Death at the Abbey Page 8

“Truly?” Violet was agog. Even given that a tunnel could skip the twists and turns of overland travel, it still must be a single tunnel of at least two miles.

  LeCato nodded. “There are also many more projects beneath the earth.”

  “Such as a chapel?”

  He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You’ve seen it?”

  “No, but I’ve heard of it. His Grace did not want Mr. Spencer’s services held there. Perhaps that is because it is too small?”

  LeCato shrugged but offered no opinion. “Well, the chapel isn’t the most elaborate underground edifice he’s built.”

  Violet prodded him for more information about what other subterranean structures existed, but LeCato was vague. She tried another tactic. “Why do you think it is that His Grace builds so much beneath the earth, where no one can see it all?”

  “That is a question the prime min—many people—would like to have answered, Mrs. Harper.” He then added wryly, “Perhaps you will inform me if you discover the answer to it?”

  Violet had no idea how to respond to this. Was she being asked to spy upon the duke? She would not do so. The man was her customer, and his worker’s care was entrusted to her. Besides, her time at Welbeck was almost done. She offered a distracted “hmm,” then changed the subject. “It seems a tragic postscript in the history of the Abbey for Mr. Spencer to have died in such an unfortunate manner.”

  LeCato either didn’t care about Spencer’s death or wanted to avoid the matter completely for he replied, “It would appear that the coffin has been lowered. Time for the return journey, eh?” and strode off to join the crowds, followed closely by the estate manager and the duke’s falconer.

  While some of the mourners crowded around the reverend to compliment him on the service, and others milled around, waiting for guidance on what to do next, Violet headed out of the churchyard gate. She needed to alert the Welbeck Abbey driver that he could begin the journey home with his empty hearse while she assembled the mourners back into some likeness of an organized procession to follow it home.

  Welbeck’s servants and construction workers flooded out into the street in a hardly containable mass, made worse by what happened next. The ducal carriage sprang to life, pulling in closer to where the hearse was. One of the windows lowered, and a gnarled old hand—obviously Portland’s—began throwing coins into the street.

  The people reacted immediately to this, rushing forward to grab the shillings, sixpences, and farthings as they jangled against the unevenly cobbled pavement. As the money was quickly scooped up, the hand appeared again and again, scattering more silver and bronze coins.

  Violet felt as though she were in some strange medieval pantomime, where the lord of the land was offering alms to the poor as part of his responsibilities to his estate. Except this was a modern, nineteenth-century town, for heaven’s sake, not some centuries-old feudal estate. Why did Portland feel compelled to do such a thing?

  Violet shook her head. Members of nobility had depths that were impossible to plumb. For now, she had to worry about getting this completely disorganized throng back to Welbeck. Contemplating Portland’s motives could wait for another day.

  Violet returned to Worksop once everyone else had returned to the Abbey. She was glad to be back at Worksop Inn with her husband, finally having the opportunity to start and finish a dish of fish pie as she and Sam discussed what had happened during their past couple of days apart.

  She explained to Sam what had happened with Aristotle the raven, and the subsequent suspicious death of Burton Spencer, as well as the Duke of Portland’s eccentricities and Colonel Mortimer’s odd behavior.

  “So you don’t believe that the colonel actually witnessed Mr. Spencer’s murder, and that in fact he may have had something to do with it,” Sam said as he lifted his glass of ale to wash down his beef stew.

  “I’m not entirely certain what I think. I just don’t see how the colonel can claim that he saw Mr. Spencer being strangled, when it is obvious that Spencer was struck repeatedly in the chest and then fell upon a sharp rock. Even in the dark, how would the two actions look alike?” As she scooped the last creamy morsel onto her fork, Violet wondered how it would look to ask for an additional portion of fish.

  “And you plan to do something about it,” Sam said. It wasn’t a question.

  Violet bit her lip. How well he knew her. “I was thinking I might return to the Abbey tomorrow to do some more investigating in the area where Spencer was found. Maybe there will be some evidence that was impossible to see in the darkness, despite the light from the tunnel.”

  “What tunnel?” Sam asked.

