Stolen Remains (23 page)

What Violet didn’t share with the family was the queen’s pique at having learned through the household staff at St. James’s that Violet had moved to Raybourn House. Victoria had not given her permission for it.

Perhaps Violet should have written that note to the queen, after all.

She arrived at Windsor with the weight of dread having transferred from her hands to her stomach. Was she in for a royal tongue-lashing? The queen’s morose, never-ending soliloquies about the prince consort she could manage, but to endure the queen’s rage? Her sharp temper was legendary.

A servant wearing a black armband led her to the queen, who sat reading with a black-and-white border collie napping at her feet.

“Mrs. Harper,” the queen said flatly, as Violet curtsied before her. Was it Violet’s imagination, or did the queen wait a few extra moments before allowing her to rise? She was glad she had thought to add jet ear bobs, a necklace, and a bracelet to her black dress to acknowledge Prince Albert.

“You may sit.” Violet chose a chair across from the queen. Victoria wore her usual black, softened only by a trim of white lace at her neckline. The queen opened her mouth with, “We understand you took it upon yourself . . .” but stopped when the dog raised his head, opened an eye, and examined Violet.

She must have passed an initial inspection, for he scrambled to his feet and lumbered over to sniff her. His coat was a sleek ebony with large white patches on his muzzle, chest, and paws. After a couple of snuffles, he licked her hand, then dropped back down at the queen’s feet.

The queen’s mood instantly lightened. “Why, Sharp, do you approve of Mrs. Harper? Sharp is our favorite dog. He’s quite faithful and gives us such comfort now that we live alone as a widow. There are few companions who can understand grief the way a dog can.”

The door to the room opened suddenly, without even a cursory knock or scratching. Violet jumped at the booming voice saying, “What ho, here’s the laddie. How am I supposed to check on the new clutch of partridge eggs without ye, boy?”

It was Mr. Brown. Sharp must have been of one mind with his mistress about the man, for he went bounding up to Brown, playfully grabbing his arm and shaking it. Brown wrestled with the dog for a few moments before giving him a hand signal to stop. Sharp obediently sat next to him.

“What have we here, wumman?” he asked. “Both of ye in somber black; it’s like a gathering of crows.”

Violet couldn’t believe the man’s audacity, but the queen was unfazed. “You remember Mrs. Harper, don’t you?”

He peered at Violet. “Your husband’s undertaker. I guess that means you’ll not be wanting me around for a while so you can stew in yer gloomy broth.”

“It won’t be for long.”

“I’ll take Sharp with me, and when I return we’ll have a little tarot reading, won’t we?”

“Yes indeed, Mr. Brown. We’ll have your favorite oatcakes and Brie cheese brought up, too.”

He left with the collie close on his heels.

“Really, Mrs. Harper, we do insist that you stay for Mr. Brown’s reading and have one done for yourself. His interpretations are simply remarkable. We feel so close to our Albert when Mr. Brown spreads out the cards. Surely there is something troubling in your life that could use supernatural attention.”

Be careful,
Violet thought.
Don’t offend the queen
.

“I suppose what troubles me the most, Your Majesty, is what happened to Lord Raybourn.”

The queen’s expression was guarded. “Yes, that is a mystery for us all, but with so many people working diligently on that, might it be best not to trouble the supernatural world with it? Not just yet.”

“As you wish, naturally.”

“Which is really the purpose of your visit here today, isn’t it? We wish to know what you’ve learned about Lord Raybourn’s death.”

Violet took a deep breath. “Unfortunately, Your Majesty, I have some difficult news. . . .”

She explained about Mrs. Peet’s death and Lord Raybourn’s subsequent kidnapping and Gordon Bishop’s arrest and release. To her surprise, the queen remained passive and did not rail against Violet for making such a botched mess of everything.

In fact, it was quite the opposite.

“Quite informative. Yes, we are quite interested in this. You say that the kidnappers will return his body in two days’ time?”

“Presumably. The family is waiting for news about where to deliver the ransom money and where to pick up the coffin.”

Victoria nodded thoughtfully. “Has there been an epidemic in London of thieves spiriting away coffins and holding them for ransom?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then why now? Why Lord Raybourn in particular? It seems to us that the answer to this question will lead you to him, Mrs. Harper.”

“I’ve assumed it was someone connected with his death.”

“That could be so. Or it could be someone with other intentions entirely.”

The door banged open. Mr. Brown had returned with a panting but exuberant Sharp. He carried with him a small wooden box.

“Will ye be having Mrs. Harper stay for our reading today?”

“Yes. We’ve told her about your remarkable talent, and she is most anxious to see it for herself.”

