Stolen Remains Page 21

  Stephen attempted to remain calm as he opened the note, but his glance at Violet across the table told her that he shared her own fear: that this was from Lord Raybourn’s kidnappers.

  He scanned the contents quickly and dropped the note to the table. He spoke quietly. “The money is due in two days. They will let us know tomorrow where to drop it off. What a penny dreadful this has become.”

  Violet pushed her plate away without comment, lifted her skirts, and ran for the hallway, scurrying quickly out the front door. She clutched the porch railing, looking right and left in Park Street from her perch seven stairs up from the hive of activity. Although there was little carriage traffic in this genteel neighborhood, there were plenty of people moving to and fro, including the young boy hawking newspapers in the street itself, as well as a flower seller encouraging wealthy men to buy a bouquet before returning home to their wives.

  Violet did not see anyone suspiciously running away from Raybourn House.

  Not that the note couldn’t have been delivered by anyone she saw in the street below her. Perhaps the newspaper boy had been paid to deliver it.

  She went to where the same grimy boy was selling newspapers and purchased a copy of The London Illustrated News from him.

  The boy insisted that he had not delivered a note to the Raybourn home, nor had he noticed who had done so. Violet gave him an extra halfpence, which he happily pocketed.

  The flower seller said the same thing, so Violet returned to the house, now carrying both a newspaper and a bouquet of fragrant peonies.

  She had no idea the detection business could be so costly.

  Back inside, the family members had apparently been revived by dessert or the note, for they were arguing over how to pay the upcoming ransom. With Mrs. Peet’s death mucking up the remarkable contents of the will, Lord Raybourn’s accounts would not be turned over in a timely enough way for the kidnappers, so something else had to be done. Violet listened quietly from the hallway, and quickly determined that the battle was ranging between Dorothy, Nelly, and Gordon, who thought the ransom was entirely Stephen’s duty, and Stephen, Katherine, and, surprisingly, Toby, who felt that it was a family responsibility and that some household items of value should be sold to pay the ransom.

  Violet had never been more grateful for her own familial harmony. She even missed her mother’s complaining in light of what was going on inside this home. Rather than listen in on the Fairmonts’ continued warfare, she went up to her own room and wrote a letter to Sam, inquiring as to when he would return from Sweden and letting him know of her new living arrangements.

  She took a break from her writing to look out the window to the street scene below. As she watched traffic go by, Toby left the house. At the bottom of the steps, he looked both ways as if worried that someone was watching him, then headed south on Park Street to a destination unknown.

  As she finished up her letters, she heard the servants’ bell ringing repeatedly. Eventually, there was a tap at her door from Louisa.

  “Mrs. Harper, Mrs. Bishop asks to see you.”

  Putting aside pen and paper, Violet went down to Nelly’s room. Gordon’s wife greeted her with a smile. “Please, have a seat. Would you like some?” She poured steaming tea into a fragile cup with a gilded rim, placed it on a matching saucer, and handed it over to Violet.

  “Sugar? Milk?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Nelly added four cubes of sugar to her own cup and stirred vigorously. “How is your tea?”

  Violet sipped, confused as to why she was here. “Lovely.”

  Nelly nodded as she took her own taste. “How are you getting on up in Mrs. Peet’s room?”

  “Well enough. It’s not St. James’s Palace, of course.”

  “No, I suppose it isn’t. There are no other bedrooms available in the house, though, and you’re the undertaker. . . .”

  Violet smiled. She was like a governess. Not a servant, but not quite respectable, either. “I’m not used to such finery, anyway. It’s rather wasted on me.”

  “Oh, that’s good to know. I mean, not that finery is wasted on you, but that you don’t mind.” Nelly took another long swallow from her cup, as though dragging out the moment until she decided what to say next.

  “How are your investigations coming along? Have you any idea yet who may have killed my father and stolen his body?”

  “It may not have been the same person. Or persons.”

