Lady of Ashes (10 page)

She searched through her bag again and pulled out a small bottle of red liquid.

“I’m going to add a bit of red dye to your solution, sir, which will give you a bluff, hearty complexion, much as I’m sure you enjoyed while sailing the high seas for England.”

She screwed the top back on the pump canister and swirled the contents together.

“I’m afraid I have to be a bit, er, invasive now, Admiral, but I promise to be as quick about my business as possible.”

Violet rolled the covers down from the body. The man was so emaciated he was nearly engulfed by his sleeping gown. He must have suffered a protracted illness.

“Sir, please forgive my wandering hands. This is quite necessary, I assure you.” She pushed his gown up over his knees and bunched it over his pelvis. Picking up the knife, she felt for a good location along his inner thigh, as close to the groin as possible.

“Here we are, Admiral. Just a quick slice across, nothing too drastic. Well done, sir. Now that I have access to your femoral artery, we can give you some preservative.”

Violet gave the pump canister one last swirl and inserted the syringe end into Admiral Herbert’s leg. With one hand holding the syringe in place, she pumped the handle up and down to force her concoction to flow through the hose and into his artery. Once the flow started, she held the canister aloft to allow gravity to maintain the pressure of the fluid moving into the artery. As the pressure of the embalming fluid forced its way into the admiral, it also flushed his blood out through the other tube, draining into the jar on the floor.

“You’re doing well, sir. We’ll be finished in no time. Just be patient.”

Soon there was a light tinge of pink under the admiral’s skin. When she’d pumped all of the fluid into him, she gently withdrew the syringe from his leg and put the entire apparatus away. She also removed the tubing from the vein and the jar, tightly screwing the lid on the jar, now heavy with blood. She would drain it later in a specially dug, discreet trench behind their shop.

Violet examined the incision site. “Hardly noticeable, and once we have you dressed in your burial finery, you’ll never know the difference. Time now to—”

She was distracted by shouts from downstairs and a commotion outside.

It must be the prince consort.

Violet still had plenty to keep her occupied in this room, for the admiral still needed to be dressed and have his features touched up. She decided to dress him first, since his uniform might prove to be form-fitting even on his wasted figure, therefore requiring more than normal jostling of the body. His thin frame meant he wasn’t as heavy as most men, such as Mr. Stanley.

She reclothed the admiral deftly but carefully in his dress uniform, taking care to keep her eyes averted to the extent possible. Violet always imagined what the deceased’s reaction to her ministrations would be if he were still alive, which kept her respectful of the dead. Some undertakers were careless with bodies, treating them as no more than a dead cat. It wasn’t right.

With his clothing complete, she draped a white cloth around his chest, over his neckband, and up behind his head to prevent any ingredients from mussing up his jacket. Violet took out her jars of creams, powders, and colorants, plus her box of various-sized brushes.

Out came scissors and a razor.

As she began the cosmetic work on Admiral Herbert, Violet listened as the commotion from outside transferred into the house. She heard the heavily accented voice of Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, but couldn’t make out the words. Mrs. Herbert must have then issued an order to the servants, because there was the sound of feet scurrying throughout the stairs and hallways and they presumably vanished to do her bidding.

She glanced up at a clock on the wall. Graham would return in about an hour. If the prince’s entourage was still here, for certain her husband would wait a short distance away. She had plenty of time to finish.

Tempted as she was to peer through the closed draperies to see the prince’s conveyance and what liveried servants might be standing around, she stayed focused on the admiral. Willing herself to forget that Queen Victoria’s husband sat below her, probably having tea and cakes as he expressed royal condolences on the loss of such an able commander who had served his country well, she remained true to her task. She groomed the admiral’s wispy hair and whiskers, artfully applied further color to his skin with a combination of creams and paints, and gently brushed away the residue that fell down to the cloth covering his chest and shoulders.

Violet stood back and surveyed her work. “What do you say, Admiral? I think it’s as close to life as we’ll get.”

