Death at the Abbey (3 page)

“But . . . surely the duke cannot eat nearly twenty chickens tonight by himself.”

“No, but he likes the smell of them. All of the time.”

Violet cast her glance at the bellows, which was propped up against the wall beneath the grate. Surely the woman didn't mean that—

At that moment, an elderly woman entered the room, wearing the most ostentatious chatelaine Violet had ever seen. It hung from a pale-blue sash, and multiple keys, from large gate keys down to the tiniest jewel casket key, dangled and clinked together as she walked.

“Olive said you wished to see me for an important matter?” the woman demanded imperiously, as though exceedingly put out to have been summoned to this hot and stuffy room.

Mrs. Garside was appropriately deferential in her tone, but Violet didn't think the cook was particularly frightened of the other woman. “Yes, Mrs. Neale. This 'ere's Mrs. 'Arper. She's the undertaker seeing to Aristotle, and she wants to speak with 'Is Grace.”

Mrs. Neale wrinkled her nose distastefully at the mention of the dead bird. “I see. I'll talk to Mr. Kirby.”

After Mrs. Neale swept out, jingling her way into the hall toward the staircase, Violet asked, “Who is Mr. Kirby?”

“ 'E's the butler of Welbeck Abbey. 'E's in charge of the male staff in the 'ouse.”

“I see.” In the manner of large houses, protocol had to be followed, and it appeared as though the butler would be the one to escort her to the duke.

Mr. Kirby appeared promptly, and once again Violet was introduced. He was much more gracious than Mrs. Neale. “Thank you for coming, Mrs. Harper. The duke will be glad of it, I'm sure. I'll send Hudock down to you.” The butler left, almost instantly replaced with Judith, who ducked into the room and took turns at each spit, checking on how each of the chickens was faring.

Apparently it was not the butler who would escort her after all. “Who is Hudock?” Violet asked, exasperated by how many people were required for her to see the duke.

“Miles 'Udock, 'e's one of the footmen,” the cook said. “A little lame-brained, but thinks 'e will replace Mr. Kirby one day. Silly boy. Mr. Kirby serves this family, as 'is father did before 'im, and 'is grandfather before that. I imagine it will be another Kirby in the butler's uniform just as sure as it will be another Bentinck behind the ducal crest one day. Now if you'll pardon me, I must return to my birds.”

Mrs. Garside turned and retrieved her bellows and began operating it next to the grate again. In a quick minute, a young man in a uniform arrived, looking down and brushing invisible specks from his jacket. He acknowledged Violet's presence with a nod and took her to see Lord William John Cavendish-Scott-Bentinck, the 5th Duke of Portland.

3

V
iolet was thoroughly confused when the footman led her back outside again. Were they not to access the house through the servants' staircase? Was she actually to be taken to the front door this time?

However, instead of walking back in the direction of the main entrance, Hudock went to the left, as though to head to the rear of the home. Perhaps the duke was taking tea in a rear garden?

But the rear gardens, dominated by a large fountain overlooking acres of finely manicured shrubbery, were empty except for a gardener on his knees, tugging at a stubborn root. “Parris,” the footman said in greeting as they passed. The gardener squinted up at them and nodded in return.

The footman continued leading her away from the house.
Where are we going?
Violet wondered, trying to block out the noise of construction going on around the estate. Although she could hear the hammering of nails, dragging of carts, and shouts of laughter emanating from the front of the house, the rear gardens were peaceful. Between the gardens and the welcoming arches of the rear stone entrance was a multilevel terrace, with artfully arranged potted shrubbery struggling to mask the disarray of construction elsewhere.

Behind the gardens was an expanse of lawn, and behind the lawn was a copse of barren trees. Hudock led her around the copse, to one of the most remarkable sights Violet had ever seen. It was nearly bewildering in its complexity. Men stood near horse-drawn wagons mounded with fresh dirt, shoveling out a long and narrow lake while men below moved the dirt around all along the embankment. In an area where the lakeside was not being filled stood a tall, stooped man wearing a brown coat at least ten years out of fashion and a black silk hat at least two feet too high. He held a black umbrella over his head with one hand and a wood oar in the other as he shouted encouragement and instruction to several rowboats out in the lake. Those boats were populated with uniformed male servants, who were doing their best to row according to the man's commands, despite the constriction of their tight jackets and trousers.

This man couldn't possibly be . . . No, it just wasn't conceivable.

Yet Hudock walked straight for the man, only stopping when he was about six feet away, clearing his throat several times until he was noticed.

“Yes?” the man said, as Hudock instantly dropped his gaze, avoiding direct eye contact.