  “No, of course not. Do you have any suspects, though? Isn’t that what they say in the detective novels?”

  “None that I know of. It’s difficult to fathom why someone would take a corpse and hold it for ransom. Such things are normally done with living people of great importance to their families. You’d think they would have kidnapped Lord Raybourn before he died, not after.”

  Nelly raised an eyebrow. “If they’d done it while my father was still alive, Dorothy might have insisted that the kidnappers keep him.”

  “You would have paid the ransom, though, wouldn’t you?”

  Nelly poured herself more tea, another delay as she considered her response. “He is my Toby’s grandfather, so, yes, I would have been as insistent on retrieving his living self as Stephen is about getting back his dead self. Listen to us, such morbid creatures. It’s all this black we’re wearing. I don’t know how you don such bleak attire each day.”

  “It comforts my customers.”

  “I suppose so. Personally, I’m ready to move on to lilac or mauve. Or at least gray, although that color always makes me look sallow. I wish gray could be completely eliminated from half mourning. I should write—” Nelly stopped and sipped.

  “Yes?” Violet said.

  “I should write a book to rival Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management. I would call it Mrs. Bishop’s Book of Happy Living, and I would recommend elimination of all traditions and customs that are boring, oppressive, or ridiculous.”

  “Mrs. Bishop, I must confess something to you.”

  “Of course, what is it?” Nelly’s eyes lit up as though she were about to receive a state secret.

  “I hate Mrs. Beeton.”

  For the first time since they’d been together under the same roof, Violet heard peals of laughter ring from Nelly’s throat. “How is it that you can hate the highly regarded Mrs. Beeton?”

  “That woman has caused me no end of trouble in my life. When you write your book, Mrs. Bishop, you should also eliminate all onerous housekeeping tasks, too.”

  Nelly tapped the side of her head. “I’ll remember that. Well, if you don’t have any suspects yet . . .”

  This was Violet’s cue to depart. “No, but I do have a question for you. I was wondering what you know about Toby’s . . . activities.”

  “What activities?”

  “Where he goes at night, whom he sees, that sort of thing.”

  Nelly frowned. “Toby is actively pursuing a wife and a place in society. I imagine he is at clubs, dances, and sporting events.”

  Violet nodded but said nothing.

  “Why do you ask this? Are you accusing my little darling of something? You don’t suspect him of having anything to do with my father’s murder or kidnapping, do you?”

  Nelly was quickly becoming a tigress defending her cub. Violet understood it; she’d developed claws many times herself during Susanna’s youth.

  “Not at all. I just found it curious how often he goes off by himself. I’m sure you’re right that he’s pursuing his ambitions.”

  Nelly was mollified. “Would you like a gooseberry scone? Louisa picked them up from a bakery this morning.”

  Violet took the plate upon which the scone was presented, and also accepted the lemon curd Nelly offered. She felt as though she was being rewarded for good behavior, and it troubled her.

  The following morning, all eyes were on Violet as another royal carriage drove away, its driver having delivered a message to her. The queen’s note felt like lead in her hands and she d
readed opening it. With the family waiting expectantly, though, she couldn’t very well retreat to her room to read it.

  The note’s content and tone were what she had feared. She offered a wan smile to the Fairmonts.

  “The queen has asked to see me.”

  “Will you tell her what has happened?” Stephen asked.

  “I don’t really have a choice. I cannot lie to the Queen of England.”

  “No, no, of course not.”

  What Violet didn’t share with the family was the queen’s pique at having learned through the household staff at St. James’s that Violet had moved to Raybourn House. Victoria had not given her permission for it.

  Perhaps Violet should have written that note to the queen, after all.

  She arrived at Windsor with the weight of dread having transferred from her hands to her stomach. Was she in for a royal tongue-lashing? The queen’s morose, never-ending soliloquies about the prince consort she could manage, but to endure the queen’s rage? Her sharp temper was legendary.

