The Mourning Bells (24 page)

Blackwell eyed her suspiciously but eased back down into his wood chair, which creaked under his weight. “It depends upon the questions.”

Violet folded her regloved hands demurely in her lap and bent her head, hoping she looked submissive. “There was a body I discovered downstairs, a man of perhaps thirty years, named Mr. Raymond Wesley.” She dug the death certificate out of her reticule once more and handed it to Blackwell, who barely glanced at it and handed it back.

“What of him?”

“I was wondering if you could tell me how he died.”

He pointed to the paper in her hand. “It says the cause of death was unknown.”

“Yes, but since he has been in your care, you may have observed something that the doctor did not.”

Blackwell laughