Death at the Abbey (20 page)

However, Denison had said something that was rubbing at the back of her mind, like the tide against a rock, wearing away layers as it tries to reach a central core. What was it?

Ah, now Violet remembered. He had said that LeCato had served in the navy. It reminded her of Edward Bayes, who, according to his wife, had also served in the navy. Had the two men known each other? Did LeCato have a similar tattoo?

Despite his association with the seemingly righteous Evelyn Denison, did LeCato's presence at Welbeck have a more sinister purpose?

23

B
ack in Worksop, Violet stopped first at the telegram office, as it had occurred to her that if the telegram to Ian Hale instructing him to assault her had been sent from someone at Welbeck, it would have been done here.

She handed the clerk her most recent
carte de visite,
which featured a photograph of her seated next to an upright coffin, with urns of lilies on the floor surrounding them and a spread of mourning cards arrayed in Violet's lap. Unfortunately, the clerk there had no helpful information in response to her questions and handed the card back to her, holding it between a thumb and forefinger as though it was a picture of a dead mouse. She turned to leave, but a strapping young man burst into the telegram office, nearly knocking her over.

“Telegram to London from Welbeck Abbey!” he shouted to the clerk, who smiled at the boisterous announcement.

“Right you are, Gilbert,” the clerk said. The rest was lost to Violet as she stepped outside. She waited, though, for the Welbeck employee to leave the telegram office, where she fell into step with him as he made his way back to a horse and cart parked nearby.

“Pardon me,” she said. “I heard you say you had a telegram from Welbeck Abbey.”

The young man named Gilbert stopped in front of a chemist's shop. “Yes,” he said, frowning as if trying to place who Violet might be.

“My name is Violet Harper. I was the undertaker for Burton Spencer's funeral. Did you know him?”

Gilbert's expression immediately turned downcast. “Of course, m'um, I'm Gilbert Lewis. I was at his funeral. We was all there.”

This piqued Violet's interest. “We? Whom do you mean?”

“All of us home children.”

“Home children? I don't understand.” Violet had never heard this term before.

“There's this lady, Mrs. MacPherson. She pays for us to emigrate to distribution homes in Canada, and people hire us, for farms and factories. She says we will have a better life there than we can ever have in London.”

“Where do you go in Canada?”

“Some of us go to Ontario, some to Quebec. I'm to go to Belleville, Ontario.”

“I see.” In reality, Violet had no understanding of what Lewis was talking about. Perhaps it was best to stick to her point. “I was wondering if I might ask a question about the tele—”

At that moment, a barouche drawn by two pairs of horses came trundling by, the wheels on Violet's side crashing through a deep rut and splattering mud against Violet's dress. Flecks of it splattered against her cheek.

Gilbert glowered at the passing carriage. “They was from Worksop Manor. It borders His Grace's land. The Dukes of Norfolk aren't always mannerly-like. May I fetch you a cloth of some sort, m' um?”

“No, I'm quite all right.” Violet wiped under her eyes with a gloved hand, confident that she had only succeeded in smearing the dirt and turning herself into a good likeness of one of the raccoons she'd seen back in Colorado. However, her pathetic state earned her sympathy from the young man, who said, “You have a question for me?”

“Yes, about the telegram message you just delivered.”

Gilbert resumed walking. “Yes, m'um, it was a rush order for machine parts from London. It's nothing special.” He readily pulled the handwritten missive from his pocket and handed it over for Violet to examine. “Is there something wrong with it?”

As far as Violet could tell, it was indeed just an order for gears and springs to be delivered from the Charles Porter Engine Company. “Do you deliver these messages frequently?”

“Of course. There's always machinery breaking down and supplies to be ordered for His Grace's projects. Mr. Reed says I'm his best runner for telegrams because I am so quick about it. He says he will be short two men when I leave for Canada.” This was obviously a point of pride for Lewis.

“Are the telegrams ever for anything other than the ordering of construction materials?”

Lewis was confused. “What else would His Grace need for his building projects?”