  A servant wearing a black armband led her to the queen, who sat reading with a black-and-white border collie napping at her feet.

  “Mrs. Harper,” the queen said flatly, as Violet curtsied before her. Was it Violet’s imagination, or did the queen wait a few extra moments before allowing her to rise? She was glad she had thought to add jet ear bobs, a necklace, and a bracelet to her black dress to acknowledge Prince Albert.

  “You may sit.” Violet chose a chair across from the queen. Victoria wore her usual black, softened only by a trim of white lace at her neckline. The queen opened her mouth with, “We understand you took it upon yourself . . .” but stopped when the dog raised his head, opened an eye, and examined Violet.

  She must have passed an initial inspection, for he scrambled to his feet and lumbered over to sniff her. His coat was a sleek ebony with large white patches on his muzzle, chest, and paws. After a couple of snuffles, he licked her hand, then dropped back down at the queen’s feet.

  The queen’s mood instantly lightened. “Why, Sharp, do you approve of Mrs. Harper? Sharp is our favorite dog. He’s quite faithful and gives us such comfort now that we live alone as a widow. There are few companions who can understand grief the way a dog can.”

  The door to the room opened suddenly, without even a cursory knock or scratching. Violet jumped at the booming voice saying, “What ho, here’s the laddie. How am I supposed to check on the new clutch of partridge eggs without ye, boy?”

  It was Mr. Brown. Sharp must have been of one mind with his mistress about the man, for he went bounding up to Brown, playfully grabbing his arm and shaking it. Brown wrestled with the dog for a few moments before giving him a hand signal to stop. Sharp obediently sat next to him.

  “What have we here, wumman?” he asked. “Both of ye in somber black; it’s like a gathering of crows.”

  Violet couldn’t believe the man’s audacity, but the queen was unfazed. “You remember Mrs. Harper, don’t you?”

  He peered at Violet. “Your husband’s undertaker. I guess that means you’ll not be wanting me around for a while so you can stew in yer gloomy broth.”

  “It won’t be for long.”

  “I’ll take Sharp with me, and when I return we’ll have a little tarot reading, won’t we?”

  “Yes indeed, Mr. Brown. We’ll have your favorite oatcakes and Brie cheese brought up, too.”

  He left with the collie close on his heels.

  “Really, Mrs. Harper, we do insist that you stay for Mr. Brown’s reading and have one done for yourself. His interpretations are simply remarkable. We feel so close to our Albert when Mr. Brown spreads out the cards. Surely there is something troubling in your life that could use supernatural attention.”

  Be careful, Violet thought. Don’t offend the queen.

  “I suppose what troubles me the most, Your Majesty, is what happened to Lord Raybourn.”

  The queen’s expression was guarded. “Yes, that is a mystery for us all, but with so many people working diligently on that, might it be best not to trouble the supernatural world with it? Not just yet.”

  “As you wish, naturally.”

  “Which is really the purpose of your visit here today, isn’t it? We wish to know what you’ve learned about Lord Raybourn’s death.”

  Violet took a deep breath. “Unfortunately, Your Majesty, I have some difficult news. . . .”

  She explained about Mrs. Peet’s death and Lord Raybourn’s subsequent kidnapping and Gordon Bishop’s arrest and release. To her surprise, the queen remained passive and did not rail against Violet for making such a botched mess of everything.

  In fact, it was quite the opposite.

  “Quite informative. Yes, we are quite interested in this. You say that the kidnappers will return his body in two days’ time?”

  “Presumably. The family is waiting for news about where to deliver the ransom money and where to pick up the coffin.”

  Victoria nodded thoughtfully. “Has there been an epidemic in London of thieves spiriting away coffins and holding them for ransom?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then why now? Why Lord Raybourn in particular? It seems to us that the answer to this question will lead you to him, Mrs. Harper.”

  “I’ve assumed it was someone connected with his death.”

  “That could be so. Or it could be someone with other intentions entirely.”

