Death at the Abbey Read online

  Apples and pears dangled heavily from trees lining the back of these plantings, which Violet realized comprised a kitchen garden. Pearson had brought her to the kitchens? Heavens, she hoped beyond hope that they were not storing the body down here.

  Pearson had already stepped out of the carriage with her undertaking bag and was waiting to help her out. She took his offered hand, and exited onto the gravel path. Once again, she had entered another world, as the sawing, banging, and hammering were only distant turbulence from where she now stood. She was pleased that, as horrified as she was at the thought that a body might be lying in state in a duke’s kitchen, at least it didn’t have to endure construction noises.

  Pearson escorted her down a set of steps to the basement door, where they were greeted by a heavyset, goggle-eyed, middle-aged woman who was sweaty and breathless beneath her stained apron.

  “Mrs. Garside,” Pearson greeted the woman, “this is Mrs. Harper, the undertaker. Mrs. Harper, may I present Welbeck Abbey’s cook to you?”

  The cook’s expression was confused, unsure what status an undertaker had, so Violet immediately stuck her hand out to shake the other woman’s. “How do you do?” she said, immediately regretting it because it was the greeting of someone in a higher class, and Mrs. Garside now looked utterly stricken over how to address the undertaker. Violet followed up with, “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance,” and the cook wiped her palm against her apron before taking Violet’s proffered hand.

  “Inside, if you please, Mrs. ’Arper,” the cook said in the Nottingham dialect Violet had come to know well. Mrs. Garside stepped back through the doorway and Violet followed with Pearson behind her, still lugging her bag. They were in an anteroom twice the size of her lodgings in Worksop, probably where all deliveries were made so that no visitors could see into the rooms beyond. Violet was instantly struck by the delicious aroma of roasting chicken. Her stomach responded, reminding her that she had regrettably abandoned her fish pie before she’d made serious acquaintance with it. Several doorways led off the anteroom and the hallway beyond, and as they proceeded along the hallway she could see the various rooms necessary for serving a sprawling ducal estate with hundreds of workers: a pantry, a scullery, a dairy room, a pastry room, the main kitchen area, the housekeeper’s room, the butler’s room, and, largest of all, the servants’ hall, where the staff could eat in shifts.

  Women in starched aprons and caps, as well as young men in uniforms, bustled back and forth past them, most giving Violet curious glances but too busy to wonder much about the downstairs visitor. Or perhaps they were avoiding Mrs. Garside, who was muttering incessantly that “No good can come upon this ’ouse after this” and “It’s an ’arbinger of more death, I can tell you that much.”

  As the cook waddled past the rooms, she was working herself up to the point that Violet thought she might have to intervene to calm the woman.

  The farther Mrs. Garside went down the hall, the more relieved Violet felt, thinking that they were going to proceed up a rear staircase to either a bedchamber or dining room, more appropriate locations for a body. Unfortunately, Mrs. Garside stopped before they reached the stairs and turned left into a small room lined with locked glass cabinets painted white. Inside the cabinets were all manner of serving dishes in a variety of patterns.

  Violet had no time for scrutinizing the serving ware, though, for it was who was on the table in the center of the room that captured her full attention.

  Or, should she say, what was on the table.

  2

  Violet was speechless. She turned to Pearson, who had followed her and Mrs. Garside into the room and placed the undertaking bag on the floor. “Surely you don’t mean that I am to undertake . . .” She couldn’t even complete the sentence.

  Lying before her on a kitchen towel was . . . a raven. A bird. An ebony member of the avian species. Someone had taken great care to arrange it so that it looked as though it was huddled down to roost. But still, it was an animal, for heaven’s sake! Not even a beloved pet but a wild bird.

  Pearson cleared his throat, and looked more uncomfortable than ever. “If you don’t mind, Mrs. Harper, Aristotle was His Grace’s favorite raven—”

  “You’ve got to tend to ’im, Mrs. ’Arper, and give ’im ’is proper respects,” Mrs. Garside pleaded, wringing her hands together. “We’re already under the threat of doom because of ’is death.”

