Stolen Remains (4 page)

M
ajor Cowell was courteous, but unwilling to answer any of Violet’s questions as to which member of the royal family had died. He told the carriage driver not to unload her luggage, then escorted her through the upper ward and to the queen’s apartments. Violet was familiar with Windsor, having worked inside St. George’s Chapel in the lower ward for Prince Albert’s funeral. Not only Major Cowell, but every male she encountered along the corridors, still wore black armbands in remembrance of Albert. The women had black caps.

The queen’s man led her to one of Victoria’s private rooms, a place where Violet had spent many an hour describing Albert’s calm repose in death, and avoiding any discussion of how terrible his decomposition was, given his long lying-in prior to burial. In fact, the Grenadiers posted at the four corners of his coffin had to be switched out every hour, despite Violet’s profusion of lilies all around the coffin and chapel. The odor was intolerable even for military men who had witnessed the horrors of war.

Instead of sitting behind her usual immense mahogany desk, the queen was in her sitting area, perched at the edge of a burgundy velvet settee in close conference with a handsome man whose traditional Scottish dress was spoiled only by another black armband, and who occupied a matching settee across from her. Between them lay an ottoman with oblong cards spread across it.

The man’s good looks were obscured by the reek of cigar smoke that emanated from him, reaching all the way to Violet in an invisible, noxious fog. The queen didn’t seem to notice it.

Violet approached and curtsied, something she hadn’t done once since going to America.

“Your Majesty,” she said.

The queen and the man both sat back in their seats. “You may rise. Mrs. Morgan—we mean Mrs. Harper; it is so difficult to remember that you remarried, especially since we continue on in our widowed state, waiting to be reunited with our dearest Albert—we welcome you back to Windsor and are glad to see you returned from America.”

Had the queen summoned her here to throw barbs into her chest?

Violet’s first husband, Graham Morgan, was morose and inscrutable, but to him she owed her knowledge and passion for undertaking. Graham had inherited Morgan Undertaking from his grandfather and Violet had worked at her husband’s side for years. Graham changed, though, eventually getting involved in a gun-smuggling scheme with the American Confederacy during their war of rebellion, and had paid dearly for it.

Violet had almost paid dearly, too. If not for Samuel Harper, she might have long ago been one of her competitors’ customers. She subsequently returned with Sam to his homeland and successfully reestablished her undertaking practice there. She’d had no intention of ever returning to England, until learning of her mother’s illness.

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“Mr. Brown, this is Mrs. Harper, the undertaker of whom we spoke to you. Mrs. Harper, this is our ghillie, Mr. Brown. He helps us with our riding and takes care of the wildlife on our estates. We could hardly do without him.”

Was Violet mistaken, or was the queen simpering?

“Mrs. Harper.” Mr. Brown nodded his head toward Violet but did not move from his position. “Her Majesty speaks highly of your skill and compassion.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The queen waved. “Do have a seat. No, not there, in the damask chair right here. Yes, that’s it. Do you know the tarot, Mrs. Harper? Mr. Brown gives the most delightful readings.”

“No, I cannot say I know it. I’ve never . . . indulged . . . in the occult.” The cards that lay between queen and servant had numbers and caricaturized people on them. She could make neither head nor tail of what the arrangement of them meant.

“Ah, you must let me do a reading for ye, Mrs. Harper,” Brown said. “The cards are marvelous at telling the future.”

“Oh, they are indeed,” the queen said. “Mr. Brown has assured us on more than one occasion that our dear Prince Albert is quite content and is watching over us.”

“I see.” Was Mr. Brown’s smile an expression of pleasure at the queen’s compliment, or a self-satisfied smirk? “I should be honored to attend to Your Majesty in whatever capacity you wish, but your telegram indicated that you had a matter of great importance to discuss.”

“Yes, of course, of course. Mr. Brown, we will need you after tea to discuss our evening plans.”

Taking his cue, Mr. Brown rose and bowed to the queen. He gave Violet a curt nod and left. The queen’s eyes followed his retreating figure until the door clicked behind him. Victoria turned her attention back to Violet.

“We need to speak with you regarding a funeral.”

“Has someone in the royal family died? I heard no gossip—I mean talk—of it in Brighton, nor on the train.”

“No, Mrs. Harper, our children are all well. It is a funeral of someone whose death, both sudden and most shattering, is of particular . . . interest . . . to us.”

