Death at the Abbey Page 5

  “You had an episode?” Portland asked gently.

  “Forgive me, John, I don’t know what came over me.”

  “Remember back in ’25, when we fought against Bandula’s foot soldiers? Remember his fighting elephants?”

  The colonel nodded, and Violet presumed Portland saw him do so.

  “That nincompoop strode back and forth in front of his men in full insignia under a gold umbrella, an easy target for our guns. He got exactly what he deserved, didn’t he? It didn’t take long for all of the provinces to fall after that, I tell you. Lucky for us, since their thick forests and jungles would have eventually snared us, eh? I remember you once shot a python who was making his way for me. Wouldn’t be here today if you hadn’t done so,” Portland reminded him gruffly.

  “I remember,” Colonel Mortimer said, wiping a tear from one eye and seemingly calming down.

  This had to be the most bizarre conversation Violet had ever witnessed—two old friends discussing a murder through a screen. Both of them should have been anxious to find the body, but instead the colonel was busy apologizing for encountering the crime, and Portland was mostly concerned with consoling him by reliving their past exploits together.

  Violet could take no more of this.

  “Your Grace,” she said, standing abruptly. The colonel’s shocked expression suggested that he was just noticing her for the first time. His bloodshot eyes moved incongruently, as if each was independent of the other. A single tear rolled from his right eye, unchecked, and dripped off his chin.

  Yes, there was something seriously odd here, but Violet had more pressing matters to concern her.

  “I believe it is imperative that we find whoever was murdered, don’t you?”

  Portland coughed. “Of course. I just wanted to ensure the colonel was not—”

  Violet no longer cared about the colonel’s delicate sensibilities. “Yes, Your Grace. Perhaps if the good colonel could show us exactly where the murder occurred . . . ?” She knew she was inserting herself where she didn’t belong, but her greater concern was for the body.

  “In due time, Mrs. Harper,” Portland assured her. “George, are you quite all right to get back to your cottage on your own?”

  “I think so. Yes, I can make it.”

  “I’ll tell Kirby. He will know what to do.”

  Kirby will know what to do? Violet thought. Are people regularly done in at Welbeck?

  The colonel nodded to Violet and left, having not actually spoken to her once. The door clicked behind him, and she was once again in the silence with Portland. He made no move to summon Kirby or anyone else. Was he waiting for her to leave before he informed the staff that there was a dead body on the grounds? The man was incomprehensible.

  As she was wont to do when agitated, Violet started pacing back and forth in front of the screen, abandoning all pretense of deference to the duke.

  “Sir,” she said without pausing, “I hope you will permit me to accompany Mr. Kirby to wherever this body is. I should like to help prepare it, speak with the family, go to—”

  “Please calm yourself, Mrs. Harper. We must see first if there actually is a body.”

  That stopped Violet. “What do you mean?”

  Portland sighed. “You must understand that Colonel Mortimer has been my friend since our time together in the Grenadier Guards. I would have stayed in the army much longer if my brother hadn’t died, forcing me to return home to assume the Marquess of Titchfield title in anticipation of eventually becoming duke. Regardless, George and I share many memories. Other than Pearson, he is nearly the only person I can tolerate. He knows me, understands my past, and expects nothing of me.”

  “Of course, Your Grace,” Violet murmured. What did she know about the friendships formed in the ranks of the peerage?

  “But George suffered terribly in the Burmese War. We were establishing proper control over northeastern India, you know, but the Burmese were violently opposed to us doing so. The colonel led a group of men on a secret mission to assassinate General Bandula, commander of their forces, prior to Bandula making it so easy for us. George’s men were discovered before they could complete their task, and brutally slain before his eyes. Only George and a trusted lieutenant escaped the slaughter. Worse, George was blamed for the mission’s failure and asked to quietly resign his commission, even though we soon killed Bandula.”

  Violet began to see what made the colonel so agitated yet secretive about witnessing a murder. What if he were to be blamed again? She began to feel some sympathy for the colonel, as well as respect for the duke’s circumspect handling of the situation.

