Stolen Remains Read online

  What had Anthony Fairmont done to engender such enmity from his daughters?

  She had no time to ponder it, for someone twisted the doorbell again. Mrs. Peet opened it to Detectives Hurst and Pratt, who added their own hats to Mrs. Peet’s arms.

  “Excuse me,” Stephen said to Hurst. “To what do we owe this visit? As you can see, my family has just arrived and we are mourning my father.”

  “Our sympathies are naturally with you, sir, but we were hoping to interview your relations as soon as possible.”

  “This isn’t a particularly convenient time.”

  “Be that as it may, sir, we’ll have our interviews now.” Hurst stood there like an impenetrable fortress wall that Stephen was never going to be able to scale. “Perhaps we could start with you, miss.” He nodded at Dorothy.

  “Right then,” Stephen said. “I suppose the rest of us will be upstairs. Mrs. Peet, bring the tea up, would you?” The remainder of the Fairmont family went upstairs.

  Violet’s tray was completely forgotten, for sure. Her stomach growled gently, to remind her that it would require attention sometime soon. For the moment, she needed to figure out how to wait for the florist while getting out of the detectives’ way.

  “Pardon me,” she said. “I’m just waiting for flowers to arrive, but I can wait in the kitchens while you talk.”

  Pratt spoke up for the first time. “Mr. Hurst, maybe Mrs. Harper should stay for this. She’s the queen’s undertaker. . . .”

  The other detective grunted. “I hardly think the Crown’s request to cooperate with her means involving her in our investigation.”

  Pratt scratched his head. “I don’t know, sir. It might speak in our favor if we let her listen in.”

  “Really, I can just go downstairs and—”

  “Please sit, Mrs. Harper, while I think,” Hurst said as he paced back and forth in front of the coffin, head down, deep in thought. Dorothy and Pratt sat down, as well. After several moments of pacing and muttering to himself, Hurst stopped and addressed Violet.

  “Very well, then. Mrs. Harper, why don’t you stay while we talk with Miss Fairmont. She might prefer having a female presence in the room.”

  Violet glanced across the room at Dorothy, whose back was hackled even as she tried to behave with perfect aristocratic boredom. Hurst adopted an air of great friendliness as he sat down in a chair next to her, a small table covered in photographs separating them. Pratt was perched on a tufted armchair a few feet away, while Violet remained across the room next to the closed coffin.

  If the warmth of the day wasn’t suffocating enough, the thought of being present for Inspector Hurst’s inquisition was.

  “First, I am sorry for the loss of your father . . . Miss Fairmont, is it? Are you a spinster?”

  “Yes, I have never been married.”

  Pratt pulled a tattered notebook from his breast pocket and jotted down notes while Hurst questioned Lord Raybourn’s daughter.

  “Tell me, when was the last time you saw him?”

  “The last time he was home at Willow Tree House. That would have been back in February, about three months ago. We dined together the evening before he left for London.”

  “How did he seem to you?”

  “Seem? He was what he always is, or was. Selfish and thoughtless.”

  Hurst nodded. “And what made him selfish and thoughtless?”

  “You obviously never met Father. He had a single-minded drive in everything. His singular goal in life was service to the Crown, and his children were merely instruments of his pleasure in making this happen. In particular, we were not to embarrass him. Any discomfiture was tantamount to treason. Some of us were blessed with Father’s favor; others of us were cast aside like slops. Of all of us, I imagine Cedric had the best of it.”

  “Cedric?”

  “Our eldest brother.”

  “Why did he ‘have the best of it’?”

  “Because he died, of course. He joined the war in the Crimea in fifty-four and never returned.”

  Violet tried to maintain as neutral a face as Hurst and Pratt were, but her stomach was roiling at Dorothy’s contentions toward her father. Or was it hunger getting the better of her?

  “Your father permitted his heir to go to war?”

  “Cedric was our father’s cherished boy. He did as he wanted. When Cedric’s marriage soured, he decided to join the army, and Father blessed the decision. When Cedric died, Stephen became the new heir and Father anointed him The Favorite.”

