Stolen Remains Page 6

  Violet sat in an armchair with an elaborate floral covering next to a marble-topped pedestal table. “Thank you, but no. Lord Raybourn has been moved into the dining room and made more comfortable. I recommend that he remain there until such time as the funeral takes place.”

  “That should just be a day or two. The family has its own mausoleum at St. Margaret’s churchyard in West Hoathly. Can you arrange to have him transported there?”

  “Yes. Well. Ah, I have to tell you that Lord Raybourn cannot be buried just yet.”

  “Whatever are you talking about? Why not? Are things . . . worse with him than we thought?”

  “No, it’s simply that . . . that . . . while the queen cannot honor him with a state funeral, she would like him to have as decent a lying-in as possible. She may even send a member of the royal family to pay respects.”

  Violet waited for a lightning bolt to strike her. When it didn’t come, she felt emboldened in her falsehood.

  “Lord Raybourn must therefore be preserved as long as possible, so that dignitaries can have time to visit.”

  Stephen frowned. “It seems unusual for the queen to be so involved in the death of one of her lords.”

  “You must understand, though, that the queen has become much more attuned to death since the loss of her dearly beloved Albert. The loss of a peer means so much to her now.” At least that statement was mostly true.

  Stephen’s expression was conflicted. Katherine’s face was blank, although her hand shook as she picked up her teacup again and brought it to her lips. Stephen glanced sympathetically at his wife before speaking again.

  “Violet, you must understand how horrific this has been for us. Father dying so unexpectedly and so brutally, then the detectives just leaving him here like that. Now the queen—while flattering us immensely—has sent away the family undertaker and is asking us to postpone the funeral. It’s a bit overwhelming. I suppose it is a grace that Mr. Crugg was replaced by someone else we know.”

  “I know this is very hard on you both, and I—”

  “Not just on us. Dorothy and Nelly aren’t here yet. They will be devastated.”

  “When will they arrive?”

  “Dorothy will be on the six-thirty train to London Bridge tomorrow. Nelly is in London for the Season, and is meeting Dorothy at the train station.”

  No staff to meet the Fairmont sisters at the train station? Curious. “Is Mrs. Peet the only servant here?”

  “Yes, Father only brought her, his valet Larkin, and Madame Brusse, Willow Tree House’s cook, with him to London prior to heading off to Egypt. He’d planned to spend the rest of the Season in parliamentary session.”

  “Where are the valet and cook now?”

  “We have no idea.”

  The valet and cook were gone? “Do Detectives Hurst and Pratt know this?”

  “Yes, they’ve questioned us extensively, which is why my poor wife is nearly exhausted. Father took Larkin and Madame Brusse with him on his journey, leaving Mrs. Peet to manage the empty house.”

  “And so your father came home early for some reason, but without his two servants.”

  “It seems so. Do you think Larkin and Madame Brusse know something? Could they have had something to do with this? Inspector Hurst had no opinion, but I thought maybe . . .” Stephen’s voice trailed off on a sob. He cleared his throat and continued. “Do you know, I do believe he suspects me of killing Father.”

  “You? For what reason?” Didn’t the inspector think it was a suicide?

  “The inheritance, of course. Do you remember my elder brother, Cedric? He went off to the Crimea in fifty-four after a rather, er, disastrous marriage, and we never heard from him again. He was declared dead in 1861 and I was made the heir. So I suppose I stand the most to gain in my father’s death.”

  Violet shook her head. “But surely Inspector Hurst sees that is ridiculous. Not only did you love your father, I’m sure, but why would you do this all of a sudden now?”

  “Especially given that he may have been dying anyway.”

  “Stephen!” Katherine said. “Should you speak of such things to the undertaker?”

  “Of what topic other than death should I speak with the undertaker?”

  Katherine blushed.

  “It’s quite all right, Lady Raybourn,” Violet said. “Most people don’t know what to make of the undertaker. We’re used to being partly detested, partly feared, and only occasionally admired. So have no fear that you can either offend or distress me.” She smiled encouragingly at Katherine. The grief-stricken frequently argued and lashed out at one another, hardly remembering later what they’d said. No need for this husband and wife to have a petty quarrel over her.

