Death at the Abbey

T
HE
L
ADY OF
A
SHES
M
YSTERIES

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A
LSO BY
C
HRISTINE
T
RENT

 

 

 

 

 

 

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

D
EATH
AT THE
A
BBEY

 

 

 

CHRISTINE TRENT

KENSINGTON BOOKS

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

 

A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS

As the Lady of Ashes series enters its fifth volume, it is only proper that I thank five people at Kensington Books who have been very instrumental in the caring and feeding of the series.

First and foremost, my editor, Martin Biro, has been an advocate of my books. His keen judgment never ceases to surprise me, and my books are made all the better for his insights.

Kristine Mills is responsible for the marvelously atmospheric design of the covers. I literally tremble with joy each time I hold a new cover in my hands.

Paula Reedy, my production editor at Kensington, shepherds many manuscripts each year, yet always gives mine meticulous care and attention.

Copy editor Mary Beth Constant is an unsung hero in the production process, saving me from numerous historical goofs during the course of this series.

Finally, I extend thanks to Steve Zacharius, Kensington's CEO, who has spent the better part of the past few years on the front lines defending and nurturing the publishing industry. Despite how busy he is, he answers every e-mail. Even mine.

Turn the Page Bookstore in Boonsboro, Maryland, continues to champion my books, and I cannot think of signing occasions I enjoy more than those with Janeen Solberg, Beth Rockwell, and the rest of the crew there.

This story came to life over several meals at the Olive Garden in California, Maryland, with my husband and my brothers-in-law, Christopher Trent and Paul Trent. The superb staff there not only kept me well supplied in Italiano Burgers (sadly no longer on the menu), but were always kind and considerate in making the restaurant a conducive place for us to brainstorm.

As always, my draft manuscript was edited with sharp eyes by my sister-in-law, Marian Wheeler; my brother, Anthony Papadakis; my mother, Georgia Carpenter; and my much-cherished husband, Jon. I am so fortunate to have them taking on the burden of painstakingly reviewing my manuscripts, usually with me in the background frantically repeating, “Are you done yet?” Why none of them has disowned me yet is beyond me.

Finally, I am thankful to
you,
dear reader, for without your enthusiasm for this series, Violet Harper's adventures would still be a flight of fancy in my imagination.

C
AST
OF
C
HARACTERS

Violet Harper
—undertaker
Samuel Harper
—Violet's husband
Mary Cooke
—mourning dressmaker and Violet's friend

 

Edward Bayes
—estate purser
Margaret Bayes
—Edward's wife
Martin Chandler
—falconer
Mrs. Garside
—cook
Miles Hudock
—footman
Judith
—kitchen maid
Mr. Kirby
—butler
Gilbert Lewis
—a young estate worker
Mrs. Neale
—housekeeper
Olive
—parlor maid
Parris
—head gardener
William Pearson
—the duke's valet
Ellery Reed
—estate manager
Burton Spencer
—another young estate worker
Molly Spriggs
—the girl with the lantern

 

James Appleton
—Worksop Priory's vicar
Jack LeCato
—a government agent
Colonel George Mortimer
—the duke's old army friend
Peter Saunders
—Worksop Inn's innkeeper
Polly Saunders
—Peter's daughter

 

Lord William John Cavendish-Scott-Bentinck
—5th Duke of Portland

Lord Henry William Scott-Bentinck
—the duke's younger brother

Lady Howard de Walden,
née
Lady Lucy Joan Cavendish-Scott-Bentinck
—the duke's sister

Frederick George Ellis, 7th Baron Howard de Walden
—Lady Lucy's eldest son

William Gladstone
—prime minister

Evelyn Denison
—Speaker of the House of Commons

 

—
AUGUSTUS JOHN CUTHBERT HARE (1834–1903),
ENGLISH WRITER AND RACONTEUR WRITING ABOUT
WELBECK ABBEY

1

 

A
ll Violet Harper wanted to do was have a peaceful luncheon at Worksop Inn with her husband. Instead, she was summoned away from her half-eaten fish pie to the most magnificent estate she'd ever seen, owned by the most eccentric man she'd ever met, to care for the most bizarre corpse she'd ever been called upon to undertake.

