Stolen Remains (20 page)

“Was she dismissed or did she take another position elsewhere?”

“I’m sure it’s not for me to say, ma’am.” The woman stood resolutely in the doorway, to let Violet know that she wouldn’t be invited in.

“Did her departure have anything to do with the goings-on at Raybourn House?”

“Pardon me, you said you were the Fairmonts’ undertaker? Why is a maid of this household of such interest to you?”

“She might know something about the Raybourn housekeeper’s death. She paid her respects not a week ago and I was of the impression that she knew something about the family.”

A shadow of alarm flitted across the woman’s face, but she quickly concealed it. “I’m sure Lady Cowgil can tell the new Lord Raybourn more about it than I can.”

In other words, it was none of Violet’s business.

The housekeeper began ushering Violet away, but Violet refused to be bullied.

“Can you at least tell me when she left?”

The housekeeper sighed. “Three days ago.”

“Of her own accord?”

“Yes. I have a good mistress; she doesn’t throw her servants out on a whim, like some lords and ladies do.”

“No, no, of course not. I’m sure Lady Cowgil is the kindest of employers.” Violet adopted her softest undertaker tone. “And she is rewarded with the most competent of staff, made evident by your fierce devotion to the family.”

“Yes.” The housekeeper stared beyond Violet, as if in thought.

“I was just making tea. Would you care for a cup?” She left the doorway and retreated into the kitchen, a signal that Violet had met a certain level of approval.

Over spiced cakes and steaming cups of tea made with leftover leaves, the housekeeper finally opened up.

“I’m Mrs. Dennis. I’ve been with the family for more than thirty years. I hope they’ll pension me off when my day comes that I can’t work anymore.”

“May that be many years from now.”

“There’s never been a breath of scandal coming from this house, and not likely to be any now. Lady Cowgil would never tolerate happenings such as what is going on next door.”

“Is that why Rebecca is gone?”

Mrs. Dennis poured more tea for herself and dropped four cubes of sugar into the cup. Lady Cowgil might be a kind employer, but she would probably have sharp words over her housekeeper using so much of a precious commodity.

“In a way. With Lord Raybourn’s death and then Mrs. Peet’s, my mistress was concerned that Rebecca’s connection next door might lead to trouble here.”

“What connection is that, Mrs. Dennis?”

The housekeeper dropped her own voice to match Violet’s. “Lord Raybourn’s valet, Mr. Larkin, he was a bit of a bad sort. Took a liking to Rebecca and was overly attentive to her. Mrs. Peet once caught him cornering Rebecca in this very room when she came by to share a recipe with me. I was out shopping at the time. Rebecca said later there was quite a row over it, with Mrs. Peet nearly boxing his ears off, and Mr. Larkin never bothered poor Rebecca again. When we heard he went to Egypt with Lord Raybourn, it was sighs of relief all around here.”

“Lady Cowgil didn’t complain of Mr. Larkin’s behavior to Lord Raybourn?”

“No, she wanted to maintain peace between the families. I’ll tell you, though, Mrs. Harper.” Mrs. Dennis leaned in closer to Violet. “I always wondered myself if Mr. Larkin didn’t go off with Lord Raybourn to avoid any future consequences of his behavior. Now that we know he never came back, I think he escaped and went to some foreign country to live in disguise.” Mrs. Dennis tapped the side of her nose. “That’s what criminals do.”

After more pleasantries, Violet realized she wasn’t going to learn anything else of value.

“Thank you kindly for the tea and cakes,” Violet said, giving Mrs. Dennis her sweetest smile as she left. At least the mystery surrounding Rebecca was cleared up. She marked the task from her list and examined the rest of it. Perhaps she should drop by the Raybourn House to interview the family members, provided that Stephen would allow it.

Stephen and Katherine were in the dining room with Nelly, who was weeping over the remains of her poached eggs. An empty place setting indicated that Dorothy had already eaten and left.

“Pardon my intrusion. I can return again later,” Violet said.

Stephen waved to Dorothy’s vacated seat. “Please, sit. We have plenty to share. I’ve arranged for Pye’s Dining Rooms to deliver meals until we can, well, sort out everything and hire permanent staff.”