She removed the cloth from his body and used it to wrap up her used brushes, putting them back in their box before re-sealing her jars and bottles. She accidentally tipped over a container of talcum powder, creating a dusty trail on the table and sending a cloud of the powder clinging to the front of her dress.

Lovely.

Well, there was no help for it, she’d have to seek a whisk broom and dust pan, as well as some wet cloths, in order to clean up her mess. Might as well take the brushes to the kitchens for rinsing now rather than wait until she got home and risk their hardening.

Violet crossed the room and quietly opened the door. The voices of the prince and Mrs. Herbert were lower now, but he was obviously still here.

Deciding that the widow’s instruction to stay locked away was obviated by the need to tidy up the mess she’d made, Violet ventured into the hallway.

No servants in sight. Now what?

Traversing to the back of the house, she found the servant stairs leading down. She took these stairs, knowing there was little chance of encountering a family member here. She reached the ground floor, where the prince and Mrs. Herbert were in conversation somewhere nearby. Their voices were louder now, and she could hear Mrs. Herbert telling the prince about all of the admiral’s adventures during the Napoleonic Wars, the War of 1812, and the First Opium War twenty years ago. The prince was murmuring some kind of appreciation.

Drat, the servant stairs ended here. There must be another set somewhere down to the kitchens. She padded down the endless hallway as quietly as possible, but couldn’t find the telltale narrow servant stairs. She backtracked to her original point and nearly ran into the most elegantly attired gentleman she’d ever seen in her entire life.

Despite his balding head—evidence of his creeping middle age—and a wan complexion, he still had a commanding presence. His elegant clothing only completed the look of total assurance. Surely this was Prince Albert.

“I am looking for the necessary room if you can kindly show it to me,” he said, the German-accented words short and crisp, as though life was too brief to waste time on speech. To ask such a personal question of her meant he thought she was a servant, for no one ever asked a house’s occupants such an embarrassing question.

Violet reddened. “Pardon me, sir, I’m so sorry—” She dropped into a curtsy, unsure if she was executing it properly. “I’m afraid I’m not a member of the staff here.”

The prince frowned. “Surely you are not a guest of the Herbert family?” He rolled out the “r’s” in “Herbert” so that Violet could almost imagine herself riding the word like a wave.

Violet looked down at her disheveled clothing and dared look the prince directly in the eye. “I suppose I do look like the pastry cook, don’t I, Your Highness? However, I am Mrs. Morgan, the undertaker, here to take care of the admiral, except that I managed to spill some powder and have need to clean it up.”

“You, madam, are the undertaker?”

“Yes, Your Highness. My husband and I own a shop in Paddington.”

“Rather unseemly for you to do this work, isn’t it?”

“Some think so, sir, but women have been preparing bodies for burial since biblical times. This is no different, except that I have more tools.” She looked down again at the dusty front of her dress. “I also make more disasters.”

The prince was still regarding her curiously. “How did you come into such a trade?”

“I suppose I married into it. My husband’s family has owned the shop for decades, and when I expressed interest in it, well, my husband began training me.”

Albert rubbed his chin. “Fascinating. I can’t say that I’ve ever been in the presence of someone in your profession before. I should like to watch you at work.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Are you finished with Admiral Herbert yet? No? Then I will accompany you back to him to observe what you do.” The necessary room was forgotten, and the next thing Violet knew, she was going back upstairs with Great Britain’s prince consort at her side.

The unreality of it was tempered only by the recognition of what Mrs. Herbert’s fury would be when she realized that not only had Violet not stayed behind closed doors, she had seemingly lured her royal guest into her dead husband’s bedroom.

However, one did not willingly disobey a royal request.

She showed the prince the contents of her bag and explained how she applied cosmetics, as well as how she concocted her embalming formula for injection into Admiral Herbert.

“You’re saying you fill the body with alcohol and zinc chloride?”

“And water.”

“This preserves the body so it doesn’t have to be interred as quickly?”