  Violet told him about the skylights over the tunnel she had seen, as well as LeCato’s claim that there were miles of tunnels crisscrossing the property.

  Sam’s interest was palpable. “Are they still digging tunnels?” he asked.

  “I believe so. Mr. LeCato said that—”

  “What method are they using for creating the tunnels? Cut and cover? Drill and blast?”

  Violet had no idea what he was talking about. “I’m sure I don’t know. He never told me—”

  “Perhaps they were using a bench tunneling approach?”

  “It’s not anything anyone saw fit to tell the undertaker, Sam. I don’t think—”

  “Don’t you see?” Sam said excitedly. “The duke—or the estate manager—might well be interested in employing dynamite. I could help them be more efficient at it, with less risk and loss of life than in whatever method they are using now. I’d like to go with you tomorrow, sweetheart, and have you introduce me to the estate manager so I can propose it.”

  “I—I’m not sure exactly where Mr. Reed’s office is. I suppose I could ask Mr. Kirby. . . .” Violet wasn’t sure how she felt about the idea. She was hesitant about Sam’s enthusiasm for dynamite, although, if he was going to be blasting anyway, wouldn’t blasting fairly shallow walking tunnels be safer than the deep shafts needed for a colliery?

  Sam, however, was thoroughly warming to his own idea. “If I could convince Welbeck Abbey’s estate manager—Mr. Reed, you say?—that dynamite is a good idea, and then the duke was on hand to witness its benefits, why, I might have a whole new way for promoting dynamite in Great Britain. Imagine the influence such a great peer could have if he supported it. I tell you, it’s been damnably slow getting this colliery started. Far more difficult than I had anticipated.”

  “I thought you were enthusiastic about it. Remember all the trouble you went to in securing financing for it in London?” Violet knew she was stalling for time as she thought this out, not sure how she felt about bringing Sam along. Would Mr. Reed feel obligated to entertain her husband as penance for his churlish behavior? Would Portland believe Violet to be taking advantage of the privilege she had in taking care of one of his workers?

  Who knew what they would think about using dynamite? Queen Victoria herself had been horrified at the prospect when Violet had once told her that Sam was pursuing it.

  Violet’s thoughts were muddled, and she knew it. But ultimately, she needed to do this for her husband, no matter what her concerns were.

  “Of course. I’d be happy to do it.” Violet wasn’t at all happy about it, but wanted to please her husband. If she knew the troubles that lay ahead for Sam, though, she would have stamped her foot in protest.

  8

  It was with great trepidation that Violet now stood in Mr. Reed’s cottage, which served as both his office and his home, and stood a distance behind the kitchen gardens. The small building stood amid several other wood cottages with thatched roofs, and all looked as though they had been built in recent years but purposely made to look old and pastoral.

  With things back to normal after yesterday’s funeral, the roar and clanging of construction continued unabated around them. Reed seemed not to notice it, Sam looked thrilled, and Violet felt queasy.

  Within moments of introduction, Sam was deeply animated in his description of dynamite and it
s potential for Welbeck’s underground projects, and Reed was nodding in interest, seemingly unperturbed by Sam’s drawling American accent. With Violet all but forgotten, she decided to leave the men to their discussion, which would probably end up lingering over cigars and whisky, despite the early hour.

  Besides, there were intermittent clouds already brewing, so she might as well take advantage of whatever sun was left to examine the area where Mr. Spencer had fallen.

  No one questioned Violet’s unexpected presence as she made her way back past the tunnel, which she now saw led from somewhere beneath the house to a set of stables in the distance. No one, actually, even seemed to remember that Spencer had died mere days ago. He was already forgotten like the fallen autumn leaves—once young and green and soaking in life, then quickly swept up by the wind, never to be seen again.

  The grass was still damp from the morning’s dew, and soon her hem was wet from pacing methodically back and forth across the area of the lawn where Burton Spencer had been found.

  There was still the stain of blood where his head had lain. The rock was no longer here. Had Violet dropped it somewhere after showing it to Kirby, Reed, and LeCato?

  She retraced the general steps they had taken to get Spencer’s body to the house, but couldn’t find it. Well, perhaps it wasn’t important.