For the next hour, Violet sat patiently while the queen’s ghillie shuffled, dealt, and manipulated the cards, which were longer than playing cards and covered with colorful pictures of maidens in filmy dresses, young men in medieval dress, swords, and chalices. It seemed as though any card with a picture of a man on it was interpreted to be the queen’s dead husband with a message for her life. The queen clasped her hands together in eager anticipation each time Brown shuffled the deck, asking her what question she wanted answered and then laying out a spread of seven cards.

At first frustrated by Brown’s obvious chicanery, it slowly dawned on Violet what he was doing. Each subsequent reading saw the queen’s manner become more and more relaxed, and soon she was even smiling and laughing.

So the mystery of Brown’s attraction for Victoria was solved. He eased her mind about her husband’s death through this entertaining activity, allowing her to forget her sorrows for a short time.

Violet felt a glimmer of respect for Mr. Brown.

When it came to her turn, she asked for a reading about her daughter, Susanna. As she expected, Mr. Brown found that Susanna was very happy but missed Violet greatly. A tidy, satisfying answer.

Once the queen tired of the game, Violet rose to make a final curtsy before her departure. Victoria had apparently not forgiven Violet entirely, despite Sharp’s slobbery approval, for her final words were, “We expect that you will move back to St. James’s as soon as practical.”

The Fairmont siblings had decided, after much disagreement, that they would discreetly sell some of the silver from the house to raise money, rather than go to a bank for a loan, since it would raise society’s eyebrows as they wondered why the inheritors of the wealthy Lord Raybourn would need to borrow money when all they had to do was wait a short time. Why stir up the gossip papers?

Violet was quickly realizing that all three siblings had been kept generally impoverished by their father, which led to this particular crisis of none of them having the funds to satisfy a kidnapper.

Was impoverishment a motive for murder?

The final note arrived the next day. It instructed Stephen specifically to go to Westminster Bridge with the ransom money early the following morning, at which point he would receive further instructions for recovering the body. The note warned against bringing the police.

“What insipid and banal idiot is behind all of this?” Stephen asked.

“Someone reading too many Wilkie Collins novels,” Gordon said. “Shall I go with you? They certainly can’t accuse me of being the police.”

“Hmm, I think it might be better for Violet to come. That way she can . . . attend to the body if need be. You don’t mind, do you, Kate?”

“Of course not.”

“Violet, have your undertaker bag prepared at dawn.”

S
tephen silently handed Violet into the driver’s seat of the funeral carriage that used to be hers but now belonged to Morgan Undertaking, then came around to the other side and climbed into the passenger seat. Violet smiled to think of how inwardly mortified Stephen must be, an aristocrat riding on a funeral carriage through Mayfair, past Buckingham Palace, and on to Westminster. But if he was truly embarrassed, he gave no outward sign of it. He was also silent on the topic of his father’s will.

The morning was like so many London mornings, the air thick with swirling fog at their feet, making the other carriages and pedestrians resemble specters floating by. It was even worse at Westminster Bridge, where fog settled over the bridge in such a blanket that it was nearly impossible to see what was in the murky Thames below.

What was unmistakable was the putrid stench of the river, full of sewage, animal carcasses, and who knew what else. It wasn’t as noxious in the morning as it would surely be later in the day, and not nearly as pungent as it would be as London inched toward July.

Westminster Bridge spanned from one side of the Houses of Parliament over to Lambeth. Violet pulled the carriage over at the base of the bridge, near the clock tower whose workings were affectionately known as Big Ben after Sir Benjamin Hall, who oversaw installation of the great bell in 1859. As if in greeting, the clock struck its chime for the quarter hour.

“Ironic, isn’t it?” Stephen said as he helped Violet out onto the pedestrian path and tied up the horses to a post.

“What do you mean?”

“We’ve been summoned to a bridge painted green to match the leather seats in the Commons, when my father was in the House of Lords. You’d think they’d have had us come to Lambeth Bridge.” He pointed to a scarlet-painted bridge that crossed the Thames nearby, its span starting on the other side of the Parliament building. “The seats in the House of Lords are red leather. Perhaps they’re making a statement. Maybe the kidnapping is political in nature.”

“Had your father done something controversial?”

“No, but you know how these crazed labor rioters are. Maybe it looked like a way to bolster their cause.”

Violet was doubtful. “It seems an odd thing to do.”

“You can never tell with these vagrant types. Regardless, it will all be over soon.” He held up the coin-laden bag, secured with twine. “What do we do? Stay here on the one end? Walk to the center of the bridge?”

“I recommend that we stay here. Whoever it is will come to you.”

There was little foot traffic this early in the morning, but plenty of boats were out, made visible only by their glowing lanterns cutting through the fog. Despite the warmth of the morning, Violet felt a shiver creep up her spine. There was something not quite right with what was happening here. She looked straight down over the parapet. It felt as though she were floating, hovering over an abyss. She stepped back.

She felt a sharp jab in her back. She turned, and a cloaked figure thrust an envelope in her hand before disappearing in the direction from which she and Stephen had come.

