Death at the Abbey (4 page)

Her hunger now satiated, Violet actually wanted something to do to exercise away all she had eaten while waiting for her belongings to arrive. Perhaps it might be of benefit to show a few of the staff members the porcelain shard, just to confirm that it came from the duke's collection. It would also help impress upon the kitchen staff what Kirby had announced when he came downstairs earlier while Violet was eating.

She left her undertaking bag in the room with Aristotle and wandered into the main hallway, where servants were bustling to and fro with cleaning supplies and linens. She stopped several of them and showed them the porcelain shard. They all shook their heads at it, saying that they didn't know where it might be from.

Violet was just about to locate Mrs. Garside to ask her opinion when a parlor maid in her twenties approached her. “Madam, I'm Olive, and I'm told you want to identify some porcelain. I assist with His Grace's collections and can help you.”

Violet showed Olive the shard. Unlike her master, Olive didn't hesitate to take the piece and hold it up in the air, trying to catch it in the light and get a better look at it. Finally, the girl frowned. “This doesn't look like anything of His Grace's, but it's such a small piece. . . .”

“Have any sets been thrown away recently?”

“No, madam, His Grace wouldn't do that.” Olive seemed shocked at the very thought of it.

“Can you show me his porcelain patterns? Together we might be able to tell what set this shard belongs to.” Violet had no idea why she was pursuing this. Boredom, perhaps?

Olive, however, looked intrigued by Violet's suggestion. After hurrying off to get the housekeeper's permission for the task, the parlor maid returned and escorted Violet up the servants' staircase into the main floor of the Abbey.

Violet followed Olive through another set of rooms, different from those she had seen earlier. These rooms might have been parlors, or bedrooms, or smoking rooms, or libraries, or any of the other types of luxurious chambers contained in a stately house. It was impossible to tell because, although they were all finished—their walls and ceilings painted and embellished with moldings, their floors laid and varnished, and their windows adorned with graceful draperies—they were all utterly empty.

Except for paintings. A countless number of them, just as Violet had seen in the dining room, covered the walls in a priceless hodgepodge.

As they passed through several of these rooms, Violet noticed one other item. In one corner of every room, standing lonely and erect like a sentinel, was a commode. Each was adorned with a luxuriously padded seat and cloaked in a walnut edifice.

“What is this?” Violet asked, walking to the commode in one room and pointing to it.

“You don't know?” Olive asked in surprise.

“Of course I do. I mean, why is this the only piece of furniture in the room?”

Olive shrugged. “His Grace's orders. He likes things the way he likes them. In here, madam.”

They entered a storage room as large as Violet's lodgings back in London. It had a window on the opposite end from the door, and both long walls were lined with cabinets, where glass-plated fronts displayed their wares. From top to bottom, the cabinet shelves were stuffed full of numerous sets of china in a wide variety of patterns with dozens of place settings each. It would put the sumptuous offerings of the renowned Bainbridge's to shame.

After Olive quickly opened each of the cabinets with a large brass key, Violet began comparing the shard against each pattern in turn. There were a few patterns of blue and green that seemed similar, but it was hard to tell because the shard she had was so small.
Perhaps it belongs to this one with ribbons along the edge in a Scottish tartan pattern,
she thought.
Hmm, no, that isn't right.

Another hopeful pattern was that of exquisite majolica, with various scenes of Italian Renaissance life painted across them. Although the dishes incorporated rich cobalt blue and bright emerald green, none of it was quite right. She moved on to the next pattern.

While Olive waited respectfully to one side, twisting the key in one hand, Violet thought to engage her in conversation. “Without us counting the various place settings to see what might be missing, which would take days, I suppose this is the only way to match this little piece I have.”

“Yes, madam,” the girl said dutifully.

“You're certain that there haven't been any pieces chipped or broken recently that would have ended up in the kitchen garden?” Violet held the shard up to a plate whose centerpiece contained a burst of flowers and fruit spilling out of a Grecian urn. It was a riot of vibrant colors, but it still wasn't a match.

Olive shook her head. “The duke doesn't throw away much.”

“But surely he would have broken dishes tossed.” After that declaration was met with a blank stare, Violet had another idea. “Can you tell me which pattern was used for his most recent dinner party?”

The girl tried to keep her face steady, but Violet saw the expression of incredulity there. “There are no dinner parties here, madam.”

“What do you mean? He has dozens of china patterns here.” Violet put the shard back into her reticule, indicating that she was finished with her inspection here, which had resulted in nothing.

“Yes, but there are no parties at Welbeck Abbey.” Olive began locking up the cabinets.

