Stolen Remains Read online

  Violet pursed her lips. “We could perhaps do this discreetly.”

  With the family’s approval, Violet coordinated a midnight burial, even enlisting Hurst and Pratt to assist, along with Will and Harry, in stealthily removing Mrs. Peet’s coffin under cover of night, carrying her out the door feetfirst—an old custom intended to ensure the deceased’s spirit did not look back into the house and beckon another family member—loading her onto a hearse, and paying the cemetery director and a minister extra to do their part via the light of lanterns in a consecrated section of the cemetery. Soon Mrs. Peet disappeared into one of many two-foot-by-six-foot openings in the ground, with Stephen, Gordon, and Toby the only mourners present. None of the family shed tears at her departure.

  That left just Lord Raybourn in earthly purgatory.

  The next morning, Violet stopped by Mary Cooke’s dress shop to pick up the Fairmont women’s black dresses, gloves, fans, and hats. How would she ever manage to carry it all back to Park Street? She stopped worrying about it as she took a closer look at her friend’s face. Mary’s eyes were swollen, and she unsuccessfully blinked back tears.

  “What has happened?” Violet asked, taking her friend’s hand.

  “It’s George. I am such an old fool,” Mary said.

  “Is he gone again?”

  “Yes, he said he was off to Switzerland to buy watch parts, but I’m not so sure. Couldn’t he just order them, as I do fabric? Why must he leave the country?”

  An excellent question.

  “Did he say when he would return?”

  “A few weeks. Does it take so very long to buy gears and springs?”

  “Perhaps there is a special supplier there that he wants to meet with. We need to get your mind off of this. Why don’t we go to Hyde Park tomorrow? We can stroll or maybe row out on the lake. After all, I won’t be in London much longer.”

  Mary’s face cleared. “What a lovely idea; let’s do it.”

  With a plan to meet at the park the next day, Violet took the clothing, carefully laid flat in muslin bags, to the Fairmont home. She noticed a piece of bunting dangling loosely from one of the windows and made a mental note to ask Harry to come by and reattach it to the sill.

  She was greeted at the door by a nervous, garishly red-haired young woman in a maid’s uniform. Her left eye wandered back and forth as she spoke.

  “Louisa, from Mrs. Hill’s agency,” the maid said in response to Violet’s inquiry as she took the bags from Violet’s hands. Her tone implied she was not happy with her assignment with the Fairmont family.

  Violet waited in the drawing room with Lord Raybourn while Louisa notified the family of her presence. Dorothy came down to meet her. Taking in the stack of mourning clothing and accoutrements, Stephen’s sister said, “I doubt our mourning will be all that serious.”

  Before Violet could respond, the maid admitted another visitor up to the drawing room. Violet and Dorothy stood together, blocking the view of the coffin.

  “Miss Fairmont, ’tis Ellis Catesby to see you, from The Times.” Louisa bobbed and disappeared down the hall.

  Standing before them was a middle-aged man in a rumpled suit, with bloodshot eyes. His fingers were even more ink-stained than Mr. Pratt’s. Violet’s initial thought was the man was a drunkard, but she quickly realized he was someone who probably never slept. Mr. Catesby looked pointedly around them at the coffin.

  Dorothy’s eyes narrowed. “What may I do for you, Mr. Catesby?”

  “I’ll only take a moment of your time, Miss Fairmont. And your name, Miss—?”

  Violet looked to Dorothy, who replied, “This is Mrs. Harper, our undertaker.”

  “Ah, indeed, indeed.” Catesby took a worn notebook from his jacket and scribbled away in it. “Important to have the family bonemaster about in times like these, eh?”

  Dorothy drew herself to full aristocratic imperiousness. “Times like what, exactly, Mr. Catesby?”

  “Times of grief and sorrow. Made worse with all of the gossip.”

  “What sort of gossip?”

  “About Lord Raybourn’s . . . misfortune, of course. I have it on good authority that he was murdered by his housekeeper.” Catesby tapped the side of his nose.