“Yes, Your Highness. The practice has been used for centuries, in different ways, of course, but is not popular here. The Americans are embalming their dead soldiers, enabling their bodies to make long train journeys back home without the normal putrefaction that sets in within a short time.”

The prince bent over Admiral Herbert’s body and gently sniffed, as though he expected to receive a message directly from the deceased’s spirit that way. He quickly stood erect again. “Fascinating. I should not have thought a woman would have the temperament for this sort of thing.”

“My husband would say my choleric temperament suits this work very well,” she blurted without thinking.

Albert’s eyes opened wide in shock, but settled into crinkles as he smiled, then laughed at her unintentional joke. “Marriage requires heroic effort by both parties, does it not, Frau Morgan? Well, then, I’ll take my leave of you. I think I’ve probably stretched Frau Herbert’s hospitality to its bounds by now, given that I told her I would be gone just a moment.”

Violet reached into a side pocket of her undertaker’s bag and pulled out one of her new cards. “Your Highness, Morgan Undertaking is at your disposal at any time.”

The prince slipped the card into his trouser pocket without glancing at it. “Ahem, yes, thank you for a most interesting demonstration, Frau Morgan.”

Violet curtsied again. “It was my honor, Your Highness. About Mrs. Herbert—”

“Never fear. She’ll need never know that her undertaker deterred me from accomplishing my task.”

 

Graham was alternately delighted and distressed over Violet’s unexpected meeting with the prince. He peppered her with questions during the entire ride home, during their dinner over Mrs. Porter’s beef brisket, and even while she prepared to retire.

His primary concern was whether or not Violet might have secured them even more prestigious work from the crown itself.

She climbed into bed with a sigh. “Highly doubtful. He hardly looked at my
carte-de-visite
.”

He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled the covers up, tucking them around her, a romantic gesture he’d always used in the early days of their marriage.

“He knows of Admiral Herbert’s service, correct? That he served on HMS
Euryalus
against the Americans in the War of 1812? That he was specially recognized for his exertions along the Potomac River, such as the raid on Alexandria?”

“Yes, Graham, he’s fully aware of these things. I hardly think the good admiral’s widow would merit a royal visit unless his exploits were well known.”

Graham went to his side of the bed and extinguished the lamp before sliding in next to her. “Just think what a boon it would be to our business if the prince recommended us. I wonder if there is a royal warrant for undertaking.”

On that hopeful note, Graham turned over, probably to dream further on his vision of the royal warrant hanging in their shop window.

 

T
he queen handed the card back to her husband with a sniff. “You say this woman was actually
embalming
a man? How horrifying for you, my love.”

Albert tucked the card inside the top desk drawer of the Blue Room at Windsor Castle, originally built as a fortress and now the longest-occupied palace in Europe. The present residents enjoyed luxurious state apartments, renovated early in the century by George IV. Victoria brought further improvements to the castle, including running water, but had refused the installation of gas lights, preferring candles as so many Britons did.

“Quite the opposite. I was enthralled. Curious that we aren’t doing it here. It seems a worthy endeavor to me.”

“Hardly!” Victoria wrinkled her nose. “It sounds like a disgusting practice to me. And being performed by a woman, no less.”

“I thought so at first, too, but she was very competent,
liebchen
.” He tapped the desk drawer. “Remember Frau Morgan when my time comes.”

“Your time? You’re just forty-two years old. Your ‘time’ won’t occur for at least another forty-two years. Or never, if I have anything to say about things.”

Albert smiled gently at his wife. “I’ve no doubt that the Almighty would be the loser in a confrontation with you over the matter. Nevertheless—”

“You’re still just gripped by your carriage accident last year while we were visiting Vicky in Coburg, which was outdone by your illness at Christmas. It’s making you obsessed about death-related things.”

“Hardly,” he responded, imitating her wrinkled nose. “I do not cling to life. You do, but I set no store by it. If I knew that those I love were well cared for, I should be quite ready to die tomorrow.”

“Such wild talk. You cannot wish for your own death.”

“You’re right, of course. Sometimes I think it’s that boy of ours who must wish for his own death, so outrageous is his behavior. My only hope is that once we finally arrange a meeting with the Princess Alexandra, he will fall madly in love and forsake all of his other peccadilloes. He’s nineteen years old already, and it’s past time that he mature and settle down.”

“Vicky has already met the girl and says she’s delightful, full of loveliness and charm.”

“Our daughter’s assessment is undoubtedly astute. Unfortunately, Bertie finds that all young ladies have the same qualities. He has no discernment and has never known a filled chemise he could resist. He’ll either send me to my grave or go to one early himself.”

“Albert! Please, let’s not talk of this any longer. It reminds me of my own dear mother’s passing back in March, and I feel a shiver across my back when you say such things. Besides, you look a little peaked. Do you feel unwell?”

“No more so than whenever we discuss unpleasant subjects. However, I am sure that if I had a severe illness, I should give up at once. I should not struggle for life. I have no tenacity for it.”

He stood. “Perhaps I am maudlin because I haven’t had tea with my wife yet today. Let’s do so now, shall we?” He held out his hand to his wife, who grasped it as eagerly as she had the day they were married two decades ago. Albert pulled Victoria close as they left the room, whispering
“Ich liebe dich”
in her ear as together they went to find someone to serve them a tray. She blushed. It still thrilled her when her husband told her he loved her.

Graham drew up next to
Lillian Rose
with a wagon bearing a coffin. It had been no easy task to escape Violet’s watchful eye. As part of the business venture, Graham dressed in full undertaker regalia, yet put a minimum of decoration on the funeral carriage and horses. To the untrained eye, the undertaker was planning to load a loved one onto a ship for burial elsewhere out of London.

Violet would have realized in an instant that Graham was up to something suspicious.

St. Katharine Docks was humming with activity. He put a handkerchief to his nose, wishing he had one of those old-fashioned pomanders people used to carry. How did naval people stand this? The stench was worse than anything he had to deal with in his daily business. Even from his distance he could see animal offal and trash sloshing in the water.

The smell was intensified by the tension of what he was about to do, causing Graham to sweat profusely inside his black suit. This was best accomplished quickly so he could return home, bathe, and get back to the shop before Violet wondered where he was.

To Graham’s great irritation, Fletcher was lounging outside one of the dock’s many seedy taverns, flirting with a barmaid and paying no attention whatsoever to his brother’s arrival. After ten minutes of this, Graham snapped his whip in the air, garnering the attention of not only his brother, but every worker nearby.

He waved apologetically to the people around him as Fletcher sauntered over and jumped onto the driver’s seat next to him.

Graham was furious. “We have important work to do and you’re preoccupied with pretty misses. If you can’t manage to stay focused for more than ten seconds at a time, then clearly my time in this enterprise is wasted. You said you had something important to discuss. Kindly do so.”

“Can I help it if Miss Turnbull finds me irresistible? I think it’s my new whiskers. What do you think?” Fletcher stroked a side of his face.

“Wispy. Sparse. Limp. Hardly worth a mention.”

“Well, I certainly don’t have your capacity for sprouting foliage—a talent you keep regrettably hidden behind your razor—but I didn’t think it was too unattractive. Ah, but what I do have a great capacity for is growing money.”

“Finally, we are coming to the point.”

Fletcher ignored him. “As you know, we’ve had some difficulty getting launched, as startup for our little endeavor has been more expensive than anticipated, and you have only been able to provide me with limited funds.”

“I thought you knew bankers who were standing by to help us.”

“Right. Well, many of those contacts didn’t pan out. However, I believe our monetary worries are over, as I’ve found a backer. An enthusiastic one, at that, since he will directly benefit from our enterprise.”

Graham frowned. “Benefit in what way?”

Fletcher leaned close, his galling way of dramatically emphasizing his next point. “By being the recipient of our goods.” Fletcher leaned casually back against the seat, his other irksome habit of giving the hearer an opportunity to absorb the magnificence of whatever he had just uttered.