This made no sense. “None at all? Not even, say, a wedding celebration for a close family member?”

“Especially not that, madam.” Olive raised her eyebrows quizzically and held up the key, as if to ask if they were finished in the storage room. Violet was not.

“Well, what about the china that the duke eats on daily? Where is that kept? Downstairs?”

Olive gave her an odd look. “His Grace? Why, he don't eat on any of it, madam. He uses the crockery the rest of us use.”

Violet had never heard of such a thing. What she knew of Portland thus far made him an utter paradox. First she'd witnessed him drilling his servants in rowing, then seen that both he and his staff couldn't seem to look at one another, implying that there was something odd about the man at best, cruel at worst. Now Violet was discovering that the duke reduced himself to eating as humbly as those same servants—not to mention that he was willing to spend money to give a bird a fancy burial to soothe his servants' fears, and to spend vast amounts of money renovating rooms, only to use them as picture galleries.

What in heaven's name was going on here at Welbeck Abbey?

Violet followed Olive back through the empty rooms whose walls were replete with masterpieces, then back down the servants' staircase. Down in the kitchens, they ran into Mrs. Neale, who silently held out a palm, into which Olive placed the key, curtsied, and went off to her duties without a glance at Violet.

“So, Mrs. Harper,” Mrs. Neale said with a disdainful sniff as she reattached the key to its proper place along her chain, “did you find what you were looking for? You should know that I absolutely never let keys out of my sight. This was a great exception I made. I was busy making out an order for the coal man when Olive came to me, and His Grace has given orders that you are to be properly accommodated while you are here. That's only until tomorrow, correct?” Mrs. Neale wrinkled her nose in distaste.

No one ever seemed to enjoy having an undertaker under his roof, with the exception of the perpetually mourning Queen Victoria. However, Violet intuitively sensed there might be something else behind Mrs. Neale's open resentment. “Just until tomorrow morning, in fact. I need to find out where His Grace would like Aristotle to rest. Is there some sort of animal burial ground on the estate?”

“I'm sure I don't know—my time is spent inside, not outside. I've never heard of a bird being buried. I think he buries his hunting dogs in a special place across the lake.”

Perhaps Violet needed to speak directly to the duke again. As directly as could be managed. She had one final question.

“Is there a chapel at the Abbey?” It seemed a reasonable assumption as many wealthy estates had chapels purpose-built for their families and staff.

The housekeeper frowned. “You mean the underground one?”

“Underground?” Violet frowned in puzzlement. “There is a chapel beneath Welbeck Abbey?” That was curious. Why would the duke—or one of his ancestors—have built one in secret?

“That's none of my concern and I shouldn't have mentioned it,” Mrs. Neale replied. “I pay no mind to any of His Grace's doings down there.”

His “doings”? It sounded as though the duke had some sort of strange laboratory down there. Was he conjuring spirits, like the queen's favorite servant, John Brown, liked to do? Or was there something else macabre happening at Welbeck Abbey?

Try as she might, though, Violet could see she would get nothing further from Mrs. Neale, who now stood there with her lips clamped shut, refusing to say more. Finally, with a sigh, Violet asked if she could see the duke once more, and once more they enacted the intricate dance of summoning Mr. Kirby, who escorted her himself to the duke's quarters.

What she saw there had Violet questioning her own sanity.

 

Portland's “quarters” consisted of four rooms in a remote part of Welbeck that was still under construction. In fact, Kirby had to gently hand Violet up across boards precariously positioned over a large gaping hole in the duke's antechamber, beneath which was more construction. Before he knocked on the door at the other end of the room to announce her presence, Kirby said, almost apologetically, “You must understand, madam, that His Grace is rather shy.”

That was not enough to prepare Violet.

They entered a room that, while spacious, was sparsely furnished in worn leather chairs and sofas and some scarred tables that looked as though they belonged in a St. Giles tavern. Unlike in the dining room, the walls—painted a pale shade of salmon—were devoid of any artwork whatsoever, although the requisite commode stood proudly in a corner. Halfway across the room stood a wood screen, with acanthus leaves and swirls carved through the wall-to-wall structure, providing a shadowy look at what lay on the other side. It reminded Violet of a bank teller's screen, only more elaborate and more concealing. It was also the only piece of genuine décor in the room.

“Kirby?” came Portland's voice from the far end of the room. Violet saw a flash of something dark behind the screen.

“Yes, Your Grace. I have Mrs. Harper here. She wishes to speak with you once more about Aristotle.”

“Yes, yes.” Shadows moved again, and it seemed as though Portland had taken a seat next to the screen. Why the subterfuge? Hadn't Violet just met the man face-to-face a short while ago? Of course, now that she thought about it, the duke hadn't ever looked her in the eye.