Violet and Sam had been in North Nottinghamshire for almost four weeks, with Violet touring the countryside while Sam worked tirelessly to get his coal mine into operation.

He had leased an abandoned mine that was situated on the Nottingham coalfield, a productive stretch of coal that ran beneath Nottingham. Sam had encountered more difficulties than he'd expected—given that the mine already existed and merely had to be updated and reopened—mostly because of the difficulty in hiring workers. Many locals were already employed at one of the various other active collieries, and a large number of healthy, strapping men worked at Welbeck Abbey, the enormous local ducal estate owned by the 5th Duke of Portland.

Rumor had it that His Grace employed hundreds of workers—not including household staff—for a variety of projects around the estate. But for what, Sam had no idea.

Violet, though, was about to find out, as Portland's valet stood before her table, as rigid and correct and well groomed as such a servant should be in his work attending to a peer of the realm. The worry lines in his forehead, though, belied his calm exterior.

“Mrs. Harper?” he asked.

Violet put down her fork, which was speared with morsels from the steaming mix of fish chunks, butter, cream, and breadcrumbs, by far her favorite dish at Worksop Inn. In fact, Mr. Saunders, the widowed innkeeper, was kind enough to cook it up especially for her even when it wasn't part of the day's offerings.

“I am,” she replied in cautious acknowledgment.

The man bowed and introduced himself as William Pearson, the Duke of Portland's valet. “Your presence has been much commented upon in town, Mrs. Harper, as your, er, profession is most unusual.”

Very delicately put,
she thought, which was surely to be expected from a servant in a high and trusted place, as a duke's man would be.

“I had no idea my presence was so noteworthy,” she said, hoping the man would finish his greeting and be on his way. Already her fish pie was losing heat, the savory trail of steam from the center opening dissipating quickly.

Pearson, in his correct and formal manner, turned to greet Sam, wishing him well in the formation of his coal mine. Sam's look of surprise told Violet that he'd had no idea that his activities were already well known in the area.

Unlike in the busy, chaotic world they had recently left behind in London, everyone here seemed to know what everyone else was doing, and they were especially attuned to the arrival and activities of strangers.

Finally, Pearson got to his point, his voice dropping to a nearly inaudible level. “If you will, madam, your services are urgently needed at Welbeck. There is a carriage waiting for you outside. . . .”

Violet was instantly alert, her fish pie no longer of prime importance. “Someone has died at the duke's home? Was it from an illness or perchance an accident?”

“I'm afraid I cannot say, madam.”

He couldn't? Or wouldn't? “What is the person's age? Is it a man, woman, or child?”

“Again, I am unable to say.” Pearson's expression was pained. Had something disturbing occurred at Welbeck Abbey? She tried once more as she glanced at Sam, who was shaking his head in a “you're about to be embroiled in someone else's problem again” sort of way.

“Has the local coroner been summoned?” Violet asked, which would determine whether the duke thought the death was suspicious.

“Mr. Thorpe is away in Derby, visiting his ailing mother. We don't know when he'll be back. In any case, Mr. Thorpe is a civil engineer by way of trade, and what is needed is an undertaker.”

Most coroners were appointed to their positions, often selected for their stature in society—and the major canal, railway, and waterworks projects of the past few decades had greatly increased the reputations of civil engineers. Only rarely was anyone who understood death or human anatomy made a coroner. Violet had often thought that undertakers should be regularly appointed to such posts, but unfortunately, there were enough charlatans in her profession that it did not enjoy a sterling reputation.

“I see. I'll need my bag,” she said, rising briskly. Reluctantly abandoning her fish pie, but having the good sense to ask the innkeeper to wrap it as an evening snack, she left Sam with the valet and went up to their room to retrieve her undertaking bag—a large black leather satchel containing the cosmetics and tools needed to bring a corpse to the bloom of life. Violet had learned to never travel anywhere without it, precisely for unexpected moments like this.

