Stolen Remains Page 8

  “Hardly. The detectives will find out who is responsible and capture him, if it wasn’t, in fact, a suicide. My work is much tamer, merely caring for Lord Raybourn’s body.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Honestly, Sam, there is no danger in this at all. I have no other duties beyond what I’ve just said.”

  “Perhaps. In any case, what a full day you’ve had, my love, and how odd that you know Lord Raybourn. Do you think the queen was aware of this?”

  Violet stretched, happily full and contemplating removal of her corset and skirts. “I don’t see how. It was so long ago that my father worked for him. Which reminds me, I should write and tell him.”

  “I can tell him when I return tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? You aren’t staying? Mother is better and I’m sure Father can manage without either of us.”

  “That’s part of the reason I came up to see you.” Sam winced as he stood from the table, went for his walking stick, and began to pace. Violet always knew that when Sam was either upset or obsessed by a topic, he hobbled back and forth across the room, frowning. He did so despite the discomfort she knew it caused him.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “You think your work will be concluded in a week?”

  “I can hardly know. The coroner declared Lord Raybourn’s death a suicide, but the queen is not sure. Scotland Yard has gone on to other investigations, so now I will assist the family for as long as the queen wishes. Which reminds me, I didn’t tell you that I am now faced with the unenviable task of questioning the Prince of Wales over events in Egypt.”

  “Why aren’t the police doing that?”

  Violet held up her palms. “I have no idea; she hasn’t said why. The queen says it would be unseemly for her or the police to do so. But to have me do it? I’m not sure I’m up to all of this.”

  “If any living being is up to it, it is you. However, my greater concern is that you not get mixed up with a murder again.”

  “I’m sure it won’t come to that.”

  “Well, perhaps your stay here presents no difficulty.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Sam stopped pacing to face her. “I’m going to Sweden.”

  “Sweden? Whatever for?”

  “I meant to talk to you about it today after talking it over with your father, but then the household was in such an uproar with your departure that I decided to wait. As you know, silver was discovered in Nevada ten years ago, and seems to be far more plentiful than what can be had from gold mines, especially given that the Colorado gold mines dried up right quick. There was a silver vein found in Summit County just five years ago, although it has yet to be fully explored.”

  “I knew about Nevada’s Comstock Lode, but didn’t realize we had silver in the Colorado Territory, too.” What did this have to do with Sweden?

  “I’ve been casually reading about it in the papers, but I’ve learned something that makes me think my future isn’t law, but silver mining. You see, there is a Swede by the name of Alfred Nobel. He’s a chemist who has invented a substance called dynamite, an improvement upon nitroglycerine as an explosive. He already has patents in the United States and here in Great Britain, and is preparing to start the British Dynamite Company near Glasgow. I want to meet with him, and possibly consider investing in a dynamite factory either here or back home.”

  Violet’s head swam. “So you mean to be a procurer of explosives? That sounds dangerous.”

  Sam sat down again. “That’s just it. Dynamite is far less dangerous than what has been used before. There is a fortune to be made in bringing a safe method of opening mines to Colorado, I’m sure of it. But I want to meet with the man personally before moving any further.”

  Violet wrinkled her nose. “It still sounds so . . . perilous. Won’t people think you’ve invested in a substance guaranteed to bring me clients?”

  “To the contrary, I believe dynamite will save lives.”

  “I see. Well, it seems we both have a great deal of work ahead of us.” She stood. “You say you are returning to Brighton tomorrow?”

  “On the early train. I’ll settle things there and head to Sweden right away so that I can be back as soon as you’ve concluded the funeral. We’ll be back in the Colorado Territory in a jiffy.”

  “We have precious few hours before you leave.”

  Sam took her hand. “Then we’d best make good use of what time we have left.”

  9

  Fully rested and serene, Violet saw Sam off at the train station the next morning before returning to Morgan Undertaking to check on what supplies Harry and Will had pulled together. They were loading a coffin onto their wagon as she arrived.

