Stolen Remains Page 16

  “James?” Stephen said. “Did he leave a last name?”

  “No.”

  “Do any of you know this James?” Stephen’s family responded to him with looks of puzzlement.

  “Toby, is this one of your friends playing a prank?”

  “Why would one of my friends wish to accost an undertaker? Seems like awfully bad luck to do such a thing. She might smother you in a winding sheet while you sleep or nail you shut in a coffin.”

  “Toby, darling, please. Not everyone is able to understand your clever wit,” Nelly said.

  Toby shrugged and went back to his nails.

  “Did he say anything else, Violet?” Stephen asked.

  “No, although I didn’t quite stay around to have him abuse me further.”

  “No, of course not. I suppose we should have Inspector Hurst call around so you can tell him about it.” Before Violet could protest, Stephen rang a bell and Louisa appeared. He asked her to make tea for the assembled group and then fetch the detective from Scotland Yard.

  Once again, Toby found an opportunity to slip out without stating where he was going.

  Violet had little time to ponder Toby’s whereabouts or the Fairmont family discord, for soon there was a commotion outside that demanded everyone’s attention. They all crowded at the window to see a large carriage, emblazoned with the royal coat of arms and pulled by four horses wearing red plumes, clattering to a stop in front of Raybourn House and people out in the street gathering around to see who would emerge from it. The liveried driver sat stoically up front, atop a gold-fringed red cloth covering his seat.

  Violet was unsurprised to see Albert Edward step onto the red velvet steps the footman extended out from under the carriage. The prince’s bored expression was obvious.

  ”I can hardly believe my eyes,” Stephen said.

  As the prince leisurely made his way to the front door with his walking stick, acknowledging the accolades of people in the street, the family members hastily arranged themselves, while the maid furiously plumped pillows and straightened pictures before fleeing to the entry door to await His Highness.

  Violet was certain the girl was trembling at the thought of encountering the heir to the throne of England.

  Violet quickly inspected Lord Raybourn’s flowers and blew across the top of his coffin to eliminate what few dust particles were there. “I’ll go upstairs, then,” she told Stephen.

  “No need. The prince knows you now, doesn’t he? Might as well stay.”

  The prince entered grandly, as princes do. He didn’t carry the air of authority that his father had, but then, Albert Edward did not share any royal duties with Queen Victoria.

  Violet, Katherine, Nelly, and Dorothy all swept into curtsies, while the men bowed. Once introductions were made, Albert Edward stated the intent of his visit.

  “I wish to extend my sympathies to the family over your father’s death.” He nodded toward the coffin. “May he rest in peace and may you all be succored and strengthened.”

  “We are grateful for your visit, Your Highness,” Stephen said. “May we offer you some spirits? Perhaps a glass of brandy?”

  “Ah, no, I cannot stay. Important meetings to attend, you see.”

  “Of course, Your Highness. Very understandable.”

  Gordon brought forth his cigarette case, and Nelly whispered harshly under her breath at him. Chastened, he started to put the case back in his jacket, but the prince stopped him. “Are those from Fribourg and Treyer?”

  “Quite right, sir. Would you like one?”

  The prince’s bored expression was replaced with desire. “Don’t mind if I do. Perhaps a drop of brandy is in order, Raybourn.”

  Stephen nodded to the women. “Ladies, if you don’t mind . . .”

  It was their cue to exit and leave the menfolk alone. Violet was surprised when Nelly invited her to join the others in her room to visit. However, they were in the room mere seconds before Nelly suggested creeping back down the stairs to listen to the conversation.

  “That would be eavesdropping,” Dorothy said.

  Nelly rolled her eyes. “Of course it would. I have to make sure Gordon doesn’t say something ridiculous. Besides, we have the Prince of Wales in our home and I am not about to stay in my room and miss anything.”

  The women moved slowly down the stairs, going as far as they could without being seen. Each sat on her own stair, with Nelly leaning forward eagerly to listen and Dorothy frowning in disapproval.

