Stolen Remains Page 13

  Katherine’s eyes were red-rimmed. “She would have liked that. She loved Willow Tree House and the surrounding area.”

  “That settles it, then. I presume the queen will allow us to bury our housekeeper?”

  Violet made another trip to Morgan Undertaking to drop off the trays and to order a pine coffin with an unbleached cotton lining, a thin mattress, and iron fittings, along with a tin inscription plate—all items appropriate for a tradesman’s funeral—for Mrs. Peet.

  “Mrs. Harper, we must show you our new carriage, meant just for trade funerals,” Harry said, escorting her around the block to the mews where the carriages were kept. Still smelling of a thick coat of fresh black paint, the carriage was mostly enclosed, with just a small window on either side of it. Unlike with aristocrats, people didn’t care to see who was inside the funeral carriage of a tradesman.

  “I think this will do quite well for Mrs. Peet,” she said.

  After the stop at Morgan Undertaking, Violet returned to St. James’s Palace. A royal carriage stood in the courtyard, its driver erect and unblinking, like a propped-up corpse awaiting photography.

  Stationed outside her apartment was a footman holding a summons from the queen to come to Windsor.

  Violet sighed as she quickly changed out of her undertaker garb and into something a little more presentable for being in the queen’s presence.

  At Windsor, she was led to the usual room where she met the queen. This time, the queen sat behind her immense mahogany desk, whose top shone from regular waxing. Sitting behind it, Queen Victoria managed to be both regal and sorrowful. To one side of the room, next to the great, yawning marble fireplace, stood an older, serious-looking man, his graying hair in wavy tufts around his ears and what looked like a permanent scowl etched upon his brow.

  Violet curtsied once again. “Your Majesty,” she said.

  “You may rise, Mrs. Harper. How is your husband?”

  “Well, thank you, Your Majesty. He has just departed for Sweden to meet with a man named Nobel, who has invented a safe explosive called dynamite.”

  “A safe explosive? Can there be such a thing? What is the purpose of this dynamite?”

  “My husband believes it has good application for silver mining back in the United States.”

  Victoria shuddered. “Does your husband intend to bring this explosive to England?”

  “I don’t know whether—”

  “One must think carefully about handling dangerous substances.”

  “Yes, my husband is—”

  “You know, we have survived more than one assassination attempt. What if our attackers had access to this explosive you speak of? Why, we might be dead. Although we would then be lying peacefully next to Albert at Frogmore, away from the cares of ruling. . . .” The queen’s gaze went to some unknown spot behind Violet.

  The tufty-eared man cleared his throat, which brought the queen out of her reverie.

  “What? Yes, yes. Mr. Gladstone, this is Mrs. Harper, the undertaker of whom we have spoken to you. Mrs. Harper, I’m sure you know of Mr. Gladstone as our prime minister.”

  “Mrs. Harper.” Mr. Gladstone inclined his head toward Violet but did not move from his position. “The queen has told me of your work during the prince’s funeral. Well done.”

  “Thank you, sir. It is an honor to meet you.”

  “Mrs. Harper, Mr. Gladstone, be seated.” They each sat on matching chairs across from the queen’s desk. The arms were covered by black velvet protectors edged in cream lace.

  “I’ve asked you here, Mrs. Harper, to discuss how you are faring with the Raybourn family. As prime minister, Mr. Gladstone has an interest in our esteemed Lord Raybourn, too.”

  “Has Scotland Yard spoken to you?” Mr. Gladstone asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What is their assessment?”

  “They believe it was probably suicide. Chief Inspector Hurst says they have leads to follow regarding Lord Raybourn’s activities in Egypt.”

  A look that Violet couldn’t begin to fathom passed between the queen and her prime minister.

  “Very good,” Gladstone said. “And so you have prepared Lord Raybourn, I presume?”

  “Yes. I put a lock on his coffin, as well. You should know—”

  “Have all the family arrived?”

  “Yes, but the housekeeper—”

  “What need was there for a lock?”

