The Mourning Bells (22 page)

As Pratt scratched away, Violet made her request of Hurst. “I’m not sure now if it was Mr. Vernon who was responsible for the live bodies at Brookwood, or if it was Mr. Crugg . . . or someone else.”

Hurst had the good grace to blush. “Ahem, yes, well, I have to admit that I’m not so sure of Vernon’s innocence myself. You see, I—that is, we, Inspector Pratt and I—didn’t exactly have an in-depth conversation with him.”

“No? But you did visit him, didn’t you?” Violet was surprised he was confessing to this so quickly.

“Well, as you must realize, we are very busy with many important cases. People are murdered every day in London, Mrs. Harper. Not just in the gin alleys, either. When a high-profile case occurs, it can’t just be left to the police, now, can it? No. We spend many days tracking down the most vicious and evasive of killers. So you understand that a careless undertaker didn’t garner our, ah, full attention as you might have hoped.”

If she weren’t so irritated that Hurst had lied to her, she might have found his embarrassment amusing. “How little attention was it, sir?”

Hurst turned to Pratt. “What are you doing? Don’t write this down!” he snapped.

Pratt scratched through everything Hurst had just said.

“Er, we didn’t visit him at all.” Hurst looked around the room again, avoiding Violet’s gaze.

Violet made no response. His discomfort was working to her advantage.

Hurst filled the silent void with another excuse. “If it had reached the point that I thought lives were in danger, I would have immediately barged over there.”

Yes, Violet could imagine Hurst barging in on someone he thought was breaking a law.

“We came over because the commiss—because we thought you might have discovered something else that we could act upon.”

Undoubtedly he would take action if Mary were present. However, now was the time to present her request.

“I would like a favor of you. I stopped in at Mr. Crugg’s shop and found several of his relatives there, closing it down. They mentioned that Mr. Crugg’s assistant, Birdwell Trumpington, has started his own shop elsewhere in London. I can’t begin to fathom where it might be. Can you find him?”

Hurst’s expression suggested that Violet was asking for something as simple as lighting coals in a grate. “Of course we can find him. But what of him?”

“It occurs to me that he quit Crugg’s shop before the poor man was even buried. In no time, he had his own shop. Had he been planning on leaving for a while? If so, why? Or, did he have some sudden need to vacate Crugg’s shop? It would be valuable to know what he has to say.”

Hurst was surprisingly agreeable and said they would start a search for Trumpington right away. The two men left Morgan Undertaking, but not before Hurst turned back to say, “Mrs. Cooke will be here soon, you say? I’d hate to lose the opportunity to offer my greetings to her.”

“Then hurry, detective, so you don’t miss her.”

Hurst rushed to obey, with Pratt on his heels, but the junior detective paused at the window outside the shop to look back in and shake his head at Violet and point at his superior’s back.

Hurst’s love-struck countenance was obvious to everyone except himself.

 

This time, Hurst wasted no time in fulfilling Mrs. Harper’s wishes, although his mind was cleaved in two between irritation over the distinct thought that he was obeying her like a subordinate and the optimistic hope that he soon might have a few moments with the charming Mrs. Cooke.

With Pratt hurrying behind him, Hurst stopped first at Crugg’s shop to interview the family for more information about where Trumpington had gone. He almost had sympathy for Mrs. Harper after that, what with the dealing with an aunt whose hat came close to eating him alive. However, they learned that Trumpington had said something vague about St. Paul’s Cathedral, and it didn’t take long to find the man’s new shop a few blocks from the churchyard.

Fortunately, they managed to catch him off guard, and he was clearly startled to have two Scotland Yard detectives barge into his shop, which was still in disarray and not yet ready for customers.

Hurst introduced himself and Pratt, then dove straight into questioning the undertaker, to keep him off balance. “How did you manage the money to open your own shop so quickly after your employer’s death, Mr. Trumpington?”

“I—I came into an inheritance from a family member,” the man replied. Hurst didn’t like the tic in the man’s cheek, which he almost missed noticing, what with the man’s poorly groomed hair hanging in his face.