  “This just isn’t done,” she whispered to her sister.

  “Hush, I can’t hear,” Nelly replied, waving Dorothy away. Katherine shot Violet a worried look. Violet shared her apprehension over what they were doing.

  As they settled down, male conversation drifted up to them. Violet imagined the men were seated by now, with the prince facing away from the coffin.

  “. . . honor you have done to this family. We have avoided society condolence visits as much as possible, but we happily welcome Your Highness’s visit.”

  “Yes, well, your father was naturally an esteemed member of our expedition. Quite helpful with the local government. Tragic about his death. The Princess of Wales is quite devastated, too, and asked me to send along her regards. I’ve hardly slept since finding out.”

  “So very kind of you, Your Highness.”

  “Yes, a true diplomat. Many a time did I seek his advice.”

  Now it was Violet’s turn to roll her eyes. The men lowered their voices and it was difficult to hear anything until Gordon asked a question.

  “Scotland Yard thinks my father-in-law’s death was at his own hand, but that doesn’t seem quite right, does it? Yet, it’s quite puzzling to us as to who may have wanted him dead.”

  “Idiot,” Nelly hissed. “Speaking to the prince of such things.”

  “Perhaps an Egyptian followed him back to London, Mr.—Bishop, is it? Yes, I’ll have another.” There was rustling and the sound of a match flaring. “He ruffled more than a few feathers while he was there.”

  “How so, Your Highness?” Stephen asked.

  The prince exhaled loudly. “Not intentionally, mind you. But he was a very . . . curious man. Always questioning what others were doing and seeming suspicious about it all. Was forever scribbling in a journal. The Egyptians wondered if he was spying on them.”

  That was some information the prince had forgotten—neglected? —to tell Violet.

  “I must say, these are excellent. Turkish?”

  “Yes,” Gordon said. “Pure. No American blending.”

  “No wonder they’re so smooth. I’m used to cigars, you know. These small sticks are fascinating. I must pick some up for myself.”

  “Lord Raybourn enjoyed them, too. Very few tobacconists carry them. Did he smoke them while in Egypt?”

  “Not that I can recall. Of course, the Egyptians were generous with the hookah, and we had no need to supply our own tobacco.”

  The conversation moved from there to a discussion of the merits of Andalusian brandy versus that from the Armagnac region of France. How quickly they had forgotten the serious topic of Lord Raybourn’s untimely demise and possible murder, with his earthly remains within arm’s reach.

  Violet shook her head in disgust. There was no more information to be gleaned here. She took her leave of the other women to head down the rear servants’ staircase into the kitchens, where she spent an hour attempting to puzzle out whether the prince had accidentally or purposefully omitted the information about Lord Raybourn not getting on well with the Egyptians. Or perhaps he was merely inventing the story in front of Gordon and Stephen. But if he was, why? How was telling Lord Raybourn’s heirs that the family patriarch was a busybody of any benefit?

  She had many more questions to add to her ever-expanding list.

  The detectives arrived late the following morning as the family was finishing breakfast. Stephen welcomed them.

  “Lord Raybourn, thank you for sending a note to us regarding your
strange visitor,” Hurst said.

  Was he referring to “James” or the Prince of Wales?

  He turned his penetrating stare to Violet, who had also arrived early to check on the elder Lord Raybourn’s body. “Why didn’t you come to us straightaway about this, Mrs. Harper?”

  “I tried to tell you—”

  “Surely you realized that Inspector Pratt and I are vastly more qualified to find your assailant than the Fairmont family, who are still managing their grief.” Hurst was at his pompous best in front of a big audience.

  “You dismissed my—”

  Hurst ignored her and looked at Stephen. “Women and their hysterics, eh, my lord?”

  Stephen didn’t respond.

  “Now, Mrs. Harper, I’m sure you understand the importance of reporting crimes to the police.”

  “Which I did. And I don’t believe he did anything that would constitute a crime, Inspector. He was merely rude,” Violet said.