  The door banged open. Mr. Brown had returned with a panting but exuberant Sharp. He carried with him a small wooden box.

  “Will ye be having Mrs. Harper stay for our reading today?”

  “Yes. We’ve told her about your remarkable talent, and she is most anxious to see it for herself.”

  For the next hour, Violet sat patiently while the queen’s ghillie shuffled, dealt, and manipulated the cards, which were longer than playing cards and covered with colorful pictures of maidens in filmy dresses, young men in medieval dress, swords, and chalices. It seemed as though any card with a picture of a man on it was interpreted to be the queen’s dead husband with a message for her life. The queen clasped her hands together in eager anticipation each time Brown shuffled the deck, asking her what question she wanted answered and then laying out a spread of seven cards.

  At first frustrated by Brown’s obvious chicanery, it slowly dawned on Violet what he was doing. Each subsequent reading saw the queen’s manner become more and more relaxed, and soon she was even smiling and laughing.

  So the mystery of Brown’s attraction for Victoria was solved. He eased her mind about her husband’s death through this entertaining activity, allowing her to forget her sorrows for a short time.

  Violet felt a glimmer of respect for Mr. Brown.

  When it came to her turn, she asked for a reading about her daughter, Susanna. As she expected, Mr. Brown found that Susanna was very happy but missed Violet greatly. A tidy, satisfying answer.

  Once the queen tired of the game, Violet rose to make a final curtsy before her departure. Victoria had apparently not forgiven Violet entirely, despite Sharp’s slobbery approval, for her final words were, “We expect that you will move back to St. James’s as soon as practical.”

  The Fairmont siblings had decided, after much disagreement, that they would discreetly sell some of the silver from the house to raise money, rather than go to a bank for a loan, since it would raise society’s eyebrows as they wondered why the inheritors of the wealthy Lord Raybourn would need to borrow money when all they had to do was wait a short time. Why stir up the gossip papers?

  Violet was quickly realizing that all three siblings had been kept generally impoverished by their father, which led to this particular crisis of none of them having the funds to satisfy a kidnapper.

  Was impoverishment a motive for murder?

  The final note arrived the next day. It instructed Stephen specifically to go to Westminster Bridge with the ransom money early the following morning, at which point he would receive furt
her instructions for recovering the body. The note warned against bringing the police.

  “What insipid and banal idiot is behind all of this?” Stephen asked.

  “Someone reading too many Wilkie Collins novels,” Gordon said. “Shall I go with you? They certainly can’t accuse me of being the police.”

  “Hmm, I think it might be better for Violet to come. That way she can . . . attend to the body if need be. You don’t mind, do you, Kate?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Violet, have your undertaker bag prepared at dawn.”

  17

  Stephen silently handed Violet into the driver’s seat of the funeral carriage that used to be hers but now belonged to Morgan Undertaking, then came around to the other side and climbed into the passenger seat. Violet smiled to think of how inwardly mortified Stephen must be, an aristocrat riding on a funeral carriage through Mayfair, past Buckingham Palace, and on to Westminster. But if he was truly embarrassed, he gave no outward sign of it. He was also silent on the topic of his father’s will.

  The morning was like so many London mornings, the air thick with swirling fog at their feet, making the other carriages and pedestrians resemble specters floating by. It was even worse at Westminster Bridge, where fog settled over the bridge in such a blanket that it was nearly impossible to see what was in the murky Thames below.

  What was unmistakable was the putrid stench of the river, full of sewage, animal carcasses, and who knew what else. It wasn’t as noxious in the morning as it would surely be later in the day, and not nearly as pungent as it would be as London inched toward July.

  Westminster Bridge spanned from one side of the Houses of Parliament over to Lambeth. Violet pulled the carriage over at the base of the bridge, near the clock tower whose workings were affectionately known as Big Ben after Sir Benjamin Hall, who oversaw installation of the great bell in 1859. As if in greeting, the clock struck its chime for the quarter hour.