Please let this not be another funeral I will have to discuss incessantly to the end of my days.

“Of particular interest?”

“Yes. It has come to our attention that Anthony Fairmont, the Viscount Raybourn, has just died. Perhaps a suicide, but quite possibly murdered, at his townhome in Mayfair.”

“How dreadful! Has the culprit been caught?”

A childhood memory pushed forward. Arthur Sinclair had once been the estate manager for a Lord Raybourn. He’d moved Violet and her mother into a cottage on the property in Sussex, serving Lord Raybourn for about two years until he obtained a more lucrative—and less strenuous—position managing some of the East India Company’s accounts. Violet remembered a secret friendship with one of Lord Raybourn’s children. Secret, for a friendship—however innocent—between a viscount’s younger son and the estate manager’s daughter was impermissible.

A flood of recollections flashed through her mind. Splashing through ponds to collect toads, climbing up trees to serve as lookout as the master’s son played at being a highwayman and “robbed” one of the family’s hounds, and, in a particularly exuberant moment, wandering into the kitchens for a loaf of rye and a piece of trout before stealing off to their secret location in a grove of oaks and attempting to turn their catch into five thousand loaves and fishes. How disappointed they’d been when it didn’t work.

Was her father’s employer the same Lord Raybourn the queen spoke of now?

“No one has been arrested yet. Lord Raybourn is—was—very important to our kingdom and we are deeply saddened by his passing. We have decided to provide undertaking services on behalf of the family. As such, we have decided to engage you to attend to Lord Raybourn. We will look to you to comfort family members arriving from Sussex.”

Violet’s mind whirled. This was surely the Lord Raybourn she remembered. She tried to focus on what the queen was saying. “I’m not sure I understand, Your Majesty. You are providing burial assistance rather than, say, a spray of flowers or a wreath?”

“Yes.”

“Instead of giving a gift of gloves to the funeral attendees?”

“Yes, Mrs. Harper.”

In all of her days in the funeral business, no aristocrat had ever given a grieving family of fellow aristocrats the gift of a funeral. Now the queen planned to do so? For what reason? Was the Raybourn family so impoverished that they couldn’t afford it? And why was she summoning Violet for it? She had a thousand more questions, none of which could be asked.

“I see. I’ve a friend in London I can stay with while I make the arrangements and—”

“Actually, Mrs. Harper, we have considered your living situation, and have decided we will have you installed at St. James’s for the duration of your stay.”

“Your Majesty, that is very generous, but I shouldn’t be here more than a few days, so I would be happy to just—”

“Yes, well, it may be that your services will require more than mere undertaking. We may require some diplomacy from you.”

This was getting stranger by the moment. “I’m sorry? I’m afraid the last thing I’m known for is my diplomatic skill. In fact, I’m really rather tactless at times and I can never seem to—”

The queen’s eyes narrowed. “What we mean is that we wish for you to . . . to delay . . . to impede . . .” The queen cleared her throat. “What we wish to say is that you will be required to ensure that Lord Raybourn’s burial be delayed for as long as possible. Do something to keep the viscount preserved until things can be sorted out.”

“Sorted out? What do you mean?”

“You see, Lord Raybourn was not only a valued peer, but he was recently returned from Egypt. He was with the Prince of Wales to tour the country and witness progress on the Suez Canal. There are certain investigations that must be completed, Mrs. Harper, before Lord Raybourn can be interred.”

“An inquest, you mean?”

“Along those lines. For example, our son must be questioned.”

“You plan to interrogate the Prince of Wales?”

“No, we do not.”

Violet’s heart stopped as she realized what the queen was saying. “Your Majesty, you want
me
to question him? I’m not qualified; I wouldn’t know what to ask. Shouldn’t the police—”

“We will send a message to Marlborough House that you’ll be along to question him soon, as it would be entirely too unseemly for the police or the queen to question His Royal Highness. It might suggest that we do not trust him. Ah, but a few curious questions from the queen’s undertaker will arouse no one’s suspicions, and he will be receptive to a charming woman such as yourself.

“First, though, it is vital that you set yourself off to Raybourn House to visit the family. As we were saying before, lodgings will be made available for you at St. James’s Palace. The staff there are prepared for your arrival, and Major Cowell will see to it that you are settled into sufficient quarters. We will expect you to bring us periodic reports.”

“Reports of what, Your Majesty?”

“Of anything unusual, of course.”