Hurst took an instant dislike to him. There was no excuse for a middle-class man neglecting his ablutions. Even if he did poke about with corpses.

“What relative? What was his name?” Hurst asked, insinuating that Trumpington was lying.

“It was from my great-aunt Sylvie, who always told me I had the makings of a great man.”

“You made haste in using that inheritance, didn’t you?” he shot back at Trumpington. “Didn’t bother to undertake your employer, did you? I imagine you didn’t even attend his funeral.”

Trumpington became indignant. “Sir, it is unseemly for an undertaker to work on his fellow worker or his employer. His family had him sent back to wherever he’s from—somewhere south, I believe. He was not my concern or responsibility once he died.”

Hurst quickly veered to another topic to keep the man off balance. “What did Julian Crugg know about bodies coming out of coffins on the Brookwood train station platform?”

At this, Trumpington stilled. “Has Mrs. Harper been complaining to you?”

Hurst had nicked open a vein. Now to encourage a bit of blood flow. “Mrs. Harper? What do you mean?”

“She’s another undertaker. She accused Mr. Crugg of all sorts of vile things with regard to a Lord Roger Blount and his fiancée, Margery Latham, both of whom Mrs. Harper saw at Brookwood.”

Hurst frowned as if he were receiving this information for the first time and needed to digest it. “And so what did your employer know about these bodies?”

“Well . . .” Trumpington shifted uncomfortably. “I didn’t want to think ill of Mr. Crugg, but it seemed to me that he had something to hide. He told me that Mrs. Harper’s interference was going to ruin him and he had to take care of it. I’ve never seen him so upset, although he didn’t explain to me how Mrs. Harper was ruining him. It wasn’t my place to ask.”

Hurst dug into the vein to drain the man. “How did you assist him in handling Blount’s and Miss Latham’s bodies?”

His question didn’t catch Trumpington as off balance as he’d hoped. “I assure you, Inspector, that I have no notion what Mr. Crugg may or may not have been doing with the two of them. He never brought it up to me privately. Now, as you can see, I have a great deal of work ahead of me before I will be ready for customers.”

Hurst waited until Pratt was finished scribbling Trumpington’s statement down; then they took their leave of the man.

“What did you think?” Hurst asked the junior detective as they walked to a nearby cabstand.

“A bit frightened, like most suspects who are interviewed by you, I mean, by the Yard.”

Hurst nodded. “But was he lying, either about how he came across the money for his own shop or Crugg’s handling of Blount or Miss Latham?”

Pratt reviewed his notes as they stood waiting in the sun. “Nothing he said was incriminating.” He put his notebook away. “I saw nothing in his demeanor to suggest he was deceiving us, either.”

“Nor did I. Despite the man’s unconscionably poor grooming, I see no falsehood in him. The next question is, how do we tell Mrs. Harper this without her becoming hysterical?”

Pratt’s expression was quizzical as a cab pulled up and the two of them climbed in. “Do you think Mrs. Harper is hysterical, sir?”

“No, I suppose not. But she is most certainly demanding, self-righteous, and irritating, and unfortunately, I’m afraid I’m under her power right now.”

“Because of the commissioner?”

“No, not because of that.” Hurst turned his head to look out at traffic, refusing to say more.

 

Hurst returned to Violet just a few hours later with his disappointing report that he did not believe Trumpington to be guilty of anything.

Hurst’s voice was dejected as he added, “I see Mrs. Cooke is not yet here.”

“No.” Violet was not interested in Hurst’s pining at the moment, nor was she dismayed in his assessment of Trumpington, as she was busy with a stack of death certificates she had discovered in the back of Crugg’s ledger. How had she missed them when she reviewed the ledger with Sam? And for what reason was he storing them there?

The detectives must have realized that Violet was intent on the documents and joined her at the counter.

“What do you see, Mrs. Harper?” Pratt asked, genuinely interested and concerned. Violet hoped the junior detective never adopted his superior’s gruff and self-important airs.

“We have here several groups of death certificates, all signed by various doctors, and some of them from the past few weeks during which all of these mysterious events have occurred.”

“Not necessarily mysterious,” Hurst said. How many times would she have to hear this?