  “Who, exactly, told you such a thing?” Dorothy looked like a volcano spewing ash in anticipation of a full-blown eruption.

  “Can’t reveal my sources, now, can I, Miss Fairmont?”

  “What tangle of foolishness is this, Mr. Catesby?”

  “We’re preparing a special story on Lord Raybourn. It’s going to outsell any story we’ve done thus far this year. A peer attacked by his servant—imagine the sensation it will be! I’m surprised the story has stayed so quiet, what with all the black crape on the house practically announcing it. This will make me famous.”

  “I hardly think that it is our responsibility to feed the newspaper’s scandal furnace, much less to make you famous. What do you want with us? I’ve a mind to call the police.”

  “Apologies, apologies. It’s in the family’s best interest that I’m here, to make sure I tell your side of the story.”

  “Our side?” Molten lava was making its way to the surface. Perhaps it was best if Violet intervened.

  “Mr. Catesby, the family is under a great deal of duress, as I’m sure you realize. I suggest you wait until after—”

  “Ellis!” Nelly Bishop glided down the stairs in a dark blue gown, a stark contrast to the animated expression she wore. Her leathery face was magically transformed into something almost resembling joy. “I thought I heard a familiar voice. I’ve not seen you since . . . since a long time ago.”

  “But you—”

  “So sorry you are seeing us in such a state of unhappiness. What brings you here?” Nelly smoothed her skirts before offering Catesby her hand. What was turning this Fairmont sister into such a coquette?

  The reporter bent over Nelly’s hand, then held up his notebook. “I’ve been assigned to report on your father’s death, may God rest his soul. The tittle-tattle is that he was cheating at faro and was murdered by the injured party in the card game—scandalously, his servant. I thought it might be best to hear the family’s side of things.”

  “Pure nonsense, you can be sure, Mr. Catesby. My father was a pillar of society, a regular Greek column—you can quote me on that—and would never stoop to such a thing.”

  “Of course, of course. After all, look at his lovely daughter. Only a man of impeccable standards would have raised such a vision of perfection.”

  “The years have not tempered your gift of flattery, have they? Very well, you should know the truth of things. I’ll spare my sister the inconvenience and grant you an interview myself. Won’t you join me upstairs?”

  The reporter eagerly followed Nelly out of the room. Dorothy’s face was so mottled that Violet feared she would soon be preparing another body. With only a muttered, “My sister will ruin us all,” Dorothy thanked Violet for delivering the mourning clothing and showed her out.

  As Violet stepped into the street, she was accosted by a tall, lanky man of indeterminate age who looked malnourished, as if he’d been living in the streets or in a workhouse for some time.

  “You a member of that family?” he asked as he grabbed her elbow, nodding his head at the Fairmont home. His breath reeked of liquor.

  Violet wrenched out of his grasp. “How dare you touch me and inquire about my business?”

  “Miss, if you belong to that family, your business is my business. Who are you? One of the sisters?”

  “Who are you, may I ask? Other than a complete stranger to me.” She saw his dark eyes for the first time, which gazed at her with an intensity that may have been hatred or desire, it was impossible to fathom.

  “I’m a friend of the family. I need to know if the new Lord Raybourn is home.”

  “He is not, although I don’t see how it is a concern of yours.” Violet marched off toward the omnibus stop, but the man pursued her.

&nbs
p; “I need to speak with him, but without anyone around. Tell him James is staying at the Tavistock Hotel.”

  “Leave me be,” Violet said, running the last few steps to the omnibus, which had just drawn up and was ejecting passengers.

  She had planned on returning to her lodgings at the palace, but perhaps it might be wise to stop at Scotland Yard first to talk to the detectives about recent events.

  Irritated that Hurst dismissed her encounter in the street as the work of a random drunkard, Violet returned to St. James’s Palace to rest. An envelope covered in Sam’s familiar scrawl awaited her. How had he managed to get a letter to her so quickly? She tore it open with eager hands.

