Death at the Abbey Read online

  Violet tucked her undertaking bag back inside her bedchamber’s armoire before heading out to visit the vicar. At least inside a church there would be calm and peace for a few minutes. Maybe Reverend Appleton could offer her a blessing, or a few words of comfort.

  Violet stopped to send her telegrams to Harry and to Boyce and Sons, then shopped for black ostrich feather plumes at a milliner’s shop before walking to Worksop Priory. The church was located in the center of town as so many were since towns frequently centered around the fairs, festivals, and other activities sponsored by a local chapel or cathedral. It had a magnificent nave and appeared to have been recently restored, although it was obvious that many parts of the church and its outbuildings still required repair, even three hundred years after Henry VIII’s rampage. Violet supposed that sacred spaces were not candidates for hasty rebuilding projects. That, or most of the local men were busy at Welbeck Abbey.

  The Reverend James Appleton was probably as old as the duke, but had a head full of snowy white hair and a step full of vigor. Had it not been for his lined face, Violet would have thought he was half his age.

  “Yes, I’ve had word about the tragic accident at Welbeck,” he said, inviting Violet to sit down in his cramped study, which was heaped with Bibles, yellowed parchment manuscripts, translations of classical ancient works, and sacramental supplies: chalices, candles, and linens. It was as if the Almighty had blown a mighty breath through the door, leaving His marks behind in a jumble.

  Violet sat in an old leather chair and immediately jumped up at the feeling of something sharp poking her. She lifted the cushion to find a gold-plated crucifix beneath it. The shape of the Christ was very realistically portrayed on it.

  “Ah, a thousand apologies, Mrs. Harper. I wondered where that went.” Appleton took it from her and inserted the base of it inside a staff and then placed the staff on the wall behind him, with the horizontal bar of the cross resting upon two nails. “So you wish to have Mr. Spencer’s funeral tomorrow?”

  Appleton pulled a ledger from the bottom of a tottering pile of books. He was obviously experienced at doing so because the stack wobbled precariously for several moments but did not collapse. “My curate is away, so I’ve been handling details large and small. Let me see . . .” The vicar patted himself until he found his gold, wire-rimmed glasses on top of his head. Putting them on, he flipped through his ledger until he found the page he wanted.

  “Hmm, yes, the ladies’ benevolence group was planning to have a meeting here tomorrow, but we shall put them off for a few days, shan’t we?” He drew a line through an entry in the ledger and scribbled something else. “His Grace should not be kept waiting. He is a great benefactor to our parish, you know.”

  Most peers were. In fact, in previous centuries, parishes owed their entire existence to whichever lord held sway in their locality.

  Violet nodded at the vicar. “This would normally be a mere third-class funeral, but since the duke is bearing the expense for it, and it will be well attended by all of Welbeck’s workers, it is my plan to make it a bit more . . . elaborate.”

  Appleton raised an attentive eyebrow. “His Grace is covering the service? Yes, that is very interesting. Do you know whether Mr. Spencer is Anglican or one of these nonconformist types?”

  Nonconformists were those of any sect—typically Baptists, Presbyterians, and Methodists—who dissented from the Church of England’s governance.

  “Actually, I do not know,” she replied. “No one seems to know much about him.”

  Appleton pursed his lips. “Hmm. Well then. Yes.” He scribbled down something else in his ledger. “I believe it wise to assume Mr. Spencer was a faithful adherent to the Church of England. His Grace despises nonconformists.”

  “Really?” Violet asked. Here was a new fact about Portland to add to a growing list of his curious qualities.

  Appleton smiled appreciatively at her interest. “His Grace has a great affection for the Anglican church and its special place in the history of the Lord’s blessing upon His people. The duke doesn’t care much for how the sheep are being led astray by those who practice outside orthodoxy. Entirely too radical, His Grace says, and one cannot help but be in complete agreement with so pious a man. In fact, last August he gave two thousand pounds to the National Protestant Union, which is trying to prevent the horrid disestablishment of the Irish branch of our church.” As he spoke, Appleton began waving his hands to emphasize his points. Violet watched helplessly as his left hand bumped into a pile of books, from which the top one fell to the floor.