  “After he left the army, George turned to drink and also suffered black periods of great insomnia. He married, but Esther died not two years later. I’ve often wondered if George’s episodes wore her out. He came to me over a year ago, penniless, and I offered him a cottage here at Welbeck for as long as he wants it. I know that he sometimes wanders out at night, unable to sleep.

  “And now, Mrs. Harper, you know why I am hesitant to sound the alarm. George may have been mistaken in what he saw. We have never had anything so sordid as a murder on the grounds. My workers are respectable townspeople. Whatever he saw, it is causing him great mental anguish, and I want to prevent further distress until we know what has really happened.”

  Not to mention that the servants were already on edge over Aristotle’s death, and rumor of a murder would make some, like Mrs. Garside, ready for an asylum stay.

  Violet could hardly believe it, but she found herself actually agreeing with Portland’s approach. Still, if there was a body lying somewhere, requiring attention . . .

  “Your Grace, I’m sure we can be discreet and not arouse the servants’ suspicions, but I must insist that if there is a dead body on the grounds, I need to see it.”

  “Yes, I believe George will have returned safely to his cottage by now for a good nap, so if you wish to find Kirby and accompany him quietly, you may.”

  But nothing seemed to occur quietly at Welbeck Abbey. As Violet walked through the house, a footman appeared from nowhere and discreetly followed her. As she reached the front door, a man in the homespun clothing of an outdoor worker burst through it, past the footman’s “You cannot enter this way!” and skittered to a stop in front of Violet, panting.

  Remembering himself, the stranger pulled off his cap. “Begging your pardon, ma’am. Mr. LeCato said there was an undertaker lady here and I was to find you. There’s a body, ma’am, a dead one. Come quick.”

  The two footmen gasped, and Violet knew that within moments the entire household would be in an uproar.

  “Show me,” she urged, hoping she could get there before all of Worksop had turned out to see whatever indignity the corpse had suffered.

  As she followed the worker outside, it occurred to Violet that perhaps Mrs. Garside had a point about Aristotle’s death portending doom for Welbeck Abbey. Only Violet didn’t realize yet how extensive that doom would be.

  Violet walked behind the worker as quickly as she could without appearing to be panicked. Her efforts didn’t matter. By the time she reached the location where the body lay, a small gaggle of onlookers had already formed, including Mr. Kirby, who was, mercifully, in the process of covering the deceased’s face with a handkerchief.

  The body was loosely covered in the dead leaves from a nearby oak, and was barely visible in the quickly descending October sun. Violet estimated that it was nearly three o’clock already. Thank goodness the body had been found before nightfall.

  They were not far from the house, alongside a section of tunnel that had obviously been completed, hence the body’s lying undisturbed for nearly a day, since workers were busy elsewhere. The tunnel, easily traced by a small mound running along the ground, looked as though a behemoth of a mole had burrowed it and then someone had placed a three-foot glass dome every thirty feet, presumably for light. As the darkness set in, gas lamps came on belowground, inside the tunnel, castin
g an eerie trail of dotted light that ran for nearly a hundred yards.

  Violet shivered to think of the various oddities she had encountered in the past few hours. Every moment brought something new and generally unnerving. But at least the light would help illuminate her present work.

  As the butler rose from what he was doing, she opened her mouth to ask a question, but Kirby spoke first, absentmindedly, as if remembering that his duty was far more important than any tragedy that had befallen the estate.

  “Mrs. Harper, your belongings have arrived, and you have been placed upstairs in the Old English Black Room. Mrs. Neale took the liberty of having your large bag moved from the kitchens up to your room,” Kirby said, as though he were greeting a simple weekend guest, and not as though they were both standing over a bloodied body with several of the staff waiting to see what the lady in black might pronounce.

  Violet, confused, simply nodded and said, “Whose body has been found?”