  Harry removed his undertaker’s hat and wiped his brow with a handkerchief. “Good morning, Mrs. Harper. Unusually beastly today, isn’t it? We’ve got your coffin and other things right here.” He patted the polished box with its ornamental brass handles. “Don’t have the plate for it but will have it by tomorrow, I expect. The florist will deliver the lilies directly this afternoon. Would you like to ride over with us?”

  Will and Violet rode up front, while Harry wedged himself into the wagon with the funerary goods. Traffic was heavy, and Violet found herself removing her black gloves just for a little relief from the heat on an abnormally warm May day.

  As they waited at an intersection for an omnibus to pass by, Will turned to Violet. “How is Mr. Harper? Is he here in London with you?”

  “Briefly. He’s gone to Sweden to explore a business opportunity. How is your new wife? I hope I will get to meet her before I leave.”

  Will reddened. “That might not be possible. Lydia is a little, er, shy, about any involvement in my work. Which is entirely proper, of course. I am her husband and provider, and there is no reason for her to concern herself with what I do during the day.”

  Such swagger from gentle Will. Traffic cleared and he flicked the reins as he rounded into Bayswater Road.

  Violet turned toward his slim profile. “Are you troubled, Will?”

  He glanced back to ensure that Harry was paying no attention to them. “I’m mostly worried. Harry had the right of it when he said Lydia wants me to join her father’s floral business. He just doesn’t know how adamant she is about it. I must say, I find the idea appealing. There’s good profit to be made in it, and I wouldn’t have to deal with grieving families and coffins and all of this death apparatus. I just don’t want to disappoint Harry. How will he manage on his own?”

  “Undertaking isn’t for everyone, but I’m sure Harry can find someone to work in the shop with him. Surely pleasing your wife is more important than pleasing your business partner.”

  Will grimaced. “I’d prefer to do both.” He clucked his tongue and maneuvered the reins so that the horses stopped in front of Raybourn House.

  Mrs. Peet greeted Violet at the door once again, her face still blotchy and swollen. Lord Raybourn must have been a benevolent master to have engendered such grief.

  Mrs. Peet informed her that the new Lord and Lady Raybourn were still upstairs performing morning ablutions and having breakfast, but would be down shortly. The housekeeper then scurried back downstairs into the kitchen.

  Harry and Will brought the coffin into the house while Violet unloaded a folding wood bier and several heavy canvas sheets. The men returned in multiple trips for the ice container and other supplies.

  The coffin was left in the entry hall while the three undertakers silently went to work. They rearranged furniture in the drawing room, creating an empty space in the middle of the room. Harry and Will placed the deep ice chest on the floor. Violet unfolded the canvas pieces and lined the chest with them. One side of the chest dropped lower than the other, providing a gap where Will and Harry dumped in bags of chipped ice.

  Violet then unfolded the bier and positioned it over the ice chest, then draped a length of black crape over it. The bier was now ready to hold the coffin. The ice chest below would keep Lord
Raybourn’s body cool, adding protection beyond Violet’s embalming.

  The two men placed the coffin on the bier. Violet opened the lid and nodded in satisfaction. It was lined in exquisite cambric linen. She gently pressed down on the mattress, which was firmly stuffed. Very good.

  “I think we’re ready for Lord Raybourn,” she whispered.

  At the dining room table, Violet removed the covering cloth, leaving Harry and Will to carry the body from the dining room table to the coffin, while Violet murmured encouragement to Lord Raybourn’s lifeless form.

  Once Raybourn was ensconced in his resting box, the three of them examined their work.

  Harry shook his head. “This gentleman must have been in a bad way. I imagine he wouldn’t be recognizable to his family.”

  “No, despite my best efforts, this poor man has not only suffered a gunshot blast, but is totally unable to receive family.” Violet gently shook out the covering cloth and billowed it back over Lord Raybourn, letting it gently drape over him. She pulled down the coffin lid, which tapped closed with barely a sound.

  Violet helped the men clean up all of their supplies in preparation for leaving. “I’ll stay here to wait for the lilies. Leave behind a draining dish, will you?” Violet said. The ice chest had a spigot at one end that would allow her to drain melting ice. She would order ice as needed, refilling the chest through the lowered side. In this way, Lord Raybourn should stay well preserved—she hoped.