  “His physical condition precluded viewing, in my professional opinion. Which leads me to—”

  “Has anyone in the family insisted that the funeral proceed?”

  The queen tapped her fingers on the desk. “Mr. Gladstone, it would seem Mrs. Harper has something important to say. Perhaps we should let her do so.”

  “Eh? Yes, yes, quite right, Your Majesty. What is it, Mrs. Harper?”

  Violet explained that Mrs. Peet had been found hanging in the kitchen, and that she didn’t believe the housekeeper had done it to herself, any more than Lord Raybourn had. Another strange look passed between Victoria and Gladstone.

  “What was the family’s reaction to the housekeeper’s death?” Gladstone asked.

  “They are shocked, of course. Mrs. Peet was a distant, impoverished relative who had been running the household for many years. I also think it possible that she was having an affair with Lord Raybourn.”

  The queen put a hand to her chest. “Are you quite certain? That would have been scandalous on Lord Raybourn’s part.”

  “I’m not entirely sure, of course, but I do believe it to be true.”

  “What has happened to our kingdom? We expect our trusted men to be beyond reproach. At least Lord Raybourn was widowed, but carrying on with his servant is so unseemly.”

  Violet doubted the queen was surrounded by many men who were beyond reproach.

  “Yes, Your Majesty. If I may inquire, is there any impediment to proceeding with Mrs. Peet’s funeral?”

  “I shouldn’t think so. What did the detectives say?”

  “They believe her death to be a suicide, a response to her utter devastation over her employer’s death. If you have no reason for Mrs. Peet to remain aboveground, I’d like to bury her, if it pleases Your Majesty. I’ve not embalmed her, so it is imperative that she be buried quickly.”

  “Yes, by all means, see the woman to her rest. Of course, she is a suicide, so she can’t be buried in sacred ground. Were you planning to put her in a pauper’s section somewhere?”

  “The family has agreed to inter her in their churchyard in Sussex.”

  Victoria shook her head. “We do not think it wise to allow the family members out of London for a funeral.”

  Violet blinked. How am I supposed to explain this to the family?

  “But, Your Majesty . . .”

  “Surely it is not that important that a housekeeper be buried on the family estate, is it? Tell them our gratitude in doing this small thing will be deep and unending.”

  “And what of Lord Raybourn . . . ?”

  The queen shook her head again. “We are not yet satisfied with his situation. He is sufficiently preserved, is he not?”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “Mr. Gladstone, perhaps it might be prudent for you to pay your respects to the family.”

  “I am yours to command, Your Majesty, but might it not be better to wait and see what our other sources have to say on the matter?”

  “Perhaps you’re right.” The queen sighed. “It is so hard to know the right course sometimes. When our dear prince was with us, he always knew what to do. He would have been bold and confident in this situation, I am sure. Why must we go on alone? It is so unfair. We are singularly blessed, though, that everyone surrounding us continues in expressing their admiration and grief for the prince consort.”

  Gladstone shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Yes, we all dwell on the prince’s many remarkable qualities on a daily basis. Sometimes I am so overcome as to not realize that my valet hasn’t remembered my armba
nd.”

  “Perhaps you need a new valet. Our staff knows to lay out clothes for our dear Albert each day as though he had never gone. It is their homage to his memory. Mr. Gladstone, please leave us for a few moments. We wish to speak with Mrs. Harper alone.”

  Violet made a mental note to never enter the queen’s presence again without wearing some piece of mourning wear, and prepared to be berated over it. What actually happened was even worse.

  “We have arranged for you to visit our son at Marlborough House, Mrs. Harper. He is in receipt of a private message from us, indicating that you will be arriving this afternoon to question his activities while in Egypt.”

  “What activities, madam?”

  “We wish to know what sort of devious involvements he may have had. How close to Lord Raybourn was he? Did Bertie share any secrets with Lord Raybourn or vice versa? Our son knew that Lord Raybourn was there at my behest, so it is possible that something untoward happened between them.”