More unusual than a man perhaps murdered in his own home? A man she might have known?

V
iolet was quickly scuttled off to St. James’s Palace, to a suite of rooms far more elegant than anywhere she’d ever lived, and permitted a short time to change from her traveling clothes into her undertaking garb. How thankful she was that she’d brought a complement of undertaking supplies with her across the ocean, despite Sam’s admonition that she’d never need them, arguing that if Eliza Sinclair died, he would save her the morose familiarity of attending to her deceased mother, and hire an outside undertaker, to permit her to properly grieve. Violet, not wanting to entertain for any longer than necessary the thought of her mother passing, had swiftly argued just as vehemently that a good undertaker never knew when her services might be needed, and, unlike with her lawyer husband, everything she needed was
not
crammed in her head.

After changing, Violet was just as quickly ushered to Raybourn House in Park Street, just a street over from Park Lane, one of the most prestigious addresses in London. The likes of the Earl of Shaftesbury and the Earl of Beaconsfield lived here in Mayfair during the Season for balls, parties, engagement announcements, gambling, and horse races.

Poor Lord Raybourn would experience none of it. When his peers learned of his demise, they would work quickly to demonstrate the appropriate level of sorrow without allowing his death to impact their daughters’ debuts into society.

Carrying her black leather undertaker’s bag, she climbed the wide steps to the front door as the royal conveyance lumbered off. She paused, set the bag down, and readjusted her black top hat, making sure that the long, ebony silk tails were properly arranged down her back. Smoothing her dull crape skirts, she took a deep breath and twisted the bell handle.

It rang loudly within the house. Violet’s policy was to always go to families through the front door, never a rear or servants’ entrance. Sometimes she was met by an angry wife or mother who took her for just another tradesman. In Violet’s mind, though, an undertaker became an intimate member of a family, even if for a very short time, and family members enter through the front door.

The Raybourn door was opened by a housekeeper, her telltale chain of keys around her waist. She had arresting green eyes that made an otherwise plain face most compelling. The woman held a well-used handkerchief in her hand, and upon taking in Violet in her black hat with tails, unadorned black dress with matching gloves, and undertaker’s bag at her feet, the poor servant burst into loud sobs. She buried her face in her handkerchief with one hand while waving Violet in with the other.

In typical townhome style, there were two connecting rooms to her right, a dining room and a drawing room, both much larger than in a middle-class residence such as where she used to live.

Directly in front of her was a tiled hallway, and hugging the wall to her left was a staircase with heavily carved oak newel posts and balustrades. Oil paintings lined the wall up the stairs in a fantastic jumble of opulence probably leading up to two floors of bedrooms and then an attic of servants’ quarters.

What lay on the floor was in stark contrast to the décor. Under a blanket lay a human form.

“Is this Lord Raybourn?” Violet demanded. “Why is he still here? Why hasn’t someone at least carried him into the dining room?”

The housekeeper snuffled and gulped. “Mister Hurst said that Lord Raybourn was not to be moved yet, not until certain investigations were complete.”

“Not to be moved! The poor man has been dead for more than a day. You’ll have to help me, Mrs.—?”

“Peet. Harriet Peet.”

“I am Violet Harper.”

“Are you Mr. Crugg’s assistant?”

“Who?”

“Mr. Crugg. The undertaker. He’s upstairs with Mr. Hurst right now.”

As if on cue, a thin, wiry man, dressed similarly to Violet in solid black and carrying an undertaker’s bag, charged down the stairs. He grabbed his silk hat with tails from a coatrack and jammed it on his head, pausing at the sight of Violet. He wagged a finger at her.

“So
you’re
my replacement. I’ve served the Fairmont family for many a year, and I’ll not sit idly by while some upstart woman comes along and thieves away my good business and precious reputation.”

“Mr. Crugg, that will be enough.” A man wearing a cocoa-brown coat over rigidly creased black pants, and sporting thick, curly whiskers on either side of his face, appeared at the top of the staircase. “The queen has honored the family in her own way and there’s no sense in insulting Her Majesty’s chosen servant.”

Servant! Violet was a respectable tradeswoman. She reached into her reticule for one of her calling cards.

Mr. Crugg merely harrumphed, ignored the proffered card, and stepped casually over the remains of Lord Raybourn as he stormed out of the house.

The housekeeper’s previously florid, swollen face now went white in disbelief as the front door slammed shut behind the family undertaker. Mr. Crugg obviously adhered to Violet’s philosophy on an undertaker’s status.