“No, you're quite right, of course.” It appeared as though the telegram to Ian Hale had not originated at Welbeck Abbey—or if it had, Gilbert Lewis, the regular runner to Worksop, had not taken it to the telegram office. Yet another unresolved question to add to her rapidly growing list of them.

“So . . . how old are you?” she asked. She was still curious about Lewis's description of these so-called “home children.”

“Sixteen, m'um.”

“And how old was Burton Spencer?”

“He was older. Seventeen, m'um.”

Poor murdered Burton Spencer was but a seventeen-year-old boy? He had been large and maturely formed, though, like Lewis. Were home children selected based on who appeared to be better suited for hard work?

But Violet was still confused. “If you're bound for Canada, why are you at Welbeck Abbey?”

“His Grace has agreed to take on some home children to learn a trade before we're sent over, so that we can have every advantage. We're paid just like regular workers”—the boy puffed his chest with pride—“and Mr. Reed saves it all for us orphan boys so we have plenty in our pockets when we get to Canada. I think I might even have my own farm one day.”

This was yet another facet of the enigmatic Duke of Portland that Violet hadn't known. The man gave every impression of disliking the presence of others, yet he was very caring and involved when it came to his workers. And yet these home children could hardly be called his workers since they were essentially just stopping over at Welbeck on their way to a transatlantic voyage to Canada.

Actually, she could think of no benefit Portland derived by extending temporary positions to these unskilled boys. He must do it purely to do good. How would she ever comprehend the man?

She parted from Gilbert and returned to the chemist's for some cloths to take care of her face. Her bespattered gown would have to remain in that condition a while longer, as her curiosity about home children was growing with each passing second. Instead of going to Worksop Inn to change her dress, she immediately headed to Welbeck Abbey to visit Ellery Reed. Why had he concealed from her that Burton Spencer was a home child?

She wondered if Spencer's death had anything to do with his home child status. But why would someone want to kill a young man—a boy, really—for being an orphan?

Violet's breath caught. Ian Hale had worked for an orphanage. Was he somehow involved in the home children program? But even if he was, why had he tried to kill Violet? For heaven's sake, she hadn't even known about home children until a few moments ago.

She remembered what the note to Hale said.
Her inquiries are getting closer to my treasure.
But if the home children were the treasure in question, how was it that Violet was getting “closer” to them, other than that she had prepared Spencer's body for burial?

In no way could she even begin to fathom what Edward Bayes had to do with it all.

Nothing made any sense.

 

Ellery Reed was just coming out of his cottage when Violet arrived. He wore a brown vest already filthy from the new day's work, and held some odd hand tool with iron teeth. “Ah, Mrs. Harper, you are still with us,” he said, putting the tool down to one side. “It looks as though you have had the worse end of a fight with a pig.” He chuckled amiably, his words inoffensive.

“I'm afraid I lost against a passing carriage,” Violet replied.

“Ah yes, there is no use going up against the wheeled beasts. How may I help you?”

“I met Gilbert Lewis in Worksop a short while ago. He mentioned something very interesting to me, that he was one of several home children on the estate.” Violet watched closely for Reed's reaction, but it was bland.

“Yes, we have nine of them—no, eight. I can't seem to accept that Burton is gone now.” Reed passed a hand across his eyes.

“You never mentioned this to me, sir. I didn't know that Burton Spencer was a mere boy of seventeen—as large as he was—and that he was part of the home children arrangement. Why didn't you tell me?”

Reed looked at her quizzically. “Mrs. Harper, was his orphan status relevant to his death? I try not to point out the orphans' status to others, lest the other workers look down upon them. The boys are only here for a short time, and there's no point in other workers viewing them as lesser beings because they are both orphans and not here permanently. His Grace wants them treated equally. They are paid just as fairly for the work they do as the other men, and they share the same meals.”

“According to Gilbert, they aren't exactly paid. He says you are saving their money for them, and have promised to give it all to them upon their departure.”

“That is true.” Reed sighed heavily. “Would you care to see my accounting ledger for the boys?”

“Yes, sir, I would.”