  “Will,” she said as the two men were about to leave. “I’ve another thought. I think it might be best if we locked the coffin. Visitors might get it into their heads to inspect him, and I’d like to avoid any disrespect to Lord Raybourn’s person.”

  “How many keys?”

  “Just one, I think.”

  “I’ll bring a brass locking kit over tomorrow when I deliver his inscription plate. We’ll take care of the window bunting now.”

  As the door clicked behind them, Stephen and Katherine Fairmont descended the stairs.

  “Oh,” Katherine said, paling to see Violet standing next to her father-in-law’s new coffin now prominently displayed in the drawing room. She clung to the newel post at the bottom of the staircase.

  “Hello, Violet.” Stephen stepped forward. “May I see my father?”

  Violet put a hand on the lid of the coffin. “Respectfully, I think it better that you don’t. He is resting comfortably here as he is, but I don’t think he is prepared for visitors.”

  Stephen frowned. “You aren’t finished?”

  “I am. Your father is simply not looking well enough for anyone to see him.”

  He blinked as he absorbed what Violet was telling him. “I see.”

  Behind him, still paralyzed at the foot of the stairs, Katherine put a hand to her throat. Violet continued as gently as possible. “I did the best I could, but I don’t think anyone should see him. In fact, I’ve ordered a lock to ensure no one inadvertently lifts the lid to add a memento to the coffin. If you’ve no objection, I’ll stay here with Lord Raybourn until the flower sprays arrive this afternoon.”

  “Right. Of course. Whatever you recommend. Actually, Dorothy and Nelly will be here soon. You might enjoy seeing them again. I’ll ring Mrs. Peet and tell her to serve you a tray around two o’clock.”

  Stephen and his wife retreated back upstairs, leaving Violet alone with the coffin. She waited in the total silence to which she was accustomed in a home containing the recently deceased. It was ironic how, when time was symbolically stopped, so too was all activity.

  Breaking into the stillness was the distant ringing of a bell from upstairs—probably Stephen summoning Mrs. Peet regarding a meal for her—followed by Mrs. Peet’s footsteps up the servants’ staircase.

  Violet didn’t mind being alone with the dead. Once they had been prepared, the quiet time gave her an opportunity to think. At the moment, she mostly wondered why she was even here and what sort of secret purposes the queen had with regard to Lord Raybourn. What was she to do after today, when the floral arrangements were done and there was nothing left but to plan a funeral, a funeral that she wasn’t yet permitted to plan?

  The detectives assigned to investigate Lord Raybourn’s death would surely determine who had done this to him. Violet had no detecting abilities. Well, it was true that she had once stumbled upon the evidence of a killer at work in London, evidence that many others had overlooked or ignored, but that was just a handy piece of luck.

  Besides, she’d nearly been killed herself in the process. If she were to be involved in this, who knew what would happen?

  Violet shook her head in frustration. What did the queen really want from her?

  To clear her mind, Violet went to the drawing room’s mantel clock and examined it. An old John Harrison clock, very fine indeed, although everything in the home showed great taste and attention to detail, from the multilayered, fringed draperies to the thick and heavily patterned carpets that covered most of the herringboned wood floors, to the overstuffed, overcarved rosewood furniture. In addition to the jumble of paintings lining the stairway, there was a confusion of pencil drawings, watercolors, and oils lining most of the walls on this floor, as if the owner couldn’t decide what his tastes were but desired above all things to be considered artistic, and therefore had purchased a little of everything.

  Tables around the room were lined with daguerreotypes. Violet picked up frames, trying to distinguish whom she might know. Here was a recent shot of Stephen and Katherine outside of Willow Tree House. Violet remembered the unusual rust color of the house’s stone, not apparent in the sepia-toned rendering.

  Another photograph showed Lord Raybourn in a classic posed shot, wearing a suit and sitting on a chair, one leg crossed over the other and his elbow on a table. Behind him was a somber-looking woman. His wife? No, not possible. The original Lady Raybourn had died long before photography was available.