  Kirby, though, not to be loosened of his butler’s persona, replied, “May I introduce Mr. Jack LeCato to you, madam? He is an agent of Her Majesty’s government, helping to oversee construction here at Welbeck.”

  The queen had installed someone at a remote estate in Nottinghamshire to supervise some odd underground construction projects? That didn’t sound likely. A man in his midforties with a handsome, if deeply lined, face greeted her. “Mrs. Harper, we are fortunate you are on the estate at this exact moment. One of the footmen found the body and reported it to me, and, having heard you were here, I sent him to find you.”

  “Who is this?” Violet asked again.

  “Burton Spencer,” LeCato said. “He works for Ellery Reed, Welbeck Abbey’s estate manager. Someone has gone to fetch Mr. Reed in town.”

  Violet knelt down and gently pulled away the handkerchief from Spencer’s face. He looked to be no more than seventeen or eighteen years old, despite his brawny build.

  The crowd gathered on the spot was growing, with sweaty men pressing in for a closer look. Between the receding sun and the looming spectators, Violet could hardly see anything, even with the glow emitting from underground.

  Sensing her distress, LeCato turned to address those who had gathered. “Return to your quarters, all of you. Mr. Reed won’t like to know that you’ve been standing around gawping.” He was perfectly pleasant about it, but Violet could hear the strength of an iron locomotive in it. She wondered again why the queen had sent him, then returned to her work before the sun was completely gone.

  Except for Kirby and LeCato, the men moved off, grumbling. Violet put all of her attention to Spencer as the butler and the queen’s man looked on.

  She put her hands on either side of Spencer’s face and spoke softly to him. “I see you’ve been bleeding, but”—Violet pulled a hand away and examined her fingers against the light of the tunnel; there were just a few crusty bits of blood on them—“your blood is not fresh. You have been here some time, haven’t you, Mr. Spencer? Give me a hint as to what happened to you.”

  She turned his head from side to side and gently probed his scalp. As she did so, she heard a loud clacking noise; then a swarm of ravens raced overhead, cawing as they flew toward the sound. That, combined with the dimming light and the dead body cradled in her arms, left Violet very unsettled. Was Mrs. Garside correct about the mantle of doom settling over Welbeck Abbey? She shivered to dispel the silly notion and returned to her task.

  There was a definite wound on the back of Spencer’s head, but was it his cause of death or incidental to a fall? Hadn’t the colonel said he witnessed a strangulation?

  “I need more light,” Violet said.

  In his remarkably efficient manner, Kirby slipped away and returned almost immediately with a large lantern attached to an iron ring. He set it on the ground next to Violet, and it bathed Spencer in a warm glow. If it weren’t for the matted hair on the back of his head and his gaping mouth, she would have sworn he had an angelic presence.

  Violet slowly lifted Spencer’s chin for a better look at his neck. She found none of the bruising or welts that would have indicated a strangulation. As near as she could tell, Spencer had fallen, disturbing the scattering of leaves that subsequently landed on his body as they fell back to earth with him.

  He must have hit his head on a sharp stone or brick. Violet lifted the lantern with one hand and asked the men to brush away the leaves surrounding Spencer without disturbing his body.

  “Without disturbing him, Mrs. Harper?” LeCato said. “I’m sure he won’t notice what we’re doing.”

  “Nevertheless, you will be respectful of Mr. Spencer. He deserves dignified treatment from this point until the moment he is buried.”

  Violet didn’t need daylight to know that LeCato was rolling his eyes at her. It was the usual response she received from her commands to treat the dead in a reverent manner.

  The men did as she requested, though, and she held the lantern up, moving it around the area near Spencer’s head.

  “There!” LeCato said, pointing. Violet trained the lantern in the direction indicated. Two feet away from the body was a bloodied rock with a sharp edge. She hefted the stone in her hand. This would certainly do serious injury to—or cause the death of—someone who fell against it. And yet . . .

  “I guess that explains it,” LeCato offered. “Poor boy. He was just clumsy and paid dearly for it.”

  Violet said nothing. The duke should be the first to know her thoughts on the matter.