  Ulvhälls Herrgård

  Strängnäs, Sweden

  Sweetheart,

  I am safe in Strängnäs, a short train ride from Stockholm, despite a torturous trip—didn’t we just complete one calamitous sea voyage not long ago?—yet found myself so anxious to meet with Mr. Nobel that I hardly took the time to change my clothes at the hotel before heading to his residence.

  I already find the man fascinating.

  He has studied in both Paris and the United States, even collaborating with John Ericsson, who designed USS Monitor.

  How well Violet remembered that ship, whose captain had intercepted her first husband’s ship during the Northern blockade of the Southern states.

  His family owned an armaments factory for some years, and provided armaments for the Crimean War, but went bankrupt later. Nobel subsequently devoted himself to the study of explosives, especially nitroglycerine. He developed a detonator in 1863 and a blasting cap in 1865. He is really quite brilliant.

  He performs his experiments aboard a barge on Lake Mälaren, so as not to destroy any nearby property should an experiment go awry.

  Unfortunately, his brother Emil was killed in a nitroglycerine explosion a handful of years ago in 1864.

  How dangerous was this substance, then? Was Sam considering investing in something that might kill him? Violet couldn’t bear the thought of losing him.

  Nobel is committed to his life’s work, though, and has relentlessly pursued it. As I mentioned before, he has invented an explosive called dynamite. He mixes nitroglycerine with silica to make it, then adds one of his blasting caps so that the dynamite can be more safely detonated by lighting a fuse. Tomorrow he will take me to his newest factory to demonstrate how it works. He assures me that it will easily blast through many layers of rock. There are many exciting possibilities with Nobel’s invention, and I plan to be in front of it all, dearest wife.

  Violet rubbed her forehead. What was Sam getting into? It was no use worrying about him, for there was nothing she could do except get Lord Raybourn into the ground as soon as possible. She wrote back to Sam, giving sketchy details about the ongoing investigation into the viscount’s death and the new tragedy of the housekeeper. She omitted any mention of the man in the street, to keep Sam from worrying.

  Violet was worried enough for them both.

  To occupy herself with something else, she firmly affixed a bonnet to her head and walked six blocks to a bookshop. She wandered pleasantly about the shop for nearly an hour, before finally settling on a book of memoirs by Mr. Barnum, the American circus man.

  This should relieve her mind of her troubles, for a short while, anyway.

  “Your Majesty.” The servant bowed as he offered the queen a silver salver with a folded note on it.

  Queen Victoria took the note and nodded, the signal for the man to depart, before opening it.

  Have conducted search that you requested.

  Identification made and package to be sent from Egypt as quickly as possible. Await your direction on notifications to be made.

  The queen tossed the note into the fireplace grate, where it would be incinerated when the evening’s fire was lit. The situation was just as she thought it was.

  No notifications would be made. This was information Victoria would keep to herself for the moment.

  13

  The following morning, Violet returned to Park Street to tell Stephen of her encounter with the man outside his home. She was greeted again by an ashen-faced Louisa, whose eye was roving back and forth frantically, and found the family already in a major uproar in the drawing room. Toby sat in a chair, studiously examining his nails, while his parents, Dorothy, Stephen, and Katherine stood in a loosely formed circle, like bare-knuckle fighters each waiting for a chance to hit an opponent.

  “. . . did this deliberately, knowing the shame it would bring upon us. How dare you revel in such tripe?” Stephen threw a newspaper to the ground.

  “I say, that’s no way to talk to my wife,” Gordon said, reaching for Nelly’s hand. Nelly disengaged from his fingers and fussed with the sleeve at her other wrist, arranging a black handkerchief that was peeking past the end of her sleeve.

  “I did nothing deliberately. In fact, I did nothing at all,” she said.

  “Isn’t it just like you to present yourself as the perfect princess?” Dorothy said. “You forget that I saw you escort that reporter upstairs to your room to give him a private interview. His lurid ‘facts’ in this story could have only come from you. Ah, here is Mrs. Harper. She witnessed your wantonness, too.”