“Wait! Who are you?” Violet called, running after him.

“Violet, where are you off to?” Stephen caught up to her in just a few steps and took her by the elbow. “What are you doing?”

She held up the envelope. “A man just shoved this into my hands.”

“Who was it? Did you recognize him?”

“No. It happened in just a second.”

Stephen opened up the envelope and read from it. “ ‘Go to the center of the bridge. Look for a steam launch to pass under bearing a man standing at the prow with his fists crossed on his chest. Drop the money down to the boat. You will receive further instruction on where your father’s body is located.’ And so the ridiculous subterfuge continues. Why not just walk straight up to me for the ransom money? Alas no, the feeble-minded idiots have not finished leading us on their merry chase.”

They walked to the center of the bridge. The sun was rising, but not enough to penetrate the mist. “How will we ever be able to see which is the right boat?” Violet said.

“If they want their money, they will undoubtedly make themselves known.”

Violet gripped the rail. The sooner this was finished, the sooner she could recover Lord Raybourn and hopefully leave London.

A whistle blew from somewhere below, its sound mournful and despondent. Several lanterns began glowing from the same location, revealing a steam launch approaching the bridge. Yet another lantern was lit, and the form of a man standing at the prow became visible. His arms were crossed on his chest, his hands curled into fists. He did not look up.

Violet turned to Stephen, who nodded wordlessly. He tossed the bag down, and Violet leaned over the rail, watching to ensure the money made it into the boat. It struck the deck with a jangling thud.

Now what would happen? Violet and Stephen stayed at the bridge rail several more moments, unsure whether they were supposed to wait for another signal there, or return to Park Street for yet another message.

The boat was almost completely under the bridge now. Violet stood on tiptoe and leaned over just a bit more, to be sure there was no other signal or sign being emitted from the steam launch. It was so difficult to see through the fog, despite the rising sun. Perhaps this was to be one of the days where the fog would stay—

From nowhere, she felt strong hands shove her between the shoulders, rolling her over the rail. She flailed wildly, but managed to throw her right arm over the metal railing. Thoroughly unused to supporting her own entire weight against gravity, her damaged arm howled in resistance, the pain radiating up her arm and through her shoulder, threatening her tenuous grip on the rail. She dangled perilously over the Thames, and knew she wouldn’t survive a fall.

She tried to scream, but had no strength for it.

“My God, Violet!” came Stephen’s voice from above her. She felt his hands clamp around her arm and the nonsensical thought flashed through her mind that she would be mortified if Stephen could feel the ridges of her scars through her sleeve.

“I have you,” he said. “Give me your other arm.”

With great effort, she lifted her other arm up to him. He began pulling, and when he had enough leverage, put an arm around her waist as he brought her slowly back over the railing. Violet stood, but just barely, so badly were her legs shaking.

“What happened? How did you stumble over the rail?”

“I didn’t. Someone pushed me.”

“Pushed you? I didn’t see anyone. Of course, it’s still so damnably thick out here. Are you all right? Even in this baffling vapor you look as a pale as a corpse. Oh, sorry.”

Violet gave him a weak smile. “I’m fine, just a little weak-kneed. I don’t understand why someone would have pushed me. It’s quite beyond a schoolboy prank. I might have died.”

“If whoever it was had been a few moments sooner, you’d have ended up in the boat.”

An interesting point.

“Can you walk now?” he asked. “We may as well return to the carriage, since it doesn’t look as though there will be any further notes delivered.”

“But . . . shouldn’t we look for whoever did this? He might still be nearby.”

“Will you recognize his hands when you see him? Do you think he will greet us, tip his hat to you?”

“I suppose not.”

“Come.” He held out an arm. “Let’s go back to Raybourn House to wait.”

Violet took his arm, but was unsettled. Stephen seemed unconcerned that she’d just been attacked. In fact, someone had attempted to murder her. Why? Was it one of Lord Raybourn’s kidnappers? But why would they want to kill his undertaker? Or was this connected again to Lord Raybourn’s murder? If so, how?

A dreadful thought rose in the back of her mind. If Stephen was unconcerned about the attack, was it because he was responsible? Had he himself pushed her? She tamped the thought down. It was too ludicrous to consider. After all, they had been childhood friends, and now she was helping him find his father’s body.

No, it was a foolish notion and without foundation. Besides, he’d had plenty of other opportunities to hurt her if he were so motivated.

The sun was finally piercing through the fog as Stephen once again handed Violet up onto the driver’s seat. An envelope lay there. Violet held it up for Stephen as he joined her on the seat.

“From our friend, presumably,” he said, taking it. “Perhaps he pushed you so we wouldn’t notice him at the carriage.”

The carriage had been entirely too far away from the center of the bridge for them to see him in the murky fog. Violet made no comment.