Deaths were difficult for servants as well as for family members, Violet knew, and to have been this long in the house with her dead master lying on the floor must have been excruciating.

“Mrs. Peet, might I have a cup of tea?” Violet asked. “I’ve traveled extensively today.”

“Yes, beg pardon, where are my manners? Everything is just so . . . so . . .”

“Of course it is. Why don’t you let me take care of things here? Also, could you cover the dining room table with a cloth? Something dark, if you have it.”

Mrs. Peet went down the hall to the servants’ staircase, where she disappeared down into the kitchen.

Violet looked up at the man who still stood at the top of the staircase. “Mr. Hurst?” she asked.

The man walked, or, rather, lumbered down the stairs. He was a giant of a man, powerfully built, with neatly clipped side-whiskers on a broad face. His clothing was of better-than-average quality. This was no ordinary policeman.

She handed him her card. He glanced at it only briefly before tucking it inside his coat. “ ‘Undertaking and embalming services for Golden City, in the Colorado Territory,’ eh? You’re an undertaker far from home, aren’t you? Magnus Pompey Hurst, chief inspector at Scotland Yard at your service . . . Mrs. Harper, is it? We were informed that you’d be undertaking the funeral.”

His stature matched his name. He just needed a centurion’s cloak and helmet crest, and Violet would swear he was ready to go to battle with Caesar against the Gallic tribes.

“Yes, I have been greatly honored by the queen. However, first I would like to know why Lord Raybourn is on the floor twenty-four hours after his death, then I want you to help me place the poor man on the dining room table so I can properly attend to him. He deserves respect and honor, not to be ignominiously left on the ground like a stricken deer.”

Hurst visibly stiffened, his welcoming smile gone. “Excuse me, Mrs. Harper, but I am the detective in charge of this investigation, and I left Lord Raybourn here while certain matters were looked into. From the coroner’s report, however, and my own observations, I am convinced this was a suicide.”

“I see. Yet still the man lies without dignity on the floor.”

“You might have noticed that the family undertaker was already here, but because I was given instructions to wait for you, I turned Mr. Crugg away.”

“Nonetheless, from the ugly smears here and over here, it looks as though you’ve wiped some blood from the floor, so surely you could have found the time and decency to make Lord Raybourn more comfortable.”

“He is beyond feeling or caring about anything, Mrs. Harper. Surely you of all people understand this.”

“What I don’t understand is your attitude as someone who is entrusted with the care of his body.”

“Scotland Yard is entrusted with justice and to chase down hardened criminals who perpetrate the most heinous of crimes, ensuring safety for all Londoners.”

“A pretty speech, sir. I, too, am entrusted with justice—for the deceased’s earthly remains. To ensure its safe and solemn carriage to the grave.”

Hurst shook his head and muttered unintelligibly under his breath. “Beg your pardon, madam, but you are a strange one, indeed. Very well, let’s fix Lord Raybourn up all dainty and proper. Maybe we’ll all take tea with him in His Lordship’s study. Mr. Pratt!” he shouted up the stairs.

Violet heard the sound of multiple pairs of feet moving around. To her surprise, three more people appeared at the landing and came down. One was another man dressed similarly to Mr. Hurst except younger, wearing a black jacket and looking more rumpled, in addition to a man and woman around Violet’s own age.

The woman was tall, blond, regal, and elegantly dressed enough to tell Violet that she was a family member. The man next to her was . . . Stephen Fairmont. Was this poised, self-assured gentleman the same boy she had once chased in and around the stables at Willow Tree House?

He looked at her quizzically. “Hello, don’t I know you?”

Violet proffered a hand in greeting. “You do, indeed. I’m Violet Sinclair, now Violet Harper.”

Recognition dawned in his eyes. “Of course. So it is you the queen has sent to care for Father? I’d never have imagined you as an undertaker, of all things. I more imagined you’d have ended up helping your father run an estate somewhere. I remember all of the endless questions you used to ask of the gardener, the beekeeper, the footmen. As though you were trying on each of their positions and deciding which one you’d take. How did you end up an undertaker?”

“I came by it through my deceased husband, and together we enjoyed some success. The queen was pleased enough by my work on Prince Albert’s funeral, which I believe is why she summoned me to help you.”

“So you are a widow?”