Kirby showed Violet to a chair next to the screen. It had a ripped back, was missing buttons in its tufts, and was totally unbefitting a man of Portland's stature. She sat down at the edge of the seat, to avoid having the torn leather snag the back of her dress. Kirby offered an apologetic smile and left. The gentle clicking of the doorknob sounded like a ricocheting bullet in such a barren room.

Portland did not invite any conversation, so Violet assumed it was her responsibility to initiate it. She cleared her throat. “Ahem, Your Grace, I wanted to let you know that Aristotle is . . . ready. Also, I did attempt to investigate where the porcelain shard may have come from, but to no avail.”

The duke made no response of acknowledgment. With dogged determination, she kept going.

“I need to know where you wish to have him buried on the grounds of the estate. Do you have an animal burial ground? Also, do you wish to have a service in Welbeck's chapel?” It made Violet's stomach turn to speak so seriously of such a bizarre situation.

The duke did not respond. Had he even heard her? It was impossible to think that he hadn't. Maybe it was best to sit quietly until he said something. The quiet, though, was painful. There wasn't even the sound of a clock ticking to fill her ears. How correct it was when people said that silence could be deafening.

She then noticed the aroma of roasting chicken yet again. Was it really wafting up this far into the house? Violet glanced around surreptitiously and saw a familiar grate in the wall.

Good Lord,
she thought.
If I lived here I'd gorge myself every day on chicken meat.
How did the duke remain so lanky? He must be active around his estate, beyond teaching his servants how to row boats. Perhaps he even—

“No service in the chapel,” Portland said, interrupting her thoughts. “We shall bury him in the ravens' graveyard near the rookery so he can be near his brethren.”

There was a special, separate cemetery just for his birds? She shouldn't be surprised. Violet was only disappointed that he hadn't said anything else about the underground chapel as she was interested in seeing it. Before she could even figure out how to delicately ask a peer of the realm about his buried house of worship, a knock at the door interrupted, quickly followed by Kirby's reentry.

“Your Grace, Colonel Mortimer is here to see you. He says it is important, and I believe he is quite serious.”

As if the day hadn't been peculiar enough already, Violet now had the discomfort of encountering one Colonel George William David Mortimer, a man who made Violet believe she had truly entered a distant, grotesque world filled with all of the eccentrics of Great Britain. Outside of the royal family, of course.

4

C
olonel George Mortimer had never been a man to panic, and he was certainly not about to start now. Lying on his side in the dark, with no noise around him save his own thoughts clamoring wildly in his mind, he couldn't quite convince himself that he wasn't dead at the moment.

Egads, did he feel dreadful, confined in this space as he was, his face against something hard and unyielding. His tongue was thick and dry, and he could barely open his mouth, so tightly was the roof of it stuck to his tongue. His head throbbed as though he had been clubbed with a tree trunk. Wait, was that what had happened? He recalled being outside very late. There were shadows, angry whispers, and then . . .

Right. Now he remembered. In fact, he recalled everything from the previous night. He almost wished he were still unconscious. The question was, what should he do about it?

He opened his eyelids. At least, he thought he opened them, but it was still pitch-black around him. Good Lord, had he completely lost his eyesight, too? Wait, no, there was a small shaft of light winking at him. Mortimer closed his left eye and squinted his right. Realization dawning on him, he reached out an arm.

Just as he thought. He brushed aside the floor-length bedding that draped to the floor, and light from the cottage filtered down to him. Mortimer was lying under his own bed. How the deuce had he ended up there?

He crawled out from beneath the bed and struggled up to a standing position as he adjusted to the sunlight flooding the room. The floor mirror informed him that he was covered in dust and had cobwebs in his thick, drooping white mustache and in what remained of his hair. Perhaps he should take up the offer of having one of the parlor maids visit his place on occasion.

What was he thinking? What if a maid had come upon him just now? She would have run screaming in terror, bringing all of Welbeck Abbey in to see the very dead—or very drunken, depending upon how she saw it—Colonel Mortimer stuffed under his own bed. She might have noticed other things, too, that might bring him embarrassment. No, a few cobwebs were worth his total privacy.

Mortimer turned to one side and examined his girth. When had the mirror become such a liar? Well, there was no time to think of it now; he had far more important issues to worry about. He made himself a pot of tea inside his two-room cottage, which was small but had been refurbished with running taps and a hot-water boiler. He also had his own privy outside, whereas most of the other cottagers living on the estate had to share with at least one other.