  Kirby was already taking action, brushing the leaf debris from his hands and straightening his jacket. “I shall inform His Grace straightaway that there has been an accident on the estate.”

  “Wait,” Violet said, her single word causing Kirby to freeze mid-motion. “Does Mr. Spencer have family in town? I will need assistance having him delivered to his home.”

  Neither Kirby nor LeCato seemed to know anything about Spencer, other than having vague recollections of seeing him about on the estate. “I shall ask His Grace,” Kirby said, as if somehow the duke would have a better idea of who a random worker was than anyone else.

  Kirby left Violet and LeCato with the body and the lantern while he picked his way through the dark back to the house.

  “I hear you practice in London, Mrs. Harper,” said LeCato. “I find a woman undertaker to be quite unusual.” His tone suggested he wasn’t quite sure whether he approved.

  Violet was quite used to this reaction, too. “Yes, I learned the trade from my late husband, and now I own—”

  The light of a swinging lantern distracted her, and in moments they were joined by another man, tall and lanky, who looked grizzled beyond his years from outdoor work.

  “Reed,” LeCato said curtly. “Good of you to take notice of your worker.”

  “I was in town,” the other man said with no further explanation, then addressed Violet. “Are you the undertaker? I heard it was a woman.”

  Violet rose to her feet and offered her free hand to the man. He took it reluctantly and quickly dropped it, his attention now on the prone body. “Who is this?”

  “One of your workers, Burton Spencer. He has a head wound caused by this.” Violet showed him the rock.

  Reed set his own lantern down, bent over to take a look at Spencer’s face, and, hands on his knees, muttered a foul oath. He then cursed Spencer. “How could you be so stupid, boy, to let this happen? What did I tell you? What did I tell you?”

  Violet was appalled by the man’s behavior. “Sirrah! I will ask you to show the deceased some respect. We do not chastise the dead for any wrongdoing they may have committed. We only wish them well into the afterlife.”

  Now she was the target of incredulity by both LeCato and Reed, but she didn’t care. “I will not have any body under my care spoken to in such a manner,” she repeated emphatically.

  “You have no body in your care,” Reed spoke grimly through gritted teeth. “This is my worker. Don’t dare to tell me how to treat Welbeck’s people. I�
�ll have you know I oversee more than a thousand men on the duke’s construction projects, and I’ll not be upbraided by a chit in a black dress.”

  Of all the unmitigated nerve, to speak in such a way in front of the deceased! Violet lowered her voice, out of respect for the body. “You deserve an upbraiding for your unkindness. However, for now perhaps you can be helpful and tell me whether Mr. Spencer has family in Worksop or somewhere nearby. He needs to be taken home and prepared for his funeral. I will do so, unless you believe you are qualified for it.”

  Reed frowned and was silent several moments. “He didn’t have any family that we knew of. He lived here on the estate. You’ll have to take care of him here, and I suppose His Grace will decide where to bury him.”

  The butler came scuffling back up to them once more. “I spoke to His Grace,” panted a breathless Kirby. “He does not know anything about Mr. Spencer and suggested that we speak with—ah, Mr. Reed. His Grace said you—”

  “I told her,” Reed growled curtly.

  “Thank you, Mr. Kirby,” Violet said. “Would you be so kind as to ask His Grace if I might call on him when I’m done here? Also, Mr. Spencer needs to be taken out of the elements. Hmm.” She thought for a moment. “Gentlemen, I need your assistance in carrying Mr. Spencer.”

  “To where?” LeCato asked. “The servants’ quarters?”

  “No. We are going to place him in His Grace’s dining room,” Violet said firmly, ignoring the chorus of protest by all three men, who assured her that the duke would have her run off the estate in a dog cart for such a thing.

  “He will not,” she replied, with more assurance than she felt. She intended to share her thoughts about Spencer’s death with Portland, and contend with his reaction from there. But for now, the young man would be placed in elegant surroundings, probably the finest he had ever encountered.