Violet took a plate and served herself a helping of oysters and bacon from a steaming silver salver, then sat down at the dark mahogany table next to Katherine and across from Nelly. Stephen sat at one end, between the other two women, talking of inconsequential things.

It was difficult to eat while watching Nelly sniffling and pushing egg scraps around on her plate. Violet tried to focus on what Stephen was saying, as he read from the newspaper about a current legal trial.

“. . . so Mr. George gave the hair wash to his wife, who used it and ended up losing her hair and having a scalp disorder. He has sued the manufacturer, whom he said represented the hair wash as ‘fit and proper to be used for washing the hair.’ Mr. George says that Mr. Skivington, the manufacturer, owes a duty of care to the people using their products.”

Violet frowned. “Mr. George himself was not injured by the hair wash?”

Stephen scanned the article again. “No, it was only used by his wife.”

“Then how could Mr. George sue Mr. Skivington? He wasn’t injured.”

“The court allowed it.”

“A third person has sued a manufacturer and may win?” Katherine said. “You don’t really think that will happen, do you?”

“Yes, I think he may actually win the case. If he does, it will be the first time a third party is awarded damages for a manufacturer’s false representation of a product.”

Nelly slammed down her fork. “How can you speak of such foolishness? What difference does a silly lawsuit make to our lives after everything that has happened inside these four walls?”

“Nells, you know Mr. Hall is doing everything he can to extricate Gordon,” Stephen said. “He is one of the best solicitors in London, but we must be patient.”

Nelly wiped her mouth and threw down her napkin, covering her uneaten remains. “You be patient. I plan to do something. Gordon may be completely feeble-minded, but he’s still my husband and a member of the family. No one else seems to have noticed.”

“Nells . . .” Stephen said helplessly as she trounced out of the room and upstairs. Katherine kept her head bowed over her plate, as though embarrassed by her sister-in-law’s behavior.

An uncomfortable silence ensued, but Violet realized this was her opportunity. “Might I talk to her? I am accustomed to dealing with those in all forms of grief.”

Stephen nodded his head. “Nelly was always . . . headstrong and volatile. Our family troubles have made her even more unruly. If she’ll talk to you, you have my blessing.”

“Actually, this brings me to the real purpose of my visit. I thought that perhaps, with your permission, I could talk to everyone in the family to try and put together the pieces of what may have happened.”

“What’s the point of that? No one in the household had anything to do with it.”

“But someone may have heard or seen something that he doesn’t realize was significant.”

“You would certainly be better at it than the inspectors.” Stephen looked at Katherine, who looked up from her plate and nodded. “At least you won’t go around randomly arresting people.”

“Very well, then. Nelly’s on the next floor in the room over this one. I suppose you’ll start with her?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Kate, I guess we’ll fall under the undertaker’s watchful eye.”

This actually elicited a smile from Katherine. “Be kind to me.”

“Will you talk to Gordon?” Stephen said.

“I suppose I could visit him. Where is he?”

“Newgate.”

Violet made a mental note of it before heading upstairs and tapping on Nelly’s door. At a subdued “You may enter,” Violet went in. The room was in typical bedroom fashion for the upper classes, with its floral wallpaper, Wedgwood on ledges of varying heights, interspersed with pastoral, romantic pictures on the walls, and heavy, layered draperies on the windows that faced the rear yard. The draperies were artfully drawn back to allow both sunlight and fresh air through the open windows, but Violet knew that by October they would be drawn down to tightly cover the windows, thus preventing any smuts from drifting in from the coal-choked atmosphere of London in winter.

Nelly sat with her back to Violet at a writing desk that had been turned into a vanity table. It was littered with perfume bottles, talcum boxes, brushes, and combs. An ornate tabletop mirror sat in the center of it all, a witness to the disarray. In the reflection of the mirror, Violet saw Nelly turning a pair of gold cuff links over in one hand.

“Yes, what is it?” she asked, looking up into the mirror at Violet.

“Forgive my intrusion, Mrs. Bishop. I was wondering if I might offer any help?”

Nelly turned around in the wheeled, deep blue lady’s slipper chair, still holding the cuff links. “Have you the key that opens my husband’s cell? No? Then do you have a powder I can take that will put me in a trance from which I would never have to wake?”

Violet sat down at the foot of the bed, putting her within two feet of Stephen’s distraught sister. “I don’t have a key, but maybe I can help you remember something vital that will prove Mr. Bishop’s innocence.”