  Violet wondered if she looked as pale as Gordon Bishop did at the moment. Toby looked up from where he was seated and gave her a lopsided, see-what-I’m-enduring grin before returning to his fingernail analysis.

  “Good morning, Lord and Lady Raybourn, Mr. and Mrs. Bishop, Miss Fairmont, Toby. I’ve come to see Lord Raybourn, but can see that I am interrupting—”

  “Not at all. You can testify to what I just said. Tell them you saw Nelly take that reporter, that Mr. Catesby, upstairs to dazzle him with concocted stories.” Dorothy was nearly cackling over the joy of her revelation.

  Violet picked up the newspaper.

  VISCOUNT RAYBOURN BRUTALLY SLAIN IN MAYFAIR!!

  By Ellis J. Catesby

  Anthony Fairmont, the Viscount Raybourn, has been viciously murdered in his London residence. Shot in the head by one of his own pistols, he was discovered at the bottom of the first-floor staircase by his devoted housekeeper, Mrs. Harriet Peet.

  Devoted to her employer in many ways, it would seem. The Times has learned from an exclusive source that Mrs. Peet had an intimate relationship that surpassed that of master-servant. Such was the power of their love that mere days after Lord Raybourn’s murder, Mrs. Peet hanged herself in the basement, leaving behind a note explaining her anguish over losing her secret lover.

  Violet looked up at Stephen. “What note?”

  “Pure literary license by the reporter. Or by my dear sister.”

  Nelly stamped a foot in anger. “I said only the most innocuous things to Ellis. He would never betray me.”

  “You shouldn’t have said anything worth betraying,” he replied. “I didn’t. He is . . . embellishing the facts.”

  Violet continued reading.

  Her lamentations are surely shared by the viscount’s remaining family, although a constant vigil on their Park Street address has revealed little activity of note, save the comings and goings of two inspector detectives and a lady undertaker.

  This raises questions. Why so much police investigation at the Raybourn home unless they suspect a household member of having shot Lord Raybourn? Why have they not made an arrest? And of what need is the constant attendance of the undertaker? Why has there been no funeral held for either Lord Raybourn or Mrs. Peet?

  Our source confides that the housekeeper may have discovered something about her beloved master that sent her into an uncontrollable rage against him, and her suicide was the result of her subsequent regret.

  Are there other dark secrets hidden in the recesses of Raybourn House’s finely carpeted drawing room and its walnut-paneled study?

  Be assured, this reporter will continue to keep a watchful eye on developing events.

  “I see,” she said, carefully folding the
newspaper so that the headline was hidden inside before handing it to Stephen. “Journalists need to sell newspapers, of course. I’ve read many a distorted account of funerals I’ve managed. When my first husband died as the result of very bad judgment on his part, the papers went wild accusing me of all sorts of improprieties and conspiracies on his behalf. Assuredly, they will eventually tire of it and move on to other more sensational topics.”

  “Thank you for the encouragement, Violet, but you must understand that my father was a peer. Such stories can ruin a family’s good name permanently. It is no one’s business what sordid past he may have had. My sister exercised very poor judgment with that reporter.”

  “Stephen! I did not—”

  “Oh, Nelly, of course you did,” Dorothy said. “You’ve always sought to be at the center of the universe, haven’t you? You even found a way to use Father’s death to your advantage.”

  “Now, Dorothy, you needn’t be jealous of my wife.” Gordon tried unsuccessfully again to reach for his wife, who deftly stepped aside and yanked the newspaper away from Stephen.

  “Of course she should,” Nelly said, her voice dripping with hatred. “Hasn’t she always resented me as the more successful of us two? After all, I am married and have a son, not to mention that I don’t look as though I have drunk too much sour milk.”

  This familial clash had to stop lest they destroy themselves before the newspapers had a chance to do it.

  “Pardon me, Stephen, but I came by to tell you about a disturbing incident that happened to me when I left yesterday,” Violet said.

  This got everyone’s attention.

  “A man grabbed me in the street and wanted to know if the new Lord Raybourn was home. I confirmed nothing. He said to tell you that James is staying at the Tavistock Hotel.”