  Dorothy’s face was worked into a cross between rage and sadness. Violet feared that the merest touch might cause years of resentment to explode from the poor woman’s body.

  Hurst continued. “So I am to understand that you were not one of your father’s favored children?”

  “Look at me, Detective. Do I look like I have enjoyed much favor in my life, despite the fact that I am the one who remained with Father all of these years, never marrying and never having my way in anything I truly desired?”

  “How have you not had your way?”

  “In anything.”

  “For example?”

  “Just as I said. Father never let me have my heart’s desire.” Dorothy’s face was resolute, as though she’d mustered the will to tamp down all of her anger and misery in order to seem dispassionate. Violet wondered how many times she’d done that in the past.

  Hurst changed his line of questioning. “Perhaps your father’s death was not a suicide, and someone shot him with his own volley gun. Do you have any idea who may have wanted him dead?”

  “Anyone who really knew him, I suppose.”

  “Would that include you, Miss Fairmont?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. As long as I had lived with him, why would I want to kill him in his dotage? And why would I wait until he’d gone to London to do so? It would be far more convenient to drown him in his bath back in Sussex.”

  She spoke like a woman who had considered it.

  “Very well, I think that is enough for now. Please make yourself available for more questions should we have them.”

  “I do hope you’ll find the criminal soon.”

  “We are not firmly of the opinion that your father was murdered. He may have committed suicide.”

  Dorothy, however, merely shrugged. “Either way, the funeral should be in a few days and then we’ll all return home.”

  “Actually, the funeral will be held at the queen’s pleasure. Mrs. Harper is on hand to ensure that your father will be”—he glanced Violet’s way—“comfortable, I believe is her term, until the funeral is held.”

  “I don’t understand. What does the queen care when Father is buried?”

  “Given your father’s service to the Crown, the queen wishes the matter closed before your father is put to final rest. May I ask that you have your sister, Eleanor, come down to meet with us?”

  So Scotland Yard didn’t know anything more than Violet did as to what the queen’s concern was in this situation. Interesting.

  As Dorothy went upstairs, Violet heard a noise outside. Glancing toward the window, she saw through a parting in the curtains that the florist had arrived. She bit her lip. Should she excuse herself and meet him downstairs at the servants’ entrance, or stay put? She decided that after Mr. Hurst’s internal struggle over allowing her to stay, it would be rude to disappear. Mrs. Peet could handle the delivery, and she would help bring the pots upstairs later.

  There was a great rustling of activity from upstairs, followed by loud whispering. Violet caught what sounded like a hushed argument, and from their expressions, Hurst and Pratt heard it as well. Mr. Pratt made more notes, his fingers quickly becoming stained black from graphite.

  Eventually, Eleanor Fairmont Bishop floated down the stairs. Unlike Dorothy, who had completely ignored the coffin’s substantial presence in the room, Nelly made a perfunctory acknowledgment of her father, putting two fingers to her lips and to the coffin’s lid before greeting the detect
ives and Violet, and then sitting in the chair Dorothy had just vacated.

  “My sister said you wished to see me now,” Nelly said. “I’m not sure what more I can add. Dorothy was much closer to Father than the rest of us, since she never left home.”

  “Would you say that they enjoyed good familial relations?” Hurst asked.

  “As good as a disappointed spinster with no home of her own can have.”

  “What of you? What was your relationship with your father?”

  Nelly shrugged. “Gordon and I lived nearby, but we didn’t frequent Willow Tree House. We were busy with our own lives. We had a son to raise. We also spend a great deal of time in London. Therefore, I suppose you could say my relationship with him was quite pleasant.”

  “What is your son’s name?”

  At that, Nelly’s face actually broke into sunshine, the age in her face receding into the background behind her wide smile. “Tobias. We call him Toby. He just turned eighteen and has thus far proven quite successful this Season. He’s not only handsome and quite clever, but since Dorothy and Stephen have no children, he will most likely inherit one day if we can figure out how to put him in the line of succession. In fact, here is his picture.”