She swiftly changed out of her burgundy-and-green-striped dress into her regular black crape undertaking dress—clothing she also never traveled without—and grabbed her black top hat with ebony tails from inside the room's armoire. Once she had tied the hat's ribbons under her chin and made sure the tails flowed sedately down her back, Violet Harper was thus transformed from carefree tourist to somber undertaker.

“I knew it couldn't last for long,” Sam lamented as she reentered the dining room twenty minutes later. She typically wore black every day, for she never knew when her services would be called upon, as they suddenly were now.

Violet had largely laid aside the dreary clothing since they had arrived in Worksop. She hadn't wanted to mislead her fellow tourists at the Long Eaton lace factory or the Sherwood Forest nature walk into thinking she was a woman in deep mourning engaging in entertainments highly inappropriate to such a time.

Sam had daily and delightedly expressed his appreciation for seeing his wife in bright colors for a change. Now here she was, back to her business black.

“It's just for today,” she assured him.

Sam's wry glance as he stood to say good-bye suggested he thought otherwise. However, Violet was now too consumed with the thought of the person and unfortunate family who needed her care at Welbeck to be overly concerned about him. The past month had been the longest period she'd gone without preparing for a funeral since becoming an undertaker more than fifteen years ago, except for her interlude of traveling from London to Colorado with Sam four years ago. She had to admit to herself now that she was feeling a nervous tingle at donning her business clothes again and heading off to tend to someone who needed her.

Violet waved absently to her husband and followed Pearson out to the ducal carriage, hoping that whoever had departed had not come to an unnatural end.

 

As she and Pearson traveled south in the duke's carriage, Violet surreptitiously took in her surroundings. The conveyance was not only plush and luxuriously outfitted but also remarkably comfortable. Even the royal coronation carriage, as expensive and detailed as it was to carry the monarch, couldn't rival this one for pleasing accommodation.

“His Grace is very kind to send such a splendid carriage for me,” Violet said to the valet, whose brows were still knit in worry, hoping to coax him into some sort of conversation.

“Yes, the duke is very kind,” Pearson replied absently as he stared out at the fields, now barren of crops for the season.

She tried again. “Our innkeeper tells us that His Grace has many . . . unusual . . . building projects in progress.”

Pearson nodded without looking at her. “He employs around fifteen hundred workers for their construction. That doesn't include those of us in the household staff, of course.”

Fifteen hundred workers at one time on a country estate! What in heaven's name is the duke building? A cathedral?
Violet wondered.

Their six-mile carriage ride neared its conclusion at a simply marked post indicating the way to Welbeck Abbey, which sent them east down yet another road to the house, which she could already see about a half mile in the distance. Violet was stunned by the level of activity occurring on the grounds before the Abbey, though. It was as if she had slipped through a magician's fingers from Nottingham's bucolic fields and forests into a buzzing hive of men and equipment.

Most remarkable were the enormous piles of dirt set amid the backdrop of wooded copses, which were now largely devoid of leaves. Men were busy shoveling the dirt onto wagons attached to what looked like miniature locomotive engines, to be drawn to points unknown. “What is that?” she asked over the din of construction, pointing as delicately as she could at the strange contraption.

“What? Oh,” Pearson said, startled out of his reverie. “That's a traction engine. It runs on steam and can haul heavy loads more efficiently than horses.”

“Remarkable. And what are the dirt piles?”

“That's earth removed for the duke's tunnels, and it will be used to build up the embankments of the lake behind the house.”

“Tunnels? What tunnels?” Violet was thoroughly confused. What need was there of a tunnel on this gently rolling property?

Pearson didn't reply, and her attention was immediately diverted away as they rolled past the most mammoth oak tree she had ever seen in her life. Not only did it have branches that extended out nearly fifty feet to either side of the trunk—and Violet could only imagine how impressive they were in the summer, filled with bright green leaves—but the main trunk was so extraordinarily large that a passageway had been cut into it.