  “Best to let us judge that. I don’t make recommendations for burial clothing, do I?”

  “No.” Violet’s teeth ached from gritting them. Surely this funeral could take place soon and she could return home with Sam, leaving behind this bullying inspector and the battling Fairmonts.

  Stephen rescued Violet. “You may be interested in knowing, Inspector, that a newspaper reporter was here earlier, poking about. This is the result of his visit.” Stephen handed him the previous day’s newspaper.

  Violet could have sworn she saw steam blasting from the detective’s nostrils. “Reporters! They are the greatest scourge the earth has ever known. Worse than a cholera outbreak. A bigger blight than—”

  “Yes, we already know firsthand how duplicitous and irritating they can be.” Stephen took the paper back from Hurst.

  Violet busied herself around the coffin while Hurst calmed down and asked the family more questions about who “James” might be and Pratt scribbled notes. They asked no questions about the prince’s visit, which suggested to Violet that Stephen hadn’t mentioned it in his note.

  She pulled several more stems that were browning, and once again blew away some dust settling on the coffin’s lid. The family’s minimal household help was quickly beginning to show.

  What was this? With her back to the family, Violet examined the lock. There were scratch marks on it. Someone had been tampering with it. But who?

  She started to turn around to make mention of it but stopped. Perhaps someone in the family had brushed up against it. Or the new maid had acted with curiosity. She might have even let in a curiosity seeker who had fiddled with it.

  Why give Mr. Hurst an opportunity to mock her further? Perhaps she could simply figure this out for herself.

  Once the detectives were gone, Violet took her leave of the family so she could meet Mary Cooke for their trip to Hyde Park. As she stepped into the street, she noticed a boy selling newspapers on a corner. He looked to be a mere ten years old. His brown knickers were torn and his hands and face were filthy from ink. She purchased a fresh edition of The Times from him.

  She immediately regretted it.

  The headline, written once again by the detestable Ellis Catesby, trumpeted the prince’s visit to Raybourn House, but was less than flattering about it.

  . . . we can but be grateful that our dear Princess Alix was not dragged into that den of horrors and misery. The question remains, why would the Prince of Wales demean himself by attending to a family tainted by murder?

  Never fear, dear reader, we can answer it for you. The Viscount Raybourn was a known crony of the prince’s during his recent sojourn to Egypt. What sinister goings-on were there in the land of harems and hookahs that resulted in Lord Raybourn’s death? Were his activities in Egypt so highly inappropriate and inflammatory in nature that even his housekeeper couldn’t live with the shame after his death? Rest assured we will pursue this to whatever sordid conclusion there is....

  Violet couldn’t read any further. She hoped no one in the family would see the day’s paper, but did it really matter if they did? A spiteful neighbor would surely bring it by. Well, there was nothing Violet could do about it now. She took it with her to her meeting with Mary.

  Originally an enclosed deer park, Hyde Park was the largest royal park in London and had been open to the public since the time of Charles I. It had also been the home of the Crystal Palace Exhibition of 1851, the prince consort’s most notable accomplishment during his short life.

  As Violet passed through the Grand Entrance into the park’s southeast end with Mary, she remembered the visit she had taken to the Exhibition with her parents, and having been overwhelmed just by the magnificent glass pavilion on the south end of the park that had held the event. Alas, the structure was gone now. The public complained about its continued presence after the Exhibition, so the architect purchased it and removed it to Sydenham Hill in Kent.

  Without the glass palace, though, the Serpentine River, a man-made body of water snaking through the trees and walkways, took its rightful place as the highlight of the park.

  Mary still had a cloud of misery surrounding her, and the casual walk through the park’s winding pathways did nothing to revive her. Instead, she seemed to shrink from the throngs of people taking advantage of the cloudless, warm day.

  “Why don’t we hire a rowboat and take a closer look at the swans?” Violet pointed to the long-necked, snow-white birds, with golden beaks framed in black, floating on the Serpentine as though they hadn’t a care in the world.