“Your Grace,” Hudock said deferentially, his eyes still downcast. “May I present to you Mrs. Violet Harper, Aristotle's undertaker?” he offered before backing away, presumably to return to his duties.

The duke was distracted by something on the lake and turned his attention away without acknowledging Violet's presence.

“Bernard, no! Pay attention to your oar. Don't let it slap against the water, let it gently glide in. Like this.” The duke demonstrated the proper movement with the oar while still keeping the umbrella over his head. He moved awkwardly, like a mechanical toy soldier.

Violet had no idea which rower was Bernard, for they all responded in kind, checking their oars and trying to imitate their employer. Some of the low-slung boats were slicing through the water; others were moving in near circles. It would have been comical if it weren't so . . . bizarre.

“You wish to speak to me about Aristotle?” Portland asked without preamble, startling Violet out of her concentration on the hapless servants.

“Yes, Your Grace,” she replied, as she finally had the opportunity to see his face. She guessed he was near seventy, but his height made him an imposing figure, despite his slightly stooped shoulders.

“We won't speak of it here, where the servants may be listening. We will go inside.”

Violet had no idea who could possibly hear them. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Portland had a nose so long and broad that it probably prevented the sun from ever reaching the man's lips. What was most peculiar about him, though, was that, in addition to his large features and outmoded clothing, the man would not make direct eye contact with Violet. He continuously gazed off to one side, or tilted his head up in the air as they spoke to each other. His efforts were probably made easier by his pouch-like eyelids, which hooded his eyes from view.

Portland returned his attention to the rowers, who seemed exhausted from their ordeal. After a few more minutes of instruction, during which Violet wondered if she should wait or if perhaps she had been dismissed, Portland finally dropped his oar. He pulled a whistle from a wide-flapped pocket on the exterior of his coat and blew it. The shrill, piercing noise made Violet cringe, but inspired near body heaves of relief out on the water as the rowers started their boats toward shore.

“Come,” Portland commanded, walking off toward a rear entrance of the house.

With her reticule and undertaking bag in tow, Violet struggled to keep up with the man's stride as he moved purposefully, the umbrella still perched high over his top hat, despite there being no rain and it not being a particularly sunny day.

Portland paused at the door long enough to allow Violet to precede him through. The footman who opened the door kept his eyes cast down in the same manner that Hudock had. Was this a sign of fear? Was Portland a cruel taskmaster? And what was all of the rowing instruction for?

Well, it was of no matter to Violet. She simply needed to report on the dead raven, see him buried, and return to her sightseeing around Nottinghamshire.

Unfortunately, her plans were not to be realized.

Violet had to refrain from gasping as she entered Welbeck's house. The interior was under as much construction as the exterior. Walls were being replastered, repapered, and sometimes moved entirely. Huge carpets lay rolled in stacks, waiting for oak flooring to be fully installed in intricate variations of herringbone patterns. Furniture sat shrouded, awaiting their final resting places.

Remarkably, the din of hammering, sawing, and talking ceased instantly in each room into which Violet and Portland entered, with the workers casting their eyes down, if not turning their backs completely and waiting for the undertaker and the duke to be gone.

Although many rooms of Welbeck were under renovation, some were not, and Portland paused inside a grand, spacious dining room, as if debating with himself whether to meet with Violet here. It was quieter in this room, removed from much of the other construction underway.

The center of the room held a banquet table that was so long, Violet counted eighteen chairs precisely placed on each side of it. The ceiling soared, as majestic as any cathedral's, and the walls were covered with splendid paintings. In fact, there were more than enough portraits to represent a guest for each dining chair. As Violet began to take notice of particular portraits, she had no doubt that some of them were by the likes of Rembrandt and Reynolds.

Her attention was drawn to three portraits, identically framed and hanging over the mantel, where ordinarily there would just be one life-sized portrait as the focal piece of the room. They were of three young women, each wearing the same pearl ear bobs and fashionable seventeenth-century clothing.

“You are admiring the Cavendish sisters, I see,” Portland said, his face away from Violet and concentrating on the portraits. “Those are Jane, Frances, and Elizabeth Cavendish. They were great-granddaughters of Bess of Hardwick.”

Every schoolchild knew who the formidable Bess of Hardwick, a notable figure of Elizabethan society, was. Through a series of four well-made marriages, she had become fabulously wealthy, dying at age eighty as the Countess of Shrewsbury. She was most renowned for having served, along with her last husband, the 6th Earl of Shrewsbury, as a jailer for Mary, Queen of Scots.