  Nelly picked up the photograph of the bored young man that Violet had noted earlier. She passed the framed picture proudly, and they all murmured accolades of his youth and good looks. Nelly kissed the picture before setting it back in its place.

  “When was the last time you saw Lord Raybourn, Mrs. Bishop?”

  “As I said, we saw very little of him. I suppose . . . oh, let me think. The last time we saw Father was for Toby’s birthday, in January. We went to Willow Tree House and Father gave him a sporting rifle for weekend hunts. To Father’s credit, he did want my son to be well accepted into society. Yes, I can say that with certainty.”

  “Where is your son now?”

  “In our rented lodgings here in London.”

  “So you’ve been in London this entire time and just now came to join the family?”

  “There was nothing I could do about Father’s death, was there? Besides, someone needed to meet Dorothy at the train station with a growler cab for all of her luggage.”

  “And you didn’t think it necessary for Tobias to join you and your husband here today?”

  Nelly’s expression was incredulous. “And have him distracted from his parties and horse races and all of the other festivities in London? Are you mad? There is a very limited amount of time in which to meet marriageable young ladies. Every second counts.”

  Hurst shook his head. “Mrs. Bishop, tell us about your husband. He’s not titled like your father.”

  Nelly’s features settled back into their previous overly ripened arrangement. “No. Gordon was my father’s choice for me. A punishment for being too wild in my youth. He thought marriage to a solicitor would tame me.”

  “Did it?”

  She opened her mouth to say something, then seemed to think better of it. “My son fills my life and in him I am very happy.”

  Hurst seemed content to move on to other topics. “Tell us more about your husb—”

  “Mrs. Bishop, where was your son two evenings ago when Lord Raybourn died?” Violet said, without stopping to consider what she was doing.

  Hurst shot her a glance of irritation, but Nelly’s look was that of a coiled snake, deciding on which part of Violet’s flesh to sink her fangs.

  “What exactly are you insinuating about my son, Mrs. Undertaker?” Nelly’s voice dripped poison.

  But if this viscount’s daughter thought to intimidate Violet Harper, who had handled and charmed many a viperish family member, she was sadly mistaken.

  “Insinuate? Quite the opposite, Mrs. Bishop. I am concerned for his safety. If someone desired to kill the elder Lord Raybourn for some unknown reason, might he not also seek to do away with all potential heirs in his line?”

  It was tripe, but it had the desired effect on Nelly, whose concern for her son made her anxious and submissive. “You mean you think Father’s death was not by his own hand? That’s impossible. Please, you mustn’t let anything happen to my darling Toby. Detective, you will protect him, won’t you? Please, he is everything to me. What can I do to help?”

  Thus was Nelly Bishop defanged.

  Pratt stared at Violet, slack-jawed, his pencil fallen into his lap, and even Hurst gave her a look of grudging admiration before addressing Nelly again.

  “What you can do is to stay nearby. Perhaps you and Mr. Bishop could stay here with your brother until our investigation is over? That way our job is made easier should we need your assistance in the coming days.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. I’ll have some things sent over right away.”

  “Now we need to speak to your husband.”

  “Certainly, but what could he possibly have to say?” Nelly seemed truly baffled that the detectives would want to interview him.

  “Mrs. Bishop,” Hurst said gently. “He is the son-in-law of a violently killed peer. He will surely have something valuable to tell us.”

  “Right. Well, I’ll send him down for you.” With greater elegance than her sister, Nelly swept back up the stairs, where the other occupants of the house must have felt like they were being corralled up in a sheep’s pen, waiting for the gate to open and release them into the field to be herded about by a Scotland Yard sheepdog.

  More whispering ensued and wafted down the stairs in an incomprehensible swell. While they waited, Hurst spoke in low tones.

  “Mrs. Harper, you shouldn’t have interrupted my questions. I am in charge of this investigation, and your presence here is due to my good graces.”