  Most likely they weren’t dealing with errant husbands or dead bodies that couldn’t make their way into the ground.

  Mary offered a wan smile for a particularly big cob as he floated past their rented boat in search of a female. How was it that the birds glided along so easily, barely making a ripple in the water, while Violet was straining with the oars to keep up with them?

  Violet showed the newspaper article to Mary, who offered sympathetic noises. “Such dreadful things the newspapers say. It reminds me of what they said about you when Graham disappeared.”

  “I know. Except I’m sure the viscount’s family is used to only appearing in the newspapers for announcements about parties they’ve attended, marriages they’ve made, and heirs they’ve birthed. This will send them reeling.”

  She paused rowing, letting the boat drift along where it would. Mary leaned back and closed her eyes, dipping her fingers into the water over each side of their small craft. The noise of people talking and shuffling along graveled paths receded from consciousness as the two friends moved with the breeze. Violet’s eyelids grew heavy and she’d nearly fallen asleep with the oars across her lap, when Mary interrupted her pleasant nap.

  “I read once that something dreadful happened in this lake about fifty years ago.”

  Violet opened one eye. “How dreadful?”

  “It had to do with the poet, Percy Bysshe Shelley. It was in 1815, no, 1816—or was it 1817?—no, no, I’m certain it was 1816. His first wife, the one before Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin—you know, the one that wrote that frightening novel about the hideous creature produced by a scientific experiment that goes awry—”

  “Yes, I know. What about his first wife?”

  “Oh yes, her name was Harriet. She was pregnant, and committed suicide by drowning herself in this very lake. You see, Percy and Mary were already an item and traveling off to Geneva together, with Mary already calling herself ‘Mrs. Shelley.’ I’m sure the poor woman could hardly stand the scandal of it all.”

  Violet thought about Mary Cooke’s roving husband, and understood why the story was compelling to her friend. “How very sad.”

  “But that’s not the most remarkable part. Only six years later, Percy himself drowned in a sudden storm while sailing along the Italian coastline. Isn’t that peculiar?”

  It was. They rowed awhile in silence, and soon Violet drifted off again. When Mary next spoke, it was with surprising forcefulness.

  “I do believe George in
tends to leave me for good.”

  Violet’s eyes flew open. “What are you saying?”

  Mary swirled her fingers in the water. “Things are . . . missing. A pearl necklace, a cameo brooch, and a sapphire ring Matthew gave me have disappeared from my jewelry casket.”

  Matthew was Mary’s first husband, who had died years ago of a tumor on his brain.

  “I also had some extra money hidden beneath a floorboard in the shop for emergency purposes. I’d saved nearly thirty pounds. It’s gone.”

  “Maybe someone broke into the premises.”

  Mary’s expression was that of a child who has realized that the mongrel puppy she adored really has died and would not be joyfully licking her face or chasing sticks ever again.

  “I have to accept that it was George. Everything went missing just before he left this time, and he has not written at all. Is there another conclusion?”

  Violet could think of nothing to cheer her friend. They continued to drift until Mary finally took her fingers out of the water and held them up. They were completely shriveled.

  “They look like my heart,” she said.

  Poor Mary. Violet sympathized with her situation, but what could be done about it?

  The two friends remained in companionable silence as Violet rowed back again, each caught up in her own thoughts about death and betrayal.

  Mary rubbed her hands together. “Enough feeling sorry for myself. I’ve had a lovely time. Shall we do it again?”

  The women agreed to meet again in another week’s time to once again rent a boat on the Serpentine, with Mary promising to bring crumbs along to feed the swans.

  Mary was so cheered by the idea that Violet did not voice her doubts that she would still be in England by then.

  Violet was about to relieve herself of her front-lacing corset when a palace servant knocked at her outer door. Violet quickly reassembled her bodice and skirt, but by the time she was ready to answer the door, she found merely an envelope that had been slipped under it.