  “Your Majesty, surely you aren’t suggesting that the prince is responsible for—”

  “No, no.” The queen sighed again heavily. “Yet we are sure he was up to his typical failings. We need to be sure those failings didn’t impact Lord Raybourn in any way.”

  With the undertaker gone, Victoria rang a bell to have Gladstone brought back to her presence.

  “As I was saying before the undertaker’s arrival, Your Majesty, it would appear that we have some blackmail on our hands.”

  “What? Did you say ‘blackmail’? Who could possibly have reason to blackmail the Crown?”

  “It isn’t blackmail of the Crown itself, but of the Crown’s interest. In order to meet the completion deadline later this year, corvée labor was quietly reinstituted last year. They were to do hand digging alongside all of the dredging equipment, in case any of the machinery broke. The project cannot withstand even a single day of idleness.

  “Commissioner Henderson says that Monsieur de Lesseps has received several letters intimating that some person unknown will notify all of the British presses of the corvée labor being used, unless he is paid quite a substantial sum.”

  “Why don’t they arrest the man?”

  “He is keeping himself quite hidden. They believe he has genuine, firsthand knowledge of the corvée trade. See here.”

  Victoria took the message Gladstone held out to her. “Hmm, yes, we see. How very troublesome.”

  “Monsieur de Lesseps didn’t want to bother Your Majesty with it directly, in case it could be handled discreetly without disturbing you.”

  “Yet here we are with the matter in our lap.”

  Beads of sweat accumulated on Gladstone’s considerably wrinkled forehead. This was a delicate political nightmare for them both, but Victoria refused to perspire so heavily and obviously over it.

  “The question is whether we should be personally involved or not.”

  “Begging Your Majesty’s pardon, I have already requested that Scotland Yard contend with it. You can let the commissioner know that it is of utmost concern to you that the blackmailer be caught, but that you will let justice work on its own timetable. I will add a message to confirm that Parliament, too, will leave the work of finding this cretin to Scotland Yard.”

  “Pray it is soon. If word gets out that Britain is condoning the use of slaves when we just abolished the practice not forty years ago, well . . .” Victoria shuddered. “Maybe Monsieur de Lesseps and Isma’il Pasha have some sense about them and are providing the workers due compensation. We must not give more benefit to an anonymous blackmailer than to de Lesseps and the Egyptian viceroy without more facts.”

  “We could weather the storm, Your Majesty, but I agree—the sooner this is resolved without public knowledge, the better.”

  Victoria dismissed her prime minister and sat alone in the silence with her own thoughts. Was it a mere coincidence that her son was in Egypt just as this blackmailing scheme started? What might it have to do with Lord Raybourn’s death?

  What could she have Mrs. Harper discover, without the undertaker realizing she was doing it?

  11

  Violet returned to St. James’s Palace, where she had a letter from her father awaiting her, which she read while sitting down to veal collops, boiled tomatoes, and spinach dressed with cream. What joy it was to have food simply appear like this. The letter expressed shock at learning from Sam that Lord Raybourn had been killed, and shared gossipy tidbits about the Fairmonts.

  There was always bad blood in the family. I remember great rows between Lord Raybourn’s eldest son, Cedric, and the younger, Stephen. Lord Raybourn always tried to mediate between the two. The two boys each wanted what the other had, whether it be a toy or a favored word from their father. I never understood it, but then, I never had boys.

  Be careful of the younger sister, Eleanor. She fancied herself a journalist as a girl, but Lord Raybourn thwarted her, pushing her into marriage with a milksop. She and her husband were married by the time we came to the estate, but I remember His Lordship telling me of the arguments he would have with Eleanor when she returned for visits. I doubt she ever gave up her desire to be a newspaperwoman.

  Lord Raybourn was a kind employer, but he was

  perpetually in a battle with some of his children. How fortunate I am in you, dear daughter.

  Mother sends her love. With Samuel off to Sweden, I confess I am adrift without him. Almost wish I’d gone to Sweden with him to talk to that Nobel fellow, although I suppose your mother needs me. Never breathe a word of this to her, but lately I have been longing for my carefree bachelor days, not that I would trade her—or you—for the world. I would just like a few days without a carping convalescent.