  Violet jumped up and retrieved the volume for him, reading the title aloud as she handed it back to the vicar. “High Church, Low Church, and Broad Church: An Examination of the Merits and Shifting Attitudes Toward Ceremonial Worship. I had no idea there was such great debate,” she said politely, not realizing what she was about to unleash.

  “Oh yes.” Appleton was warming to his own theological discourse. “As you probably know, the church appeals to three sources for authority: scripture, reason, and tradition.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “Low churchmen tend to put more emphasis on scripture in their services, the Broad churchmen on reason, and the High churchmen on tradition.”

  He nodded to emphasize that tradition was the proper choice. “Why, the Low Church doesn’t even portray our Lord on the rood.” He looked back at the crucifix hanging on the wall and uttered a sound of disgust. “The infiltration of Broad ideas, where the laity believe they can decide for themselves what is proper, has caused no end of damage, and I blame a lot of these nonconformist churches for it.”

  “I imagine that not every parish commits to one form or another,” Violet murmured, lifting the watch pinned to her dress and making an obvious show of examining the time. How was she to get the conversation back on course?

  The vicar took no notice of her discomfort, so impassioned was he. “Of course, some say that as long as both clergy and laity are ready to jump into prayer, work, and sacrifice, the mode of service makes no difference. Of this, I am not convinced.”

  He stopped to draw a breath, and Violet jumped in. “Perhaps we might return to a discussion of Mr. Spencer’s funeral, sir,” she said.

  “Ah, quite right you are, Mrs. Harper. I’m afraid I am a bit enthusiastic—and concerned—about doctrinal changes in the church. Now, where were we? Yes, Mr. Spencer’s service. I believe that in order to please His Grace, it should be a High Church service. . . .”

  Violet and the reverend discussed the estate worker’s funeral for another half hour; then Violet was finally able to make her escape, pleading a myriad of duties that awaited her at Welbeck prior to tomorrow’s services.

  “Thank you for such a delightful discussion,” the vicar said. “I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed such stimulating conversation.”

  Violet wasn’t sure she had made a statement of any note, as his esoteric topic was, in her mind, immaterial to the question of whether the flock was faithful, and especially irrelevant to the coordination of poor Mr. Spencer’s funeral.

  As he escorted her out of the church, the reverend continued his instruction on the proper forms of worship, even calling out to her as she passed through the gate, “Mrs. Harper, I have another interesting volume that presents a case for making church attendance compulsory again in society, if you would like to borrow it.”

  Violet accepted the church’s teachings, but her life’s work was caretaking dead bodies, not dusty books full of arguments. She simply smiled and waved as she kept walking.

  She was almost back to Welbeck Abbey when she realized that—quite unbelievably—she had forgotten to mention to Appleton that Spencer had possibly been murdered. Would it impact where he wanted to bury Portland’s worker? She was not about to return to town to ask him about it, lest she be asked to commit to more theological engagement. Perhaps he might ask her to write a treatise on the correct form of baptism or some other fine point of theology.

  Baptism was a
sacrament best left to priests. Violet Harper could only be of help to the church after the sacrament of extreme unction.

  A sacrament, she soon realized, she would encounter more than once during her stay at Welbeck Abbey.

  7

  The next morning, Violet awoke before light to prepare for Burton Spencer’s procession. After putting on the best of her undertaker gowns, this one trimmed with broad, deep ebony velvet stripes around its crape skirt, she threw open the window of her room and stuck her head out. All was blissfully quiet, as construction was halted for the day in honor of Spencer’s funeral.

  The day was cool and the air was acrid from the coal smoke drifting from the multitude of chimneys around the house. It didn’t matter to Violet, though. She cherished days such as this, where she could achieve her greatest aspiration, to place someone in his final resting place with dignity and honor.