  She could find nothing else of any interest near the death site. Discouraged, she went back to Reed’s cottage to collect Sam, but the two men were still in deep conversation, standing over a large map, which they were marking up with charcoal pencils.

  Violet decided to seek a cup of tea from Mrs. Garside. Unsurprisingly, the cook and her kitchen maid, Judith, were in the roasting room, billowing the aroma of golden chicken up into the house.

  “Mrs. ’Arper, you ’ave returned,” the cook said, but there was no malice in her voice. Instead, she seemed to welcome the undertaker’s company. Violet soon understood why as she waited in the kitchen garden beneath a walnut tree whose bounty had been recently harvested, if the scattered shell pieces were any indication. Upon bringing a tray out to Violet, Mrs. Garside’s voice turned conspiratorial.

  “I was right, then, wasn’t I, madam?” the cook said, setting the tray on a folding table next to Violet’s lawn chair and pouring out steamy, fragrant souchong tea.

  “Pardon me, you were right regarding what, Mrs. Garside?”

  “Oh, Mrs. ’Arper, it’s no use being coy with me. You know I’m meaning ’Is Grace’s bird, Aristotle. ’Is death ’as already brought a bit of doom to Welbeck, ’asn’t it? What with that Burton Spencer falling and ’itting ’is ’ead.”

  Violet wasn’t sure how to respond. She wasn’t about to tell Welbeck’s cook that she suspected foul play.

  “I don’t think Mr. Spencer’s death, although tragic, constitutes doom for the estate,” Violet said, sipping her tea, its smoky aroma enveloping her. Souchong leaves were high-quality, and this pot was good and strong, made from new leaves, not reused ones that a servant would have for preparing tea downstairs, which indicated to Violet that Mrs. Garside was showing her a large degree of respect by brewing upstairs tea for her.

  “It’s just the beginning, you mark my words, madam. There’s more to follow.” The cook nodded her head sagely. “It’s lucky you’re ’ere to bury all the bodies. I ’ear yesterday’s service was lovely. You’ll need to stay on longer for the others.”

  Violet couldn’t bring herself to tell Mrs. Garside there was no reason for there to be other deaths on the estate, for the cook spoke with unshakable assurance. Instead, she simply replied, “I shall keep my eyes open for any further bodies.”

  Satisfied, Mrs. Garside topped off Violet’s cup and returned to the kitchens.

  With the ever-present construction noises soon receding to a dull throb in her mind, Violet closed her eyes and simply enjoyed the warmth of the cup in her hands. It was impossible to keep her mind blank, however, and her thoughts drifted to the events of the past three days. Had it really been just three days since she had arrived to bury a bird? She shook her head. That was the strangest undertaking request ever made of her. But it had ensured she was on the premises when Spencer died, hadn’t it? That had certainly been a divine stroke of fate.

  Although if someone had murdered the estate worker, the killer might not leave fate’s handiwork alone, and instead take matters further into his own hands.

  “What did you do to earn a fatal beating, Mr. Spencer?” Violet whispered softly. “Was it done in the heat of the moment, or had you earned someone’s hatred over time?”

  She brought the warm cup to her lips again, tapping the side of it as she drank.

  A sudden thought came to her and her eyes flew open. Putting the cup on the tea tray, she reached for her reticule and dug through it, finally retrieving the porcelain shard she had found in Aristotle’s gullet.

  It occurred to Violet that when she had compared the shard to all of the duke’s dish sets in the storage room, she had merely held it up against the various porcelain designs, trying to match them. She hadn’t actually held any of the dishes in her hand to, say, compare heft or thickness. Perhaps Aristotle had choked on a piece of the servants’ dishware.

  Although, hadn’t Olive told her that His Grace ate on that, as well? The maid should have recognized it in either case.

  Furthermore, did it really matter what specific shard from a soup bowl or dessert plate the raven might have choked upon?

  Nevertheless, Violet liked for all of her undertaking jobs—no matter how strange—to wrap up tidily.

  She lifted her teacup again and drained it, then lifted the cup in her left hand and the shard in her right, twisting and turning them in comparison.