  Violet smiled as she folded the letter. How she would miss her parents when she returned to Colorado, although it would be good to get back to Susanna. To think that a bedraggled little orphan she’d found sleeping in a coffin eight years ago had become her apprentice, daughter, friend, and was now on the verge of transforming into a married woman.

  Which reminded Violet that a critical question Sam should ask Benjamin Tompkins was whether he would object to Susanna continuing to work with Violet in her undertaking shop once they were wed. Violet could never agree to losing Susanna from the shop, unless Susanna actually wanted to leave.

  A servant scratched at her door and entered at Violet’s beckoning. As an experienced and dutiful palace worker, the man tried to keep his face bland as he notified Violet that the prince would now see her, but as she followed his gaze around the room, she realized why he seemed to be hiding a look of dyspepsia.

  Violet’s housekeeping skills were already on full display. Clothing lay scattered about as though intended for the dustbin, and her personal papers, books, and newspapers covered every available surface.

  Perhaps he would think better of Violet if he knew that at least her cavernous undertaking bag, sitting proudly near her bed, was thoroughly organized. Every embalming fluid bottle, tinted skin cream jar, syringe, and cutting tool was ensconced where it belonged.

  Or perhaps he wouldn’t think better of her.

  At least the poor fellow was unaware of the bottles of drained blood tucked deep inside the armoire. He might faint dead away.

  “I am ready to escort you when you are ready, Mrs. Harper,” he said stoically, before stepping outside to wait.

  Violet had no idea what to wear to visit the Prince of Wales, who was a reputed connoisseur of feminine beauty and aesthetics. Perhaps she would command more respect if she wore her customary undertaker’s garb. Yet, to do so might be offensive to the high-spirited prince.

  In the end, she chose a dusky blue skirt and jacket edged in pearl gray. She hoped it conveyed confidence, and not the utter terror she felt.

  Marlborough House, the Prince of Wales’s residence in London, was directly across from St. James’s Palace, but it may as well have been ten miles away, as long as the walk seemed to Violet.

  The St. James’s Pa
lace servant handed her over to a Marlborough House servant, who took the letter of introduction the queen had written and escorted her inside.

  Originally built for Sarah Churchill, the Duchess of Marlborough, the residence had been renovated over the past decade to suit the entertaining style of the Prince of Wales and his wife, having gained another full story and reputedly a new range of rooms on the building’s north side.

  The home wasn’t nearly as imposing as Windsor, yet Violet had never been more intimidated. She drew a deep breath for courage as she stood in the massive, gray-veined marble foyer, and she could smell the distant notes of sawn wood, glues, and the peculiar odor of freshly unrolled Turkish carpets.

  One of those carpets lined a wide staircase of matching marble tile leading up five steps to some sort of gilded, over-tapestried salon beyond it.

  Another liveried servant came to escort her through a series of tall paneled doors, finally arriving in a drawing room wallpapered, carpeted, and draperied in apple green. Seated on a cream-colored damask settee was Albert Edward, the Prince of Wales. For all of his reputation as a great lover of women, he was not particularly handsome, with the same protruding eyes he shared with his mother.

  On a nearby chair covered with pale stripes sat a beautiful, reserved woman of maybe twenty-five years. This must be the Princess of Wales, Alexandra of Denmark. The princess smiled so warmly in greeting at seeing Violet that all of the undertaker’s butterflies fluttered away.

  The prince, however, scowled as Violet rose from her curtsy. “My mother sent you?” he asked without preamble.

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  “Were you responsible for this?” He removed a folded paper from underneath a lamp on the table next to him.

  “I’m sorry, Your Highness, I don’t know what that is.”

  His expression stated quite plainly that he didn’t believe her.

  “This is my mother’s wish—excuse me, command—that I not only entertain you, but that I make haste to Raybourn House as quickly as possible to pay my respects over that wretched man’s death. Why would the queen berate me over someone so inconsequential?”