  Violet took a deep breath and began to compose herself. Surely there had to be a sane explanation for why she had been summoned to a ducal estate to prepare a bird for a funeral. “You led me to believe there was an actual body waiting for me at Welbeck,” she said, turning to Pearson in accusation. She had sacrificed Mr. Saunders’s fish pie and time with Sam for this?

  A young kitchen maid about fifteen years old suddenly appeared in the doorway. “Mrs. Garside, I’ve filleted the monkfish for the staff’s dinner like you told me and oh—” The girl’s eyes widened as she realized there were three people crowded around the dead raven’s body.

  “Go on now, Judith,” Mrs. Garside instructed. “Dig up some leeks and slice them like I showed you for the fillets.”

  The girl needed no further encouragement and scampered right out.

  Pearson tried again. “You see, Mrs. Harper, His Grace was concerned by the staff reaction to Aristotle’s untimely demise.”

  “Couldn’t someone have merely disposed of the carcass in the woods?” Violet hated to put things so bluntly. She barely restrained herself from adding that undertaking was for humans only.

  Mrs. Garside tsked as she shook her head woefully. “Oh, surely you know ’ow a dead raven means death and destruction.”

  Whatever was this woman prattling about? “No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

  Mrs. Garside eyed Violet suspiciously. “Come now, Mrs. ’Arper, you’re an undertaker. You should know that ravens are the best luck the queen’s got. They’re protected at the Tower down in London, because as long as there’s ravens there, the country won’t fall to a foreign invader. It’s the truth,” Mrs. Garside added, apparently seeing the disbelief registered on Violet’s face. “The ravens ’ave been protecting the Tower since the time of the Conqueror, and there’s been no invasion since then.” She nodded her head firmly one time in emphasis. “Since ’Is Grace keeps a rookery ’ere, it stands to rights that we’ve been protected all these years, but Aristotle’s death is the start of something ’orrible, I just know it.”

  “Mrs. Garside,” Pearson said, “perhaps if you could leave us so I might explain to Mrs. Harper the circumstances of Aristotle’s death, she can better care for him and perhaps advise us on how to avoid any further deaths.”

  Mrs. Garside nodded with a loud huff. “Yes, Mr. Pearson, I’ll take my leave, but mark my words, the bird is trouble. I’ve a mind to cover the mirrors and stop the clocks.” The cook left the room as she had come in, muttering about other methods beyond mirrors and clocks she could employ to ensure the bird’s spirit didn’t get confused and remain trapped in the kitchens.

  Violet whirled on the valet in exasperation. “Why didn’t you tell me in the first place that it was a bird you wanted me to see? This is a task for a taxidermist, not an undertaker. You can hardly expect me to believe that a duke actually expected a dead bird to be prepared for a funeral. I have never—”

  “Mrs. Harper,” Pearson interrupted in a low tone, “please allow me to explain. If I had informed you that the deceased was but a common raven, would you have come here with me?”

  “Of course not!” Violet was still contemplating a hasty exit back to Worksop Inn.

  “No, I suspected as such. However, His Grace wants to calm down the staff, who are nervous and excitable over the idea that a dead raven means a calamity for the household. You witnessed for yourself Mrs. Garside’s agitation. He believes having an undertaker come and conduct a formal funeral will help the staff put it behind them.”

  “A funeral! For a raven?” Violet shook her h
ead in disbelief. “Why not just capture another one and add it to the flock? Why the pomp?”

  “Because, madam, Mrs. Garside found Aristotle herself, dead on a window ledge facing the kitchen gardens, and it took no more than ten minutes for the rest of the staff to know about it. This is far beyond replacing the bird with another,” Pearson said. Violet wasn’t sure from his tone if he was treating her with the patience he would show to an argumentative child, or if he was shaken by the notion of a curse and trying to convince himself of the validity of what he was saying.

  “Please, if you will just tend to Aristotle, His Grace would be exceedingly grateful. He will, of course, pay whatever your charges are for an appropriate funeral.”

  What in heaven’s name was an appropriate service for a duke’s dead bird? Was he expecting burial in an actual churchyard? Violet could only imagine that conversation with the local vicar.