She followed him into his cottage, which was modeled much like Colonel Mortimer's, except that it was sparsely furnished and neatly kept. Disappearing momentarily into another room, he came back with a key attached to a long chain. He pushed aside a chair positioned against a wall and inserted the key into a lock recessed in the wall. Part of the wall sprang open on a hinge.

“His Grace likes certain things to be kept hidden from prying eyes. I must assume you are here on his business, and aren't just a nosy hen.”

Violet swallowed a retort as Reed got onto his knees and dug around in the opening. “Here we are.” He rose carrying a large ledger, similar to the one she used in her own undertaking business. He plopped the book down on a table, the thud reverberating through the largely barren room. Reed flipped through the pages and stopped in a certain place, pointing down for Violet to see.

“This is the current group of boys, who arrived back in March. You can see here that at the end of each week I credit each boy with his wages. I will total it all up in this column just before they leave.”

Violet followed along, noting that there was a long line drawn through Burton Spencer's name. “What happened to Burton Spencer's savings?”

“I divided his money up among the other boys. You can see here where I added a portion to each boy's account. It didn't seem right for His Grace to just keep the money, and he agreed that it should be distributed among the others. A sad turn of affairs it was with Spencer, but I suppose there is solace in that the other orphan boys will have some benefit from his death.”

“Yes,” Violet agreed, although it seemed a high price for Burton Spencer to have paid for the dividing of his seven months' worth of spoils across eight other boys. Surely one of the other boys hadn't killed him for this reason. How could any of them have assumed even for a moment that Spencer's savings would be divided up this way? There would have been no benefit to such an act, anyway. They were all headed to new homes and guaranteed employment. There was no need to commit murder for just a few coins.

Violet still needed to know what connection the boys at Welbeck had to any London orphanages.

“Do the boys leave Welbeck at various times, or do they travel together?” she asked.

“Usually they all leave together, then Mrs. MacPherson arranges for another round of boys through various orphanages.”

“Including Babbage's Home for Foundlings?”

Reed shook his head. “I don't know. Perhaps. Quite honestly, Mrs. Harper, I don't keep track of where they have come from because it doesn't matter, and I only make note of where they are going because it is important to the young men to look forward to the next place they will call home. I remind them regularly of their futures.”

“Do any of them ever stay on here at Welbeck instead of going to Canada?”

“No, never. There is always a farmer or factory owner who has paid good money to have a strapping young worker sent to him. They always go, except of course . . .” Reed's words trailed off.

Except in the case of Burton Spencer. “Did His Grace reimburse Spencer's Canadian patron after the boy's death?” Violet asked.

“I believe there was some arrangement made to compensate the man, although I wasn't privy to the details.”

Violet was empty of questions. It was certainly a striking coincidence that she was attacked by a man who worked for an orphanage and it turned out that a group of home children were in residence at Welbeck Abbey. However, she couldn't figure any way in which the coincidence had anything to do with Burton Spencer's death, much less that of Edward Bayes. She needed more information, and that meant another visit to Martin Chandler. She hadn't forgotten that it was he who had called her a raven during Spencer's funeral, and that Hale's telegram referred to her that same way.

She thanked Reed and said her farewells.

“I hope you are able to discover whatever it is you are seeking, Mrs. Harper,” Reed said as he escorted her out and picked up his tool again.

“So do I,” Violet said, wondering what exactly it was she was even searching for anymore.

 

Chandler was feeding the ravens and a couple of hawks from a pile of dead mice when Violet arrived. Some of the carcasses had been split open, exposing the rodents' flesh—and the odor of decay—to the birds, who were all grasping perches as they waited their turns for a tasty morsel, uttering various caws and mild screeches in their impatience to eat. Chandler had obviously trained them well, for none of them jumped at the falconer or attempted to steal food out of turn.

Violet was tired from traipsing across the estate from Reed's cottage to the rookery, and quickly became irritated that Chandler ignored her presence as he pulled a mouse from the pile and fed it to one of the birds, sometimes speaking lovingly and sometimes demanding a trick first, such as a whistle or a head bob.