  “What do you mean that your father may have been dying?”

  “It’s as I told the detective. Some months ago, I went to Willow Tree to visit Father, and caught him taking some pills he’d gotten from the chemist. He said he had a stomach ailment, but that I shouldn’t worry, as he planned to stop for a cure somewhere along the way on his Egyptian tour. I knew he was scheduled to return yesterday, so Katherine and I took the train up from Sussex to surprise him. We arrived here to find only Mrs. Peet in residence. She was . . . was . . . standing over my father’s body. I—we—were devastated. Still are.”

  “So if your father had taken a cure and it worked, he should have been feeling healthy, and if his illness had been exacerbated by his time in Egypt and he was possibly ill to the point of dying, what purpose would there be in killing him, as he would soon pass on himself?”

  “Exactly what I told the detective. It didn’t seem as though he believed me, although he said that he and that other fellow—Prigg? Plum?”

  “Mr. Pratt.”

  “Right, that he and Mr. Pratt had other investigations to set upon, and that he wasn’t sure when he’d be back.”

  Could Lord Raybourn have killed himself because of his illness? Did it worsen while in Egypt, making him realize he might die a painful, lingering death if he didn’t put a quick end to it all?

  Perhaps, but the notion didn’t sit well with Violet.

  There was nothing to do but plow on. “I’m so sorry, Stephen. I’m sure Inspector Hurst will soon clear your name and discover what really happened. Meanwhile, I need to ask you for permission to do something.”

  “Anything, just ask.”

  “In order to ensure I can obey the queen’s request, I need to inject—I mean, I need to fill, no . . . what I’m asking you is whether you would permit me to embalm your father in order to preserve him as long as possible. I have an excellent formulation that will prevent—”

  Katherine’s cup clattered down into its saucer. “Heavens, no! You—the queen—can’t mean to do such a thing. Stephen, really, hasn’t your father been through enough?”

  Stephen reached over and took his wife’s hand. “Darling, please. We mustn’t blame Violet.”

  Still clutching his wife’s hand like a life preserver, he passed his other hand over his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he dropped that hand to his lap. “I don’t know. I suppose it wouldn’t be any more dreadful than what has already happened. Go ahead. Just . . . be careful.”

  “You can trust me to treat your father as if he were my very own. One last thing, though. I’ll need some fresh clothes for him.”

  Stephen waved his hand, exhausted from the entire affair. “Talk to Mrs. Peet; she knows more about his wardrobe than I do. Speaking of which, can you recommend a mourning dressmaker? My wife and sisters will want wardrobes made. We also need some black armbands.”

  “Of course. Mary Cooke is very reliable. I’ll have her sent to you.”

  “Also, can you do something to prevent every family in Mayfair from coming to gawk at my father?”

  “I can have a discreet sign made to go beneath the doorbell, and will also have ‘No Visitors’ announced in his obituary.”

  “Yes, that’s fine.”

  With permission granted for the embalmin
g, Violet retreated downstairs to request more clean cloths and a change of clothes from Mrs. Peet, then went back to the dining room to finish taking care of Lord Raybourn.

  “Sir, I am sorry for the indignity, but I’m afraid I must relieve you of these spattered garments and make you look fresh again.” Violet had developed unusual strength in moving dead bodies around, typically by rolling them in one direction or another, instead of trying to lift them with her arms. With some struggle, she relieved Lord Raybourn of his clothing and folded it all into a pile. She covered his private area with a modesty cloth, and once again went through the exercise of examining his limbs and muscles in detail.

  Beyond the tragedy that had befallen him, his body was in relatively good shape for his age, for he must be in his seventies by now. He had the usual nicks and scars one might expect from a man who’d had a life well lived on his estate. Many aristocrats had taken spills from their horses or been attacked by game they were pursuing.