The duke's valet, apparently now paying attention, noticed Violet's awe and said, “That's the Greendale Oak. It is known as the Methuselah of trees. The opening was cut through in 1724 on a wager made by the Earl of Oxford that a hole could be made large enough for him to drive a carriage-and-pair through it.”

“Remarkable” was again all Violet could manage to breathe.

Pearson nodded. “It is slowly dying, though, from the damage done to it, which isn't easy to see in the autumn. Welbeck is famous for its ancient oaks. Sir Christopher Wren obtained timber for the building of St. Paul's Cathedral from this park.”

They were now in full view of the house, which would rival any of the queen's palaces in size and grandeur, with its three stories of stone jutting proudly up from the ground. Violet imagined it was built in a square around a courtyard, although it was impossible to know from her vantage point. Off to their left was a pair of long buildings that reminded her of a college dormitory. Staff quarters, perhaps?

They passed through a stone entrance gate, which prefaced a wide lawn with identical plantings on either side of the drive. Little was in bloom now, except for some fiery-red dahlias with golden centers and several patches of black adders sporting tall bottlebrush spikes of deep purple.

Before they reached the front entrance of the house, though, the carriage veered off to the right and Violet instantly bristled in annoyance. Did Pearson plan to take her to the rear entrance of Welbeck? It was Violet's position that she was not a servant but a temporary member of a grieving family, and therefore she always confidently approached the front door of any home of mourning that she was visiting.

The carriage pulled to a stop about halfway down this side of the house, between a lesser entrance and a vast garden, divided up into various squares, each containing different plantings. One square was full of rosemary, sage, and thyme that faintly scented the air. Others were bursting with fall vegetables—broad beans, peas, fennel, sorrel, and tomatoes.

Apples and pears dangled heavily from trees lining the back of these plantings, which Violet realized comprised a kitchen garden. Pearson had brought her to the
kitchens?
Heavens, she hoped beyond hope that they were not storing the body down here.

Pearson had already stepped out of the carriage with her undertaking bag and was waiting to help her out. She took his offered hand, and exited onto the gravel path. Once again, she had entered another world, as the sawing, banging, and hammering were only distant turbulence from where she now stood. She was pleased that, as horrified as she was at the thought that a body might be lying in state in a duke's kitchen, at least it didn't have to endure construction noises.

Pearson escorted her down a set of steps to the basement door, where they were greeted by a heavyset, goggle-eyed, middle-aged woman who was sweaty and breathless beneath her stained apron.

“Mrs. Garside,” Pearson greeted the woman, “this is Mrs. Harper, the undertaker. Mrs. Harper, may I present Welbeck Abbey's cook to you?”

The cook's expression was confused, unsure what status an undertaker had, so Violet immediately stuck her hand out to shake the other woman's. “How do you do?” she said, immediately regretting it because it was the greeting of someone in a higher class, and Mrs. Garside now looked utterly stricken over how to address the undertaker. Violet followed up with, “I'm pleased to make your acquaintance,” and the cook wiped her palm against her apron before taking Violet's proffered hand.

“Inside, if you please, Mrs. 'Arper,” the cook said in the Nottingham dialect Violet had come to know well. Mrs. Garside stepped back through the doorway and Violet followed with Pearson behind her, still lugging her bag. They were in an anteroom twice the size of her lodgings in Worksop, probably where all deliveries were made so that no visitors could see into the rooms beyond. Violet was instantly struck by the delicious aroma of roasting chicken. Her stomach responded, reminding her that she had regrettably abandoned her fish pie before she'd made serious acquaintance with it. Several doorways led off the anteroom and the hallway beyond, and as they proceeded along the hallway she could see the various rooms necessary for serving a sprawling ducal estate with hundreds of workers: a pantry, a scullery, a dairy room, a pastry room, the main kitchen area, the housekeeper's room, the butler's room, and, largest of all, the servants' hall, where the staff could eat in shifts.