“You’re right, but this is the only information I have, and I want to see how I might be able to link Mr. Crugg to certain bodies headed for Brookwood. The type of deaths, for example, might suggest that he legitimately thought they were dead when they weren’t.”

“But not all deaths are medically certified,” Hurst pointed out. Was he being intentionally obstinate?

“True, but this is all I have to examine.”

Pratt picked up one of the certificates. “ ‘Esmeralda Oxenbrigg, aged eighty-two, of Great Queen Street in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Primary cause of death, old age. Secondary cause of death, angina pectoris. Body sent to Bunhill Fields for burial.’ ”

He put it down and picked up another one to read. Violet stopped him. “What I’d like to do is to sort out the certificates for bodies bound for Brookwood Cemetery within the past month.”

Pratt shook his head. “Not all of them indicate the body’s destination.”

Violet tamped down her frustration with the detectives. She had to remember that they looked at everything through the specific methodologies they employed for solving cases, whereas she was just clutching at straws, hoping she might find an answer. “No, but some do. I want to compare them to Mr. Crugg’s ledger.”

“What do you hope to find?” Pratt asked, adding another certificate to her growing pile.

“I’m not sure. Something—anything—that links the bodies to each other. Their supposed cause of death, where they lived, their social status . . . Presumably there could be many connections.”

Hurst shook his head. “You could spend months interviewing the—” He was interrupted by the doorbell jangling. He turned and his voice instantly became affable. “Mrs. Cooke, what a pleasant surprise, madam. Is that your cab outside? Why, the second seat is simply loaded with draperies. You must allow me to help you.”

Violet and Langley Pratt shared a look with each other and continued working through the death certificates.

“Thank you, sir. Inspector Hurst, isn’t it? It’s kind of you to help. Violet picked a lovely fabric, but it’s so very heavy. They will be just splendid in her shop. We selected a gold fringe that—”

The doorbells jangled again as the two went out to retrieve the draperies from the waiting cab. Violet turned and noticed through the window that Hurst offered his arm to Mary for the twenty-foot walk they had to make.

Inspector Pratt stopped what he was doing and drily commented, “Perhaps I should go outside and help them, if there is such a large load of draperies. It wouldn’t be proper for me to stand inside while a lady performs manual labor like that.”

Violet laughed. “I suspect Inspector Hurst would be happy to carry them all upon his back to avoid having any male company during his flirtation.”

Pratt joined her in amusement. “Inspector Hurst’s affection for your friend is one case easily solved.”

Violet became serious once more. “It just isn’t appropriate for him to follow a woman in such recent mourning like a puppy on a trail scent. Even after she is finished with mourning, I’m just not sure about the inspector and my dear friend in a courtship . . .” Violet let her voice trail off. She could tally up a hundred reasons why it was a bad idea.

Well, she didn’t have to worry about it for nearly a year. The more important thing was her investigative matter.

The door jangled again as Mary and the detective entered, with Hurst’s brawny arms loaded with lengths of fabric and Mary chattering beside him about the Morris, Marshall, and Faulkner shop.

Violet and Pratt exchanged knowing looks once more. Ignoring Hurst’s infatuation, Violet flipped through the culled stack of certificates. “Well, I’ve already determined one thing. Everyone under Crugg’s care bound for Surrey over the past month was a male.” She had noticed something else but wasn’t ready to share it with either of the detectives yet.

“That’s not much to go on, Mrs. Harper,” Pratt said, shaking his head.

“No, but it’s a start, and I’m determined to find out what is happening with these bodies no matter what.”

Hurst didn’t hear Violet’s resolute proclamation. He was too busy helping Mary hang draperies.

 

That evening in their bedchamber, Violet spread out on the bed the twenty-two death certificates she had separated from the rest, explaining to Sam how she had come by them.

“So these are Crugg’s bodies who went to Surrey over the past month?” he asked, picking one up and examining it.

“For the most part. Some of the certificates were missing information. But look here.” She pointed to one of the certificates. “This body went to Royal Surrey County Hospital. So did this one. And this one.” She indicated two other death certificates.