“It says we will find the coffin in the cold store building at the Smithfield meat market.”

“At Smithfield! How did they manage to move a coffin in broad daylight all the way from Mayfair to Smithfield?” Violet said.

“You’re the undertaker. How would you do it?”

Violet thought. “St. Bart’s Hospital is near there. I suppose I would pretend I was headed there.”

“A good assessment, I should think. I recommend we take Victoria Embankment.”

This road had recently opened, and was intended to provide congestion relief in the Strand and on Fleet Street. It commenced at the base of the bridge across from Parliament. “I agree.”

Violet guided the carriage out into traffic. Soon they were racing along the Embankment—to the extent traffic would allow—which ran parallel to the Thames. At Farringdon Street she turned north toward the meat market, passing within a couple of blocks of St. Bart’s. St. Paul’s dome was visible to the east, towering over everything as it had done for two centuries.

They came nearly to a halt as they approached the market, as the road became clogged with men driving cattle into the central entrance. The stench was overpowering, as cow dung competed with the droppings of the passenger-carrying horse carriages. The cattlemen were shouting unintelligibly at their herds and cracking whips over their heads. They had clearly already been at this for hours, long before the average Londoner arose.

“Smart of them to keep this downwind on the east side of London. And imagine what this looked like before they built a railway tunnel beneath it for primary animal transport,” Stephen said.

Violet looked at him in surprise. How unusual for an idle aristocrat to have a working knowledge of something as pedestrian as a meat market.

Violet managed to find a place to park the carriage, then she and Stephen went in search of the cold store. Stephen tossed an extra coin to the boy who offered to watch the equipage, and who pointed out the cold store entrance, which led to an underground network of lockers for storing carcasses. They went from locker to locker, hunting through the slabs of beef and pork, not sure whether they were looking for a coffin, or perhaps just Lord Raybourn’s embalmed body.

Hours later, fatigued and perspiring despite the chilled lockers, they admitted defeat. There was no body or coffin anywhere inside the cold store. They returned to the carriage, dejected.

“I don’t understand,” Stephen said, running a hand through his hair as Violet took the reins. “They took the money
and
kept the body. Isn’t there some sort of kidnappers’ code that prevents that?”

Now that sounded more like an aristocrat’s view of humanity, imagining a world that wouldn’t dare betray him.

“There is no honor among thieves,” Violet quoted.

“A pestilent lot of mongrel dogs, aren’t they? You don’t suppose they were down inside the cold store, watching us on our futile pursuit, do you?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. I haven’t a single idea as to what is in their minds.”

Watching Stephen’s profile, though, she had that dreadful, queasy feeling again. Impossible, she told herself. Men like Stephen Fairmont did not kill their fathers, nor did they kidnap their fathers’ bodies for no reason.

Did they?

Violet sat in her attic room at Raybourn House, a large book in her lap propped up as a table as she wrote a letter to her parents, telling them of her exploits thus far, but omitting any mention of her near fall from Westminster Bridge.

As she blotted the letter dry, she heard the loud ringing of the doorbell in the hallway outside her door. What a cursed life a servant led in a rich household, having all manner of summons—front doorbells, servants’ entrance bells, ladies’ handbells—all going off riotously day and night both in the basement and the servants’ quarters. At least she’d learned not to jump each time one of them sounded.

Violet folded her letter and slid it into the envelope, then took it downstairs to add to the mail tray.

A man sat in the drawing room, so tall and cadaverously thin that his knees jutted up and out from the chair in an awkward way. Louisa intercepted Violet as she dropped the letter, along with a penny for the post, into the tray.

“Mrs. Harper,” she said, her voice low and her eyes cast down. “This ’ere’s Mr. Godfrey, a friend of Mr. Fairmont. The late Mr. Fairmont. The dead one.”

“You mean the viscount?”

“No, ma’am, the elder brother, that one what perished in the war. There’s no one else home right now, so I thought you might speak wi’ him?”

“Of course, if I can help.”

“Mr. Godfrey?” Violet said, extending a hand as she entered the drawing room. He rose, and proved himself to be even taller and thinner than Violet suspected. He looked as if he might be on war rations, and his nose cut out sharply from his bony face like a short bayonet. He looked familiar. “I’m Violet Harper, a friend of the family, staying here temporarily. Everyone else is out. May I help you?”

He took her hand and eyed her clothing. “I see you, too, are in mourning for the late Lord Raybourn?”

“Actually, I’m the . . . yes, I’m in mourning with the family.”

He released her hand. “I was hoping I might speak to Lord Raybourn’s son. Stephen, I believe his name is? Do you know when he’ll return?”

“I don’t. Again, might I assist you?”

They sat down. He rested spidery hands on his jutting knees. In that moment, she realized how she knew him.

“You’re that man,” she blurted out.