  Pearson must have seen her wavering, for he pressed his point. “There is something else. I don’t think it is that significant, but you should know that Aristotle was an intelligent bird, and only five years old. His Grace says the bird should have lived to at least twenty years. The Tower ravens are rumored to live up to forty years because of their pampered living conditions.”

  There was a problem with Pearson’s claim, though. “Don’t birds frequently die without warning or cause?” Violet asked. “It doesn’t seem all that unusual.”

  Pearson acknowledged her question with a nod. “True, but Aristotle has no apparent injuries, and His Grace wants to be certain that nothing untoward happened to him.”

  “What of Mrs. Garside’s claim that ravens protect the Tower—and Welbeck Abbey—from foreign invasion?”

  Pearson shook his head. “It’s a legend, is all. Started a few years ago by some wag, but now nearly given gospel status. I’m surprised Mrs. Garside didn’t tell you ravens protected Eden, as far back as she takes the tale.”

  Violet nodded, understanding how simple rumors, if well told again and again, can become legends. “Well,” she allowed reluctantly, “I suppose that since I’m here, I may as well see what I can do to make Aristotle . . . comfortable.”

  Pearson’s relief was palpable as his shoulders relaxed ever so slightly. He thanked Violet, then left her alone with Aristotle.

  Violet stared down at her charge, pondering everything the valet had said. What bothered her most was Pearson’s comment that the duke wanted to ensure nothing unfortunate had happened to the raven. Did he actually suspect his prize raven had been intentionally killed?

  Violet tapped a finger to her lips, involuntarily shaking her head in disbelief. She wasn’t seriously about to investigate the death of a raven as a murder.

  Was she?

  Violet was flummoxed as to what to actually do to undertake a bird. She put her reticule down on the table and gingerly ran her hands over the bird’s body and under his wings, feeling for any protuberances or oddities. His feathers were still very sleek and shone almost iridescently. He was quite gorgeous. She gently rolled Aristotle onto his back and ignored his sightless, beady eyes. His talons were curled up and stiff. She’d never thought about it before, but she guessed animals experienced rigor mortis, just like humans.

  Out of habit, Violet began talking to Aristotle as she examined him. “Now, sir, you look fine and healthy to me, and I admit I’ve no idea what to do to improve your appearance. I certainly cannot use any cosmetic massage on your feathery face, and embalming is completely out of the question, as I’m afraid it would be too ridiculous. No offense intended, sir. Ah, I see a bit of your ebony beak has broken off. Were you in a fight? Did you crash into the kitchen window and break it? Did you attempt to eat something you shouldn’t have? I think a little bit of clay to fill in the area, with a daub of Heavy Black Number Two, should fix you right up.”

  Perhaps the bird died from accidentally ingesting something poisonous to him. Violet worked to pry open his beak and looked inside his—was it a mouth? “Hmm, I can only imagine how much rotting flesh has passed through here, sir.”

  She saw nothing there. She rubbed his gullet beneath his beak and was startled to feel something hard and solid lodged inside it.

  “Now what is this, Aristotle?” Violet asked curiously as she attempted to work whatever it was up out of his throat and into his mouth. “Perhaps you really were out dining on improper foods. Isn’t it true that you ravens love shiny objects? I’ll bet this was all just a simple case of you discovering—Ah, here we are.” Violet reached her little finger in and scooped the offending object out of his mouth.

  “What have we here?” she said, holding up what appeared to be a small scrap of colored porcelain with smooth edges. She dug into her undertaking bag for a cloth to wipe it off. The shard was white with part of a blue-and-green pattern on one side of it. Part of a teacup or saucer, perhaps? It was probably part of something that had broken and then been thrown into a refuse pile or badly buried in the kitchen garden. Maybe the bird had seen the sun reflecting off its surface and swooped down for it. Ravens were like crows, attracted to glittering objects. If the shard got lodged in his gullet and was too large for him to digest, it would have effectively choked the poor thing. That would explain how he ended up on the kitchen window ledge, as well.

  “Aristotle, you have given everyone a scare, but I think we now understand what happened to you.” Violet dropped the shard into her reticule, where it shared space with a kitchen knife. Violet had added the weapon during her previous investigation, and decided that it should remain there permanently for protection. The shard, however, she intended to discard later, once she informed the master of the estate of her conclusions. Perhaps now that a very simple explanation was to be had, all of this nonsense about preparing the raven for a funeral could be put to rest. She quickly pulled out a bit of clay and the proper paint and a brush from her bag, and set to work on repairing the bird’s beak. She had no idea what else to do for him.