  More photos included one of Willow Tree House staff gathered at the front entrance, one of a hunting dog—a conceit only a wealthy man like the viscount could afford—and one of a very handsome young man, his expression studiously bored and . . . was that condescension for the camera’s eye?

  She set his photo down. This was none of her business, and soon—

  The distant ring-a-ling of a doorbell emanating from the kitchens caused Violet to jump at its sound invading her silence.

  That must be the floral deliveryman, she thought, and retreated back to her chair next to the coffin to wait for him to appear.

  It wasn’t the lilies. Mrs. Peet went to the front door, admitted what sounded like two women and a man, and brought them upstairs to the drawing room. Presumably the women were Stephen’s sisters, Dorothy and Nelly Fairmont.

  Time had not been kind to either sister.

  When she and Stephen were playmates at age ten, Nelly was a teenager and Dorothy was in her early twenties. Violet mentally calculated their ages. She and Stephen were now both thirty-six, making the sisters roughly forty-two and forty-nine.

  Nelly, the younger sister, had the better of it, with her auburn hair fashionably arranged in waves with long ringlets flowing around her shoulders, and her slim and petite figure shown to perfection in her fashionable day dress. She might have just stepped from the pages of Godey’s Lady’s Book. But the smile on her face at greeting Stephen and Katherine did not reach her eyes, which were webbed with crow’s feet and underscored by dark circles that had a permanence suggesting they were established long before the death of her father.

  Stephen kissed his sister’s cheek, commenting on how long it had been since he’d seen her, and greeted the man next to her with bluff heartiness. He then pulled Dorothy close for an embrace. Dorothy tolerated Stephen’s touch, but just barely. She looked like a ragged old tomcat about to be bathed, all ten claws on Stephen’s shoulder, as though she might launch off him and run yowling out of the house.

  Dorothy was much taller than Nelly, almost as tall as Stephen, but did not ca
rry herself in a statuesque way. She was frumpy and disheveled, her graying hair completely untamed by her hat. She reminded Violet of a sturdy farmer’s wife, not the daughter of a peer.

  Violet stood as the entourage entered the drawing room. Stephen made introductions. “Dorothy, Nelly, Gordon, may I present to you Violet Harper, the queen’s undertaker? You might remember her father, Arthur Sinclair, who served as Father’s estate manager for a short time.”

  Nelly shook her head, while Dorothy squinted at Violet, as if to bring her into focus. At least Gordon smiled at her.

  “Violet, these are my sisters, Dorothy Fairmont and Eleanor Bishop. This is Nelly’s husband, Gordon Bishop.”

  Only Nelly’s husband moved forward to shake Violet’s hand, pumping it up and down with vigor. “A pleasure, I’m sure. Well, not such a pleasure at the moment, is it? No, no, things are most tragic, tragic indeed.”

  “Really, Gordon, there’s no need to unhinge the woman’s shoulder,” Nelly said to an immediately crestfallen Gordon. “I suppose that’s Father in there?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Bishop. He is resting comfortably now.”

  Nelly sniffed. “I suppose he really isn’t doing much of anything, is he?” She began removing her gloves. “Katherine, what about some tea? It was a dreadful wait at the train station.”

  “Of course, Nelly dear.” Katherine went to a panel on the wall between the drawing room and the dining room and tugged on one of two decorative rope pulls. Violet heard the distant ringing again, summoning Mrs. Peet for more tasks.

  “Why is the coffin closed?” Dorothy asked, the size of it too large to require her to squint.

  “Lord Raybourn is not really presentable for company,” Violet told her.

  “Isn’t my brother Lord Raybourn now? Father is gone and that’s that.” Dorothy removed her hat and handed it wordlessly to Mrs. Peet, who had just entered and opened her mouth to ask her new mistress what service she required.

  Were Mrs. Peet and Stephen the only mourners of Lord Raybourn’s death? Violet was used to seeing relatives with grudges against the deceased, but they usually attempted to mask their feelings in some way, at least until the will was read. Dorothy and Nelly wore their feelings on the outside like sandwich-board men wore advertisements.