“Not anymore. I married an American by the name of Samuel Harper. We’ll be returning to the Colorado Territory soon. We just happened to be visiting in England when the queen asked me to do this service for you.”

“You married an American, you say? Another surprise from my childhood comrade-in-arms. Sweetheart, Violet Sinclair’s father was once my father’s estate manager.” He looked down at the prone body and swallowed. “Violet, this is my wife, Katherine. We had just arrived from Sussex when all of this bedlam occurred. She’s held up well under the shock.”

“A pleasure to meet you, I’m sure.” Katherine shook Violet’s hand, studiously looking toward the drawing room, away from both Violet and her father-in-law’s covered body. Her tone indicated that shaking hands with an undertaker was far from pleasurable.

There were now two grieving family members, two detectives, an undertaker, and a dead body in the Raybourn entry hall. This was ludicrous. Violet opened her mouth to suggest that Stephen and Katherine might be more comfortable waiting elsewhere while she attended to her duties, when Mrs. Peet reappeared from the dining room carrying a wood tray.

“I found a navy linen, Mrs. Harper. Mr. and Mrs. Fairmont, would you also like some tea? I’ll fetch the silver tray and be right back up.”

Katherine lifted her chin. “I believe it is now Lord and Lady Raybourn, Mrs. Peet. Yes, we’ll have tea upstairs in our room.”

Mrs. Peet set her mouth in a grim line and scowled as she placed Violet’s tray in the drawing room and returned silently to the servants’ staircase to retrieve a more elegant tea service for the Fairmonts. Katherine visibly shrank, her apparent experiment with boldness quite over. “Mrs. Harper, I hope you’ll forgive me, but I don’t think I can remain here a moment longer.”

Violet sympathized with the new Lady Raybourn. She herself had once had a housekeeper named Mrs. Scrope, who was extraordinarily competent yet thoroughly intimidated Violet.

Stephen kissed his wife’s hand. “I’ll join you momentarily,” he said before Katherine floated back up the stairs in a rustle of velvet-embellished satin.

“My sisters, Dorothy and Eleanor, will be coming up from Sussex. Do you remember them? They were older than we were, and far too sophisticated to be bothered with their youngest brother, far less the estate manager’s daughter.”

“Vaguely, but I look forward to making their acquaintances again.”

Stephen glanced up the stairs. “I must join Katherine. She’s in a very agitated state. We both are, I suppose. Please send Mrs. Peet up if you need anything.”

Again on cue, Mrs. Peet appeared with another tea service, this time on a heavily ornamented silver tray. Stephen went upstairs with the morose Mrs. Peet a few steps behind him.

Violet was now alone with the officers. “Now if you will quickly assist me before Mrs. Peet returns, I’d like to move Lord Raybourn into the dining room.”

She knelt and rolled down the blanket covering the body, maintaining her composure despite what lay before her. Poor Lord Raybourn. All that remained recognizable on the man’s face was his cleft chin, a trait shared by Stephen. The rest of his face was bloodied and mangled. She looked at Hurst, certain her question was obvious in her eyes.

“Multiple shot wounds from a duck’s foot volley gun we found next to his body. We’ve recovered three of the bullets.”

“What is a duck’s foot volley gun?”

Hurst reached inside his jacket and retrieved a vicious-looking weapon. “A duck’s foot volley gun is a pistol with four forty-five-caliber barrels arranged in a splayed pattern and resembling a duck’s webbed foot, as you can see here. It sprays a sizable area with a single shot. They’re typically used by prison wardens and sea captains for defense in confrontations against a group. It’s overkill for a suicide, if you’ll pardon my pun.”

Violet nodded. “What about the fourth bullet?”

“Pratt dug around a little for it, but couldn’t find it, nor could the coroner.”

More indignity for Lord Raybourn.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Langley Pratt at your service, Mrs. Harper.” Pratt was far younger than Hurst and carried himself uncertainly, as if unsure whether to salute Violet, shake her hand, or bow.

“Thank you, Mr. Pratt. The service you and Mr. Hurst can provide me is to carry His Lordship to the dining room. Wait just a moment.” Violet gently rolled the blanket back farther. Lord Raybourn wore an olive-green smoking jacket, so fashionable these days. She cupped his arm with one hand and applied light pressure, then did the same to his thigh and calf. Violet took the man’s hand and slowly moved his fingers. They were pliable and his limbs weren’t stiff, so rigor mortis had passed.