  She sometimes wondered if it was wrong to become so excited about a funeral. Reverend Appleton would have much to say on the matter, for sure.

  She secured a quick breakfast of porridge and sausage from Mrs. Garside, then began the work of finding men to put Spencer into his new coffin—which had arrived on a late train last night—and carry him out solemnly to the makeshift hearse. It was pulled by four horses adorned in magnificent plumage, and attended on either side by Mr. Reed and Mr. Kirby.

  The estate’s male house servants and outdoor workers, all wearing black armbands distributed by Mr. Kirby, fell into a natural procession line behind the hearse as it began its long, slow walk into town. Portland had stated quite clearly that he would be in attendance, but Violet didn’t see the ducal carriage anywhere. Was he walking in the processional? It didn’t seem likely, as the ridiculously tall top hat was nowhere to be seen floating above the crowd of mourners.

  Violet scurried up the line to catch sight of him, but he was nowhere to be found. How curious.

  Colonel Mortimer was in attendance, leaning heavily on a cane as if in great grief as he walked with Portland’s valet, Pearson. Violet’s husband always walked with a cane, because of an old war wound to his leg, so she was familiar enough with their use to know that the colonel didn’t require it.

  Why, then, the great demonstration of infirmity over Spencer’s death? What was the man trying to prove?

  The procession wound its way to Worksop, with Violet now trailing respectfully behind everyone else. In typical fashion, people emerged from their homes and shops to watch the spectacle. This was probably considerable entertainment for the townspeople, given how many of their neighbors and friends worked at Welbeck and were in the procession.

  As they neared the church, Violet once again hurried past the line of mourners to be the first one at the gate. To her great surprise, the ducal carriage was already there, waiting patiently across the street. It was an enclosed carriage, and the windows were covered in thick drapes. There was no movement or sound from within. In fact, if there were not a horse and driver attached to it, she would have assumed the carriage had been abandoned.

  Violet approached the conveyance, but the driver shook his head sternly in warning not to come closer.

  Very well, it was none of her concern what the duke did. She merely had to bury Mr. Spencer.

  Naturally, not everyone fit inside the priory. Despite its size, many stood outside, listening through the open windows to the reverend’s words as he spoke blessings over Spencer’s coffin.

  The coffin was then carried out to the churchyard, and Violet lingered at the rear of the great circle formed around the freshly dug grave, leaving Reverend Appleton to have his moment of eminence over the lowering of the coffin into its permanent home.

  Standing near her were several men who had also chosen not to be closely involved in the interment: the hobbling Colonel Mortimer; the queen’s man, Jack LeCato; a grim-looking Ellery Reed; and another man she’d never seen before.

  “Good morning, gentlemen. Mr. Spencer is fortunate to have such a pleasant day for his ceremony.”

  They gave her odd looks, and Reed snapped at her, “I’ve always thought gloomy, rainy days were supposed to be the most appropriate ones for funerals, not cool and crisp autumn days that seem to beg one to take a stroll through a park.” His face turned scarlet. “Pardon my rudeness, Mrs. Harper. This has all been so sudden . . . and difficult.”

  Violet nodded in sympathy. She had encountered all manner of reactions by the grieving, although Reed seemed to be swinging between calm and storm more wildly than most people did.

  She looked pointedly at the man she didn’t know, and LeCato quickly spoke up. “Ah, Mrs. Harper, do you know Martin Chandler, the duke’s falconer?”

  Violet exchanged greetings with the man, who must have been in his early twenties. He was handsome in a careless way, as though he was vaguely aware that he had melted pools of azure for eyes, an inviting smile, and a sturdy physique, but didn’t much care because there was so much else on his mind.

  As it turned out, it was mostly birds on his brain.

  “Mrs. Harper, aren’t you the undertaker who has been on the premises? You took care of Aristotle.”

  “Yes, I did. The duke’s raven is buried with the others near the rookery.”

  Chandler cocked his head to one side as if in serious assessment. “Madam, you yourself resemble a raven in that black dress and hat. The long tails suggest a raven’s wings.”