With his clothes and hair dusted out and a warm cup in his hands, Mortimer thought about last night. What could he tell Portland that wouldn't implicate him? The body was sure to be found soon, if it hadn't already been discovered and the local police brought in. He tapped the side of his teacup as he stared out at one of the ravens from Portland's rookery swooping down after something nearby.

Wretched birds, he thought, with their endless croaking and knocking sounds. Why didn't Portland limit himself to normal birds, like hawks, falcons, and owls? Why these black thieves?

The raven flew off, having apparently secured whatever had attracted it. Mortimer remained at the window, though, contemplating, until finally he realized what he must do. Setting aside his cup and saucer, he strode out of his cottage. Heading across the side lawn of Welbeck Abbey, passing by the kitchen gardens, he reached the main house. He'd been fortunate that Portland had offered him this place to live for as long as he wanted it.

A footman, Milo or Milton or something, saw him approach and opened the door before he had to hammer the enormous lion's-head door knocker. What with the incessant pounding already in his brain, the harsh sound of the knocker would have probably made him unconscious at this point.

The footman's expression—quickly hooded, of course—told Mortimer exactly what his appearance was. Well, that would make him that much more convincing to Portland, who would not be inclined to believe his story.

The butler, Kirby, appeared from nowhere. The man had a sixth sense about him and showed up in the unlikeliest of places when you least expected him. Mortimer explained that he urgently needed to see Portland.

“His Grace has another guest at the moment,” Kirby said, unruffled.

“I don't care if the Archangel Michael has come to visit, I
must
see him right away.” Mortimer crossed his arms in an aggressive stance. Kirby relented, although Mortimer had the distinct sense that the butler was merely placating him like a child, not responding in fear.

He followed Kirby through the usual trek of never-ending construction to Portland's dismal rooms. As he entered through the door the butler held open, Mortimer couldn't believe what he saw. Sitting on the near side of Portland's screen was a beauteous dark-haired woman dressed in mourning. Had the body been discovered and his family and the police summoned that quickly? Was this his widow? It seemed impossible that so much could have happened already.

Unless he had been unconscious longer than he thought. What time was it? For that matter, what
day
was it?

Well, it didn't matter, this was his moment. Mortimer launched into his story.

 

Violet was aghast at the man who had just entered the duke's quarters. This Colonel Mortimer was wild-looking and unkempt, his eyes wide with fear or distress and the left side of his face scratched as though he had been on the losing end of a fight with a wild animal. Yet he carried himself with strange self-assurance. He also stank of liquor, and his bloodshot eyes furthered the impression that the man was still in his cups, or had been recently. It was a thoroughly disrespectful way to intrude upon a peer.

Violet clasped her hands in her lap as Portland dealt with the man.

“What has happened, dear friend?” the duke asked from behind the screen.

The colonel stood next to Violet, nearly enveloping her in his odor. She maintained as dignified an expression as she could as the colonel addressed Portland without acknowledging her presence.

“John, I have witnessed something terrible, something unspeakable.” The colonel's voice quavered, but it seemed forced to Violet. Who was he that he addressed the duke so casually and was called “friend”? And he did not seem to think it odd that the duke was hidden behind a screen.

“‘Unspeakable'?” Portland said. “You have seen a great deal in your life. What could be worse than the horrors we witnessed in Burma together?”

Portland's voice was soothing, and his manner entirely different from what Violet had experienced with his staff. Violet tried to summon up history. Hadn't there been a series of conflicts in Burma back in the '20s? She couldn't remember her childhood lessons well enough, though, to recall what the strife had been over. Territory, maybe. British pride, more than likely.

“Nothing, I suppose, except that this impacts you. I believe I saw a murder being committed last night.”

The room fell silent, as though the very furniture—what little of it there was—were in shock over the colonel's words.

Violet immediately had a thousand questions, but first it was imperative that she see whoever it was. The misfortune the late individual might have suffered was being compounded every second that it was left alone with no one to care for it. She also hoped to heavens that the colonel, who appeared half crazed, wasn't referring to Aristotle's death.

She kept all of her thoughts to herself, though, waiting for the duke to respond. Finally he did, but not in the way she expected.

“Are you sure?” Portland asked slowly. “It was not . . . a vision, perhaps?”

“Definitely not. I saw a man being strangled. I think he was being strangled. It was dark and it happened so quickly.”

“This is indeed dreadful, George. It occurred on the grounds of Welbeck?” Portland was remarkably calm at this calamitous news.

“Yes. I was taking a late-night stroll and came upon two figures arguing. Then I saw the larger of the two attack the other, and the second one dropped to the ground. The first man fled and I—I—” Colonel Mortimer took a heaving breath.