  The odor of roasting chicken wafted over her once more. Violet could picture the browning, crispy skin, the chicken’s juices dripping succulently into the iron pan in a golden pool of exquisite flavor. Perhaps she could convince Mrs. Garside to offer her a nibble.

  Speaking of Mrs. Garside, Violet decided it was time to find the cook. First, though, she quickly rearranged Aristotle’s body back into the roosting position in which she’d found him, then stepped back into the hallway, where she nearly collided into a maid carrying a stack of dishes. With an apology for her clumsiness, Violet asked where Mrs. Garside was, and the maid nodded down the hall. “In the roasting room, madam.”

  The roasting room? Violet had no idea that a ducal estate had such specialized kitchen rooms. She went where the maid had indicated, and found herself in an overly warm room, about fifteen feet square, containing two kitchen ranges and an enormous, old-fashioned fireplace along one wall with three revolving spits set at two-foot intervals above the ground. Each spit contained a half dozen chickens, which explained the intensity of the aroma down here. Fat and juices dripped lazily into large pans below.

  What Violet couldn’t explain was the sight of Mrs. Garside, her broad back to Violet, bent over and using a bellows in front of the fireplace. Was Violet mistaken, or was the cook pumping air into a grate in the wall nearby? How peculiar.

  “Mrs. Garside, excuse me,” Violet said.

  The cook rose unsteadily from her crouched position and turned. Her face was scarlet from the heat of the flames, a routine hazard of her occupation, Violet supposed. Mrs. Garside brushed away a lock of frizzy hair that had fallen out from under her cap as she laid aside the bellows. “Yes, Mrs. ’Arper? Is Aristotle all fixed up now?”

  Violet supposed Aristotle was as “fixed” as he could be. “Yes. You’ll be pleased to know there was no evidence at all that he was purposefully injured. I believe he just had an accident.”

  Mrs. Garside looked doubtful.

  “I would like to see His Grace now if he’s here,” Vio
let said.

  “Oh, ’e’s ’ere all right. I’ll get the ’ousekeeper, Mrs. Neale.” Mrs. Garside swept past Violet back into the hall. “Judith!” she shouted above the din of everything else happening. The girl appeared from nowhere.

  “Yes, Mrs. Garside?”

  “Go fetch Olive, and ’ave ’er ask Mrs. Neale to come down when she ’as a moment. Tell ’er it’s about Aristotle. Then come back ’ere and get to minding the spits again.”

  Judith ran off to do the cook’s bidding.

  While they waited, Violet asked about the quantity of roasting chickens, which were almost overpowering in their delectable fragrance as she stood near them. “Does the staff eat whatever the duke and his family eat?”

  “No, we’re ’aving monkfish tonight. And ’Is Grace doesn’t have any family living ’ere.”

  “Ah, His Grace is having a dinner party, then?”

  Mrs. Garside snickered, but quickly caught herself and became serious once more. “No, madam, ’Is Grace isn’t ’aving guests.”

  “But . . . surely the duke cannot eat nearly twenty chickens tonight by himself.”

  “No, but he likes the smell of them. All of the time.”

  Violet cast her glance at the bellows, which was propped up against the wall beneath the grate. Surely the woman didn’t mean that—

  At that moment, an elderly woman entered the room, wearing the most ostentatious chatelaine Violet had ever seen. It hung from a pale-blue sash, and multiple keys, from large gate keys down to the tiniest jewel casket key, dangled and clinked together as she walked.

  “Olive said you wished to see me for an important matter?” the woman demanded imperiously, as though exceedingly put out to have been summoned to this hot and stuffy room.

  Mrs. Garside was appropriately deferential in her tone, but Violet didn’t think the cook was particularly frightened of the other woman. “Yes, Mrs. Neale. This ’ere’s Mrs. ’Arper. She’s the undertaker seeing to Aristotle, and she wants to speak with ’Is Grace.”