Although Graham had to admit to being impressed.

“Are you saying you’ve made contact with a buyer
here,
in London?”

“I have indeed. A man named Harper, from Virginia. He’s a perfect businessman, too. He asks few questions, has plenty of money, and is eager to part with it. Now, let’s get this box on board
Lillian Rose
and see how well it fits in my hold.”

The brothers climbed down from the carriage and struggled the coffin up the gangplank and onto the ship, carefully maneuvering it into the hold. It was the sort of hot, grimy work that Graham imagined Fletcher was accustomed to doing, but Graham was flagging.

Once they finished with the coffin, which was stuffed with goods, it would be sent on a maiden voyage to the colonies to see if Fletcher’s theory that no one would want to inspect a coffin would hold true. For now, Fletcher recommended that they head over to the Three Hulls for refreshment.

“I’ll not even look in Miss Turnbull’s direction, I promise.”

After ordering brandies, the brothers sat down near an open window. Graham removed his undertaker’s hat and pulled at his collar to loosen it. He finally gave in and removed his jacket. He was drenched.

Fletcher grinned. “What a coddled life you lead, brother. Speaking of your coddled life, how is our dear Mrs. Morgan?”

“She’s well. She had to fire Mrs. Scrope for theft, but now we have an older couple working out nicely. Did I tell you Violet met the prince consort while tending to Admiral Herbert?”

“At least twice now.”

“She showed him a little bit about what we do. She even demonstrated the embalming pump.”

“I don’t know how the man contained himself for the joy of it.” Fletcher drained his glass.

“During the admiral’s funeral, his widow, who had been very well composed until that moment, made a terrible scene because there was no finger bell for her husband to pull in the event he wasn’t really deceased. Violet told her—within the prince’s earshot—that the admiral was so full of embalming fluid that only the immediate return of Christ would rouse him from the dead. I was mortified, but the prince found it uproarious. His good humor over it mollified the widow’s fears. Sometimes Violet truly amazes me by what she manages to pull off without offending anyone.”

“Violet attended the funeral openly?”

“She wasn’t planning to, but the prince asked after her—did I mention that I spoke with him, too—and it didn’t seem right not to bring her forward.”

“Does this mean you love your wife once more?”

Graham looked at Fletcher sharply. “What are you insinuating?”

“Nothing, nothing at all. You are the consummate husband. Now, back to more practical matters. I want to introduce you to Mr. Samuel Harper. Do you think you can have Violet put on another dinner party?”

“Yes, she’ll do it. I’m sure that we—Fletcher, quit winking at the barmaid.”

“How can I help myself? She’s delectable. Besides, isn’t every British citizen’s example set by Lord Palmerston and his bevy of love interests? It is my patriotic duty to imitate him well into my dotage.”

For God’s sake, Fletcher could be irritating. He was lucky he was so clever.

 

Charles Francis was pleased as he read over his son’s notes. His investigations had already borne fruit, and it looked as though they had already uncovered a possible smuggling operation.

What fools men could be where money was concerned, he thought. Weren’t greed and pride two of the seven deadly sins? And what was war but an expression of pride, sometimes righteous, but usually just arrogance-laden. The North was struggling to maintain its virtuous principles while the South beat its breast and howled in defense of its corrupt policies.

Yes, a trap would be laid for all of the participants working against the interests of the United States, and when the time was right, Charles Francis would pull the cord, yanking them all up in his net.

The president would then have to recognize the wisdom of making Charles Francis Adams his Minister Plenipotentiary to the Court of St. James.

Hmm, he’d have to be careful not to succumb to that worst of vices himself.

Charles Francis picked up a pen and wrote some names on a scrap of paper. He rang a bell, summoning Henry, who, as always, had ink-stained fingers and carried a notebook.

“Son, these people will need further inquiry.”

Henry scanned the list and looked up at his father curiously. “You think a woman is among the smugglers? Are you sure?”

“Not entirely, but no guilty party will escape the noose I am knotting, woman or not.”