the skirt across her midsection, then, turning her over to one side, then the other, brought the back sides of the dress together as closely as possible.

  Time for more needle and thread. This time she selected a heavy cotton thread from her bag, and used large zigzag stitches to loosely connect the ripped edges of the dress. Violet gently brought Mrs. Peet down on her back again.

  “Now, why don’t we arrange your hair back into place? Lucky for you, I remember just how you wear it.”

  Violet brushed Mrs. Peet’s coarse, graying hair back and tucked in a variety of pins to hold it still.

  Violet stepped back once more. “You look lovely, Mrs. Peet. Ready for a fancy tea or a ride through Hyde Park. Just one more th
ing.”

  Violet wrapped Rebecca’s bouquet in Mrs. Peet’s hands and used more thread to tie her fingers around the flowers. “I don’t think anyone can see a bit of this thread, and now you appear peaceful and relaxed.”

  After cleaning up and repacking her undertaking bag, Violet patted the woman’s shoulder. “I’ll leave you here to rest, but will be back soon with your coffin and some other things to prepare you for your big day.”

  Back upstairs, Violet found Stephen and Katherine in the drawing room, huddled together over Lord Raybourn’s coffin. Katherine was trembling while Stephen soothed her. “I’m sure he didn’t suffer, sweetheart. You must stop thinking about it.”

  Violet cleared her throat.

  “Ah, we didn’t know you were here,” Stephen said, disengaging from his wife as they both turned to the undertaker. “Mrs. Cooke was here earlier with patterns. The women were quite pleased with her. She said she has some partial-mades that she can finish off by tomorrow. Can you pick them up?”

  “Of course.”

  “And now I presume you wish to discuss Mrs. Peet?”

  “Yes. Actually, I would like to talk to you about her funeral.”

  Stephen held up a hand. “Whatever is proper for someone of her station, we’ll cover. I trust your judgment. She was actually a distant family member, you know.”

  “She was?” Was Violet wrong in her deduction that the housekeeper and Lord Raybourn were having an affair?

  “Yes, but a cousin several times removed from my mother. A part of the family practically unknown to us. We’ve never really acknowledged her as other than a servant.”

  Violet nodded. “In that case, then, perhaps you would like to upgrade to a tradesman’s funeral. It would show further respect without recognizing her as a member of the family.”

  “Yes, yes, that’s fine.”

  “To what cemetery should I direct her remains?”

  “I don’t know. What do you think, Kate? Should we inter Mrs. Peet back at St. Margaret’s?”