Hadn't Violet heard that Portland had the Cavendish name included in his own? “They are relatives of yours, sir?” she asked.

“Indeed.” Portland smiled, but it came across as more of a grimace. “They were daughters of my ancestor William Cavendish, a nobleman at the court of James I and a friend to Charles I. The sisters married very well. No doubt the thought of possessing some piece of Welbeck Abbey's fortunes—as well as their own personal charms—made them very desirable in the eyes of suitors.”

Violet had to admit that all three girls were very beautiful.

“You're an undertaker,” Portland continued, “so I'm sure you can appreciate the fact that Elizabeth's funeral was attended by nine mourning coaches. They were reputedly filled not only with her nine children, but with a complement of gentry and nobility. Quite a young woman she must have been.”

And quite a rich young woman to have had such an ostentatious procession,
Violet thought.

“Ironically, Elizabeth died in childbirth for her tenth child, while Frances was completely childless. Hmm.” Portland cocked his head as he gazed at Jane's portrait. “I think Jane died of seizures.”

Portland's informative history lesson was very interesting, but Violet needed to get back to town. She was also famished. Was that the aroma of roasting chicken she smelled once more? To the left of the fireplace was a grate identical to the one in the basement, except this one was painted to match the yellow walls, whereas the one in the kitchen was in its natural black iron state.

Mrs. Garside had done her work well. Violet pushed the thought of her hunger to the recesses of her mind so she could wrap up her current duty.

“Your Grace, if I might . . .”

“What? Oh, of course.” Portland held out a chair for Violet, as if they were to dine together. She sat, dropping her undertaking bag behind the chair next to her, and he moved to a chair across the table from her. Still he had difficulty meeting her gaze. This was becoming very disconcerting.

“I examined Aristotle—” she began.

“He was my best raven. Did Pearson tell you that? A sorry loss, the bird was. Made more so by all of the gossip about him downstairs.”

“Yes, Pearson did mention it. You will be glad to know that I believe I have uncovered the cause of his death, which should dispel any rumors.” Violet reached into her reticule and pulled out the shard of porcelain. “I believe he choked on this, which I found in his gullet.”

Portland examined it in her hand as best he could across the table, but refused to reach out and touch it. “Ravens do love shiny things. Aristotle was very well trained. My falconer could get him to do tricks, hopping through rings and even flying obstacle courses. I don't suppose another will rise to take his place. Do you know of the legend surrounding ravens, Mrs. Harper?”

“That England won't be conquered as long as they live at the Tower? Yes, Your Grace.”

Portland was pensive. “I had a rookery installed for my own entertainment, but the staff think that the idea extends to Welbeck Abbey, too. However, I shall have Kirby announce to them that he accidentally swallowed a . . . what is it, exactly?”

Violet studied the shard once more. “A piece of porcelain, I'd say. Perhaps from a broken teacup or saucer? I imagine Aristotle found his way into some discarded goods.”

“Mmm. The servants may still have some ridiculous idea that there is a curse upon the estate because we've lost a raven for reasons other than old age. They will need the comfort that a formal service can offer. Pearson says you have agreed to conduct Aristotle's funeral, which I would like to hold tomorrow morning.”

Violet detested the thought of a bird burial being referred to as a “funeral” and felt the whole ordeal was nonsense, but bit her tongue and respected his station. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“May I request, then, that you stay as my guest overnight here at the Abbey? I'm sure you will have preparations to make for Aristotle's funeral.”

Preparations? She simply needed to find a small crate and line it with a newspaper. “My husband and I have lodgings back in Worksop, so I don't think—”

“That's fine. I'll send someone to town to give your husband a message and pick up your things. There is a finished guest room somewhere upstairs, I'm sure. Kirby will help you.”

Portland stood, nodded vaguely in Violet's direction, and left her at the table, alone except for that delicious aroma that would not go away. She wasn't sure what had just happened to her. Had she somehow committed to staying overnight in this unfinished colossus, just to inter a dead raven? Was there some strange animal graveyard on the grounds? Perhaps it was part of the construction plans.

Well, if she was to be trapped at Welbeck Abbey for a day, she might as well go see Mrs. Garside for a sampling of the chicken that had been taunting her hunger for the last hour. As marvelous as it smelled, it just might make the overnight stay worth it.

 

Once Violet had secured Aristotle inside a box that had previously held a shipment of nails, she set the box directly in the center of the table where she'd found him. She draped a tablecloth over the box in some effort to make it look as though he were lying in state. Satisfied with her efforts to undertake Aristotle properly, she then partook of a side of chicken in the servants' hall that more than lived up to the tantalizing promise of its aroma.