“You had an episode?” Portland asked gently.

“Forgive me, John, I don't know what came over me.”

“Remember back in '25, when we fought against Bandula's foot soldiers? Remember his fighting elephants?”

The colonel nodded, and Violet presumed Portland saw him do so.

“That nincompoop strode back and forth in front of his men in full insignia under a gold umbrella, an easy target for our guns. He got exactly what he deserved, didn't he? It didn't take long for all of the provinces to fall after that, I tell you. Lucky for us, since their thick forests and jungles would have eventually snared us, eh? I remember you once shot a python who was making his way for me. Wouldn't be here today if you hadn't done so,” Portland reminded him gruffly.

“I remember,” Colonel Mortimer said, wiping a tear from one eye and seemingly calming down.

This had to be the most bizarre conversation Violet had ever witnessed—two old friends discussing a murder through a screen. Both of them should have been anxious to find the body, but instead the colonel was busy apologizing for encountering the crime, and Portland was mostly concerned with consoling him by reliving their past exploits together.

Violet could take no more of this.

“Your Grace,” she said, standing abruptly. The colonel's shocked expression suggested that he was just noticing her for the first time. His bloodshot eyes moved incongruently, as if each was independent of the other. A single tear rolled from his right eye, unchecked, and dripped off his chin.

Yes, there was something seriously odd here, but Violet had more pressing matters to concern her.

“I believe it is imperative that we find whoever was murdered, don't you?”

Portland coughed. “Of course. I just wanted to ensure the colonel was not—”

Violet no longer cared about the colonel's delicate sensibilities. “Yes, Your Grace. Perhaps if the good colonel could show us exactly where the murder occurred . . . ?” She knew she was inserting herself where she didn't belong, but her greater concern was for the body.

“In due time, Mrs. Harper,” Portland assured her. “George, are you quite all right to get back to your cottage on your own?”

“I think so. Yes, I can make it.”

“I'll tell Kirby. He will know what to do.”

Kirby will know what to do?
Violet thought.
Are people regularly done in at Welbeck?

The colonel nodded to Violet and left, having not actually spoken to her once. The door clicked behind him, and she was once again in the silence with Portland. He made no move to summon Kirby or anyone else. Was he waiting for her to leave before he informed the staff that there was a dead body on the grounds? The man was incomprehensible.

As she was wont to do when agitated, Violet started pacing back and forth in front of the screen, abandoning all pretense of deference to the duke.

“Sir,” she said without pausing, “I hope you will permit me to accompany Mr. Kirby to wherever this body is. I should like to help prepare it, speak with the family, go to—”

“Please calm yourself, Mrs. Harper. We must see first if there actually
is
a body.”

That stopped Violet. “What do you mean?”

Portland sighed. “You must understand that Colonel Mortimer has been my friend since our time together in the Grenadier Guards. I would have stayed in the army much longer if my brother hadn't died, forcing me to return home to assume the Marquess of Titchfield title in anticipation of eventually becoming duke. Regardless, George and I share many memories. Other than Pearson, he is nearly the only person I can tolerate. He knows me, understands my past, and expects nothing of me.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Violet murmured. What did she know about the friendships formed in the ranks of the peerage?

“But George suffered terribly in the Burmese War. We were establishing proper control over northeastern India, you know, but the Burmese were violently opposed to us doing so. The colonel led a group of men on a secret mission to assassinate General Bandula, commander of their forces, prior to Bandula making it so easy for us. George's men were discovered before they could complete their task, and brutally slain before his eyes. Only George and a trusted lieutenant escaped the slaughter. Worse, George was blamed for the mission's failure and asked to quietly resign his commission, even though we soon killed Bandula.”

Violet began to see what made the colonel so agitated yet secretive about witnessing a murder. What if he were to be blamed again? She began to feel some sympathy for the colonel, as well as respect for the duke's circumspect handling of the situation.

“After he left the army, George turned to drink and also suffered black periods of great insomnia. He married, but Esther died not two years later. I've often wondered if George's episodes wore her out. He came to me over a year ago, penniless, and I offered him a cottage here at Welbeck for as long as he wants it. I know that he sometimes wanders out at night, unable to sleep.

“And now, Mrs. Harper, you know why I am hesitant to sound the alarm. George may have been mistaken in what he saw. We have never had anything so sordid as a murder on the grounds. My workers are respectable townspeople. Whatever he saw, it is causing him great mental anguish, and I want to prevent further distress until we know what has really happened.”

Not to mention that the servants were already on edge over Aristotle's death, and rumor of a murder would make some, like Mrs. Garside, ready for an asylum stay.