  “Of course, Detective. I’m deeply sorry.”

  “Somehow I doubt that. Nevertheless, I admit you turned Mrs. Bishop around and I expect she’ll be more agreeable from now on. As for her sister, I imagine she will continue to be shrewish. I’ve seen her type many times. Never married, never been the center of attention, never been doted upon. Makes a woman shrivel up. I believe we’ll be concluded once we speak to Mr. Bishop. I’m still of the mind that it was a suicide, and it may be associated with Lord Raybourn’s work in Egypt.”

  “What work?” Violet asked.

  “That’s what we need to explore. May even require a trip down the Nile, eh, Mr. Pratt? I think he may have been caught in something underhanded during his trip that was going to lead to public shame if it was discovered, hence he decided to end it all now. That’s why we need to wrap up these family interviews, so we can begin the real investigation.”

  Seeing his superior’s chattiness as a cue that all was well between him and Violet, Pratt said, “The attempt by someone in London to blackmail de Lesseps of some alleged corvée labor to finish the canal is the Crown’s greater interest.”

  Hurst shot Pratt a look Violet didn’t understand, but she felt a chill from it. Pratt must have caught the same cold wind, for he quickly changed subjects. “May I ask, Mrs. Harper, how you came into this trade?”

  “My first husband’s family owned an undertaking shop and I learned the trade from him.”

  Pratt flipped farther back in his notebook and began a new round of note taking. “What happened to your first husband?”

  “He was killed during a crossing of the Atlantic.”

  “I see. And now you operate this business by yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you come by most of your, er, clients?”

  “Mr. Pratt, is this mere curiosity, or are you also interviewing me in conjunction with Lord Raybourn’s death?”

  “What? Oh.” Pratt reddened. “Sorry, I was just wondering. We don’t normally have anything to do with a body once it finally goes off to be prepared for burial. You’re the first undertaker I’ve really known, and you’re a woman at that. Makes a man interested, is all. I mean no offense, truly.”

  “None taken.”

  At that moment, Nelly’s husband finally came downstair
s to meet with the detectives. Pratt flipped back in his notebook to where he was previously, and the questioning began anew.

  “Thank you for meeting with us, Mr. Bishop. Can you tell me anything about your father-in-law?”

  “What would you like to know? Anything I can do to help, Mr. Hurst, anything.” Mr. Bishop’s smile beneath his long and full mustache seemed overly bright to Violet.

  “How, for instance, would you characterize Lord Raybourn’s disposition in the months leading up to his death? Did he seem anxious or depressed to you?”

  Gordon reached into his jacket and pulled out a cigarette case, offering it to each of the detectives, who declined. He selected one for himself and put the case on the occasional table next to him. “So you believe it was a suicide?”

  “We are considering all possibilities. As such, we are interested in Lord Raybourn’s frame of mind. For example, he may have been under duress because he was being threatened by someone.”

  “I see what you’re getting at.” Gordon pulled out a silver filigreed match case, struck one of the matches, and put a flame to his cigarette, puffing several times before putting the match case on top of the cigarette case, and placing them next to a large crystal ashtray. The intricately cut pattern covering the receptacle reflected light in many colors, showing it to be much more a work of art than a utilitarian accessory.

  Gordon settled back, blowing a cloud toward the ceiling. “Now that you mention it, the old man did seem fixated on something, especially in the weeks leading up to his departure from Willow Tree House to come to London. Once we heard that he’d been invited to go with the prince to Egypt, I assumed his preoccupation was over those plans.”

  “So you saw him frequently?”

  “Certainly. We were family, and we have a grandson the old man doted on.”

  “That’s a handsome case you have,” Hurst said.

  Gordon lifted it from next to the thick ashtray and held it up. “Isn’t it? The old man gave it to me Christmas last. It’s probably worth quite a few pence. This ashtray of his is one of my favorites, too. The old man had excellent taste in smoking goods.”