“No, it’s impossible. Gordon is such a terrible old fool. I warned him not to bother with Father’s cigarettes, but he saw no harm in it.”

“So you knew about your father’s hidden tobacco box?”

“Of course. It wasn’t that great a secret.”

“And your husband does collect butterflies?”

“Yes. I don’t know why he enjoys it. He soaks the dead bodies in gin to soften them up so he can spread their wings without them crumbling, then he pins them to a board and labels them. It’s repulsive.” Nelly shuddered.

Could a man whose most aggressive activity was pinning butterflies to a board possibly be guilty of murder? Furthermore, could a woman who found pinning butterflies abhorrent possibly have anything to do with murdering her father?

Surely no one in the family had anything to do with Lord Raybourn’s death, but Violet had to be sure.

“Was there something between your husband and father beyond the collecting of butterflies?”

“Nothing beyond the ordinary between a man and his son-in-law. Gordon was quite grateful to be brought into the family. He was a barrister’s son, not really called to the law but feeling that he had to do it to please his own father. He lives to please everyone around him. My father ‘discovered’ Gordon through some financial transaction and decided he would be a good match for me. That he would settle me down into domestic felicity.”

“But he didn’t?”

Nelly shrugged. “I don’t know. We rub along, I suppose.” She smiled tremulously. “Do you know, Mrs. Harper, how much I envy you? Even though your profession is peculiar, to say the least, you have freedom. You come and go as you please and make your own decisions for all to see. What I do I must do in secret.

“I’ve always thought that I share much in common with Gordon’s ridiculous butterfly collection. They are simple creatures, unmindful of their predators as they merely seek joy in traveling from flower to flower. But they are caught, unawares, stuffed into a box and left to die, then are eventually pinned to a board by a proud collector who wants the world to see what he captured. My wings have been pinned down for years. I just wish I’d been able to . . .” Her voice trailed off as she stared down at her feet.

“What do you wish you’d been able to do?” Violet asked, again using her softest undertaking voice.

Nelly looked up. “What? Oh, nothing. Cobwebs of the mind. I suppose if I wished anything it was that I had been born the eldest boy.”

“That’s an odd wish. Why?”

“Because my eldest brother, Cedric, had a grip on my father’s heart that could not be pried off, simply because he was the heir. Even later, poor Stephen was just a pale substitute for Father’s hope in Cedric. Yet Father never understood what a sniveling rat Cedric was. You know I wanted to be a journalist?”

“Yes.”

“Father was aghast. He said it was wholly unsuitable and unseemly for the daughter of a viscount. He was right, of course, but I didn’t care and pursued it in secret. Ellis helped me, publishing my articles under an assumed name. I was happy to see my work in print, even if Ellis and I were the only ones who knew who had actually written the pieces.

“Unfortunately, it was impossible to keep secrets from Cedric. I don’t know how, but he discovered the identity of ‘Montgomery Fairchild.’ Instead of joining me in my intrigue, he went straight to my father, who was apoplectic over it. Even twenty-five years later, I remember the look of satisfaction on Cedric’s face as Father chastised and humiliated me over it.

“Father took it into his head that I needed to be married, and quickly. Cedric encouraged him in it, despite my protestations that I didn’t wish to marry yet. So I found myself rushed to the altar with a dull weakling, facing a mind-numbing existence of utter boredom.

“I hated Cedric from that moment on, for ruining my greatest desire for no reason other than to see me disgraced. In fact, I was quite happy when Cedric died in the Crimea. It was a just end for him. I can’t say that Father’s death upset me much, either.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Bishop. I suppose my social status didn’t hamper me as much as yours did you. I’ve had some strange looks from people who don’t understand a woman wearing undertaker’s garb, but I’ve learned to ignore them. I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t doing what I love.”

“You’re a strange one, Mrs. Harper. How can a woman love to prepare dead bodies?”

“I don’t know. I like to know they are cared for in their most intimate moment. That someone loved them right up until the moment their coffin was sealed away forever.”

“I understand now why the queen had you in attendance on the prince.”

The two women sat in silence for several moments. Violet wanted to fold the woman in her arms, but knew it would be highly inappropriate to touch the viscount’s daughter, even if she was now married to a commoner.