  Chandler might have been handsome, but he wasn’t particularly tactful. Comparisons of Violet to a crow or other bird were usually made by those who were angry in their mourning and were lashing out at her, not by casual observers.

  “Indeed,” she replied, and changed the subject. “Colonel Mortimer, do you not feel well today, sir?”

  “What? I’m fine. Oh, you mean this?” He lifted the cane. “Just an old injury, reminding me of its residence in my hip.”

  The colonel was lying. He might have some lingering injury—perhaps from the Burmese War—but it had nothing to do with his carrying of a cane today. What kinds of dark secrets did the man keep?

  “I’m glad to know you are well. Which reminds me, is His Grace ailing? I do not see him here in the crowds.”

  “He will no doubt be along soon,” the colonel said cryptically. “In any case, I believe I have paid my respects. I must be getting back so I can rest. That walk was a bit much.” He tipped his hat toward Violet and ambled off into town.

  Once more, she was struck with a deeply uneasy feeling about the colonel.

  Violet turned her attention to LeCato. “Sir, have you enjoyed your stay at Welbeck Abbey? I have discovered it to be a very impressive estate, despite all of the construction in progress.”

  She hoped he would offer a clue as to why he was installed on the ducal property, but she was not to be rewarded with any pertinent information.

  “Yes, it is most magnificent, with a grand history worthy of kings. Are you aware of its connection with our monarchs stretching all the way back to William the Conqueror?”

  “I know that Henry VIII dissolved it as a religious house.”

  “It was made a manor during the reign of William, then the abbey was built during the time of Henry II. After the dissolution, the abbey came into the hands of the Cavendish family, and they turned it into a glorious country estate. Both James I and Charles I were lavishly entertained there. During the Civil War, William Cavendish was a fanatical Royalist, but also a coward. He was in charge of a garrison located at Welbeck, but when the Roundheads came to Nottinghamshire, he fled in terror to the Continent with his purse and a couple of his favorite servants, abandoning his three daughters—whose mother had just recently died—and leaving them at the mercy of Cromwell’s soldiers.”

  “Surely not!” Violet said, although she had experienced enough of the upper class to know that they didn’t necessarily lay claim to integrity and honor. “You must be referring to the Cavendish sisters whose portraits hang in the dining room. I was aware that they were wealthy young women w
ho made good marriages, but not that they were at the mercy of the enemy.”

  “Well, old Cromwell was a pious man, even if he was austere and responsible for years of English misery. After his man, the Earl of Manchester, took over Welbeck as his headquarters, Cromwell sent strict instructions that the girls were not to be molested in any manner. Thus left alone, they were able to hide the family silver, manage the family finances, and send letters to their father, right under the Puritans’ noses. Neither Cromwell nor Manchester ever knew that they were harboring Royalist vipers in those three angelic faces.”

  “Were the daughters reunited with the father once Charles II reclaimed the throne?” Violet asked, fascinated by this slice of English history despite herself.

  “Unfortunately, no. The sisters continued writing loving letters to Sir William for years, even though he had remarried and showed no intention of ever returning to Welbeck.”

  “You know a considerable amount about the Abbey,” Violet observed. Had he been thoroughly instructed in it for some reason? Was this Violet’s opportunity to learn more about the duke? “His Grace must be very busy, with so much to run and no wife as his helpmeet,” she ventured discreetly. Fortunately, neither Reed nor Chandler seemed interested in her question.

  “He is an . . . interesting . . . man. Whereas his ancestors were obsessed with expanding the home itself, His Grace is concerned with more unusual projects.”

  “You mean these tunnels I have heard so much about? I have seen the skylights of one of them.” Violet remembered that Mrs. Neale had been reluctant to discuss Portland’s underground activities.

  “Yes, he has had miles of tunnels built, and intends to build many more.”

  “Where do these tunnels lead?”

  “Various places on and off the estate. In fact, there is a tunnel that runs from the house toward the Worksop train station.”