  Now that is strange.

  The shard was . . . different. It was of fine quality, better than that of the teacup and probably more like that of the stored, unused sets, yet it had an odd, translucent quality she hadn’t noticed before. What factory produced porcelain like this?

  Or was it even porcelain?

  If it wasn’t, what material was it? Something used in constructing the duke’s tunnels, perhaps? A substance that might be readily found in the rookery if one knew where to look?

  Violet had met the falconer, Martin Chandler, at the funeral. Perhaps it was time to pay him a visit.

  The falconer was not alone at the rookery, which was located a couple of hundred yards north of the house and consisted of three different structures, all painted deep brown and attached to wire-mesh enclosures. To Violet’s surprise, the parlor maid, Olive, was with him inside one of the enclosures, and if Violet was any judge of facial expressions, Olive was deeply enamored of Martin Chandler.

  Chandler looked up quizzically from where he stood inside at a large, waist-high table, on which sat perches at varying heights, with ravens resting atop three of them, their long black talons curved tightly around the branches.

  “Mrs. Harper? Have you come for falconry lessons? I can retrieve one of our red-tailed kites for you.” Chandler offered a lazy smile.

  Violet smiled thinly, even as Olive, who had been seated watching Chandler, now stood up and went to be next to him, as though offering herself as a physical barrier between Violet and the falconer.

  “No, I’m afraid I’ve come on a specific mission. I was wondering if you could tell me a little about the habits of ravens. What they eat, how far away they travel, what their nesting habits are, and so forth.”

  Chandler continued to look puzzled, while Olive’s glare was full of daggers. Did the poor girl actually think Violet was here to flirt with the young man? Well, it was flattering to think that Olive considered her a threat, as misplaced as the parlor maid’s notions were.

  “Do you plan to acquire a bird for yourself?” the falconer asked as he buried his right hand deep into the feathers above the shoulders of a raven that had hopped down from its perch onto the table, still tethered to the branch by a chain. As Chandler scratched the raven’s skin beneath the layer
s of plumage, the bird acted ecstatic, raising its wings to give Chandler easier access to its skin, and cackling in delight as it bobbed its head up and down.

  “No, I’m just curious about ravens,” Violet hedged, “now that I’ve actually undertaken one of them.”

  “I know all there is to know about them.” Chandler said this without pride or arrogance, but in the easy manner of someone who knows his business.

  “For how long have you been His Grace’s falconer?” Violet asked, a question she knew had nothing to do with the birds, but one more pertinent to her investigation.

  He shrugged. “Near to three years, I suppose. My father was the falconer before me, but he got gout pretty bad, and couldn’t work with the birds anymore. It nearly killed him not to handle them anymore, but the master gave him quarters here on the property for the rest of his life, so he was fair happy enough.”

  “Do you enjoy training them as much as your father did?”

  Another shrug. “It’s respectable work. I expect to come into some money soon, and then I’ll be in a position to marry. That will make me even more respectable.”

  Next to him, Olive blushed bright pink, and Violet had to admit that the color on her high cheekbones made the girl quite attractive.

  “I congratulate you on your upcoming happy event, sir. Are the birds confined to the rookery most of the day, or do they spend much of their day flying?”

  “It depends upon which of His Grace’s birds you mean. The kites, peregrines, and eagles spend much of their time on the ground except for when I send them out to feed or am training them for hawking. The ravens fly about more freely, and many of them like to perch in that grove of trees.” He pointed through the enclosure at some high treetops near the rear gardens. “I use this to call them home.”

  Continuing to rub the raven, Chandler dug out a wooden device from his trouser pocket. Was this what was responsible for the loud clacking noise Violet had heard when the large flock of them passed overhead as she investigated Spencer’s body? “His Grace keeps the ravens largely for entertainment—they can perform tricks, you know—and to take care of carrion. They are nasty eaters, will consume most any decaying flesh.” Chandler stopped scratching the bird and offered his fore and middle fingers to it. The raven squawked its displeasure at no longer being stroked, but hopped on and allowed itself to be settled back on its perch. Chandler removed a second bird, which cawed in pure delight at having its turn.