  There was one particularly nasty gash in Lord Raybourn’s side. Violet traced it with her finger. “What happened here, sir? Something with a long nail had its way with you. A disagreeable falcon not in the mood for hunting, maybe?”

  With her physical inspection of his graying skin complete, Violet patted Lord Raybourn’s hand for comfort.

  Pulling out another fresh cloth and soaking it with a special alcohol solution from her bag, she carefully but quickly wiped down the man’s arms, legs, and torso as if he were a newborn babe, patting carefully around his neck and face to avoid any further damage there. “Your final toilette, sir. The odor will be gone presently, I promise. It was worth it, though, for now you are sparkling fresh.”

  Although a body’s natural decomposition would release smells into the air, the fragrance of any lotions, ointments, or colognes added to the body wouldn’t last. Occasionally, families tried to give Violet their loved one’s favorite toilet water or cologne, which she could only spray on the deceased’s clothing. Once the body no longer had blood flowing in its veins, there was no pulse or warmth to radiate a fragrance. Imbuing a shirt or hat with scent usually satisfied the family without her having to explain the grim reality of things.

  Once again Violet withdrew her embalming ingredients and mixed them inside a dark bottle half full of water. A half ounce chloride of zinc, which was a white, granular salt, followed by a quart of alcohol. The resulting solution was highly corrosive and irritating to the lungs, hence why she only made it up in small batches when she needed it. Any leftovers were kept in dark bottles to prevent decomposition in sunlight. She capped her concoction for the moment.

  From her box of tools, she removed a scalpel and two nozzles and set them on the table next to the body. She also withdrew two sets of tubing and a clear bottle.

  Laying out another cloth on the floor beneath Lord Raybourn’s midsection, she placed the clear bottle on top of it. She attached each nozzle to one end of each tube and laid them both aside.

  Picking up the scalpel, she whispered, “This won’t hurt a bit, I promise.”

  With a hand around his leg, Violet selected a location and quickly sliced into it with the knife, opening up a vein. In went one of the tubes, with the other end trailing into the basin.

  She spoke quietly as she worked. “You know that many important people have been embalmed, don’t you, my lord? Why, even President Lincoln—you probably didn’t know that I live in America now—was embalmed. In fact, he, too, was embalmed in his home, the White House. You are keeping very fine company.”

  Working quickly now, she cut into Lord Raybourn’s neck, inserting a nozzle tube into his carotid artery. She reopened the bottle of embalming fluid, holding her breath at the acrid odor, and screwed on a pump mechanism, through which she secured the other end of the tube into the bottle using a special clamp. She worked the pump several times to get fluid flowing through the tube, then held the bottle upside down in her left hand, as far above her head as she could manage.

  Her right arm, scarred from an accident, could no longer bear such a position for more than a few moments.

  Maintaining this position was one of her most difficult tasks when she didn’t have a pole to which she could attach the bottle. However, she didn’t like carting around hanging poles to her customers’ homes. It was too stressful for grieving families to witness the undertaker’s tools. Therefore, she had purchased the largest leather case she could find that was still manageable for a woman, and only what could be closed up inside it usually went with her.

  The embalming solution quickly did its work. As it flowed into Lord Raybourn’s arteries through his neck, it began pushing out his blood, which exited through the vein in his leg. Soon there was a rhythmic spattering of blood into the previously empty bottle below.

  Violet typically added a tincture of red dye to the fluid to give the skin a rosy bloom. The amount of dye varied from customer to customer. This time she skipped the dye, for she knew it was impossible for Lord Raybourn to be on display for mourners and visitors.

  He was just too damaged.

  The best she could do was sew up the worst of it, augment his face with a bit of putty, and liberally apply Kalon Cream—Natural Number Six, perhaps?—over her work. She didn’t think even the family should see him.

  Once Lord Raybourn’s blood was completely drained and the embalming fluid had settled in, Violet checked her work by once again probing and gently squeezing his limbs. The solution appeared to have distributed evenly.

  With needle and thread, she made several stitches in the two locations she had cut open. The embalming process was now complete.

  Mrs. Peet had dropped off an elegant suit on the hall table outside the dining room. The requisite trousers, tailcoat, shirt, collar, cuffs, and cravat were overshadowed by the most elegant double-breasted vest of burgundy satin Violet had ever seen. Violet exchanged it for the soiled clothing she’d removed from Lord Raybourn, as well as all of the dirty rags, then stepped back into the dining room to inspect her embalming one more time and to dress Lord Raybourn.

  Embalming was an imperfect technique, since it was not in regular use. Those opposed to the practice pointed to cases where an embalming had resulted in perfectly preserved arms, face, and torso, and completely disintegrated legs.

  True enough, yet wasn’t the purpose of embalming to keep the body fresh while it was transported a long distance, or while grieving family members gathered around to mourn? As long as it served that purpose, why make a fuss that it couldn’t preserve indefinitely?

  “Indefinitely” was a word that now made Violet nervous. How indefinitely did the queen intend to leave Lord Raybourn lying out? Would Violet have to reembalm him if things dragged on too long? She’d never done that before and wasn’t certain it would even work.

  Violet worked quickly to cork the heavy, blood-filled bottle—whose contents she would take to an undertaker’s shop later for disposal—and clean up her instruments so she could re-dress Lord Raybourn.

  “My lord, it’s time for me to serve as your valet and dress you. I need you to cooperate,” she said, wrestling to get his arms into his jacket without jostling him too much. Arms were always so much more difficult than legs.

  Once he was dressed, Violet laid a cloth on his neck and torso to protect his clothing from her cosmetic work. She cut, filled, and stitched as best she could, despite the ravages caused by the gunshots, finishing off with a liberal application of Natural Number Six and a dusting of talcum powder.

  She stood straight to examine his face. No, it wouldn’t do. His cheeks were still . . . uneven. She took another of Mrs. Peet’s cloths and tore it into little strips, rolling each one up and tucking it inside His Lordship’s cheeks. After some adjustments, his face was fuller.

  Rather than sewing his mouth shut, or dragging a wire under his chin and sewing it behind each ear to keep his jaw from dropping, she put a block of wood under his chin, raising his shirt collar as high as she could and tying his cravat to h
ide it. After all, hadn’t he suffered enough indignity over her ministrations without her probing his mouth with a needle?

  With his eyes sewn shut, his lips firmly closed, and his torn flesh either sewn or augmented, Lord Raybourn resembled something of his former self.

  Violet stepped back to view her work from a few feet away. She was kidding herself. Poor Lord Raybourn looked like the monster from Mary Shelley’s novel.

  And I am Dr. Frankenstein.

  “Well, my lord,” she said as she finished cleaning up. “I trust you won’t arise and terrorize Londoners while I go out to find a coffin befitting your station. Pardon my jest, sir. Rest easy, I won’t be gone long.” She covered Lord Raybourn with a length of black crape, turned off the gas lamps, and left him in dark solitude.

  Only later did she realize she’d completely forgotten the tea tray Mrs. Peet had brought up for her.

  “It must be peculiar,” Katherine said, putting aside her cup and picking up a shortbread bar, nibbling distractedly at it, “to be a lady undertaker. And to then be called to do service for a family who once employed yours. How well did she know your father?”

  “Not that well. She might have seen him out riding, or, more likely, striding to the pond in a fury to find me as Violet and I muddied up our clothes capturing toads.”

  “What delightful fun, I’m sure. Will she take good care of the body?”

  “I believe so. She was just the estate manager’s daughter, but I suspect she still retains enough memory and respect of our family to be gentle with him.”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  “You refer to Her Majesty?”

  “Of course.”

  Stephen picked up a smoked brown trout sandwich. “We can hardly expect the undertaker to have enough influence with the queen to persuade her to let us get on with a burial, despite Violet’s association with the prince’s funeral.”

  “So this . . . awkwardness . . . might go on for days or weeks? Oh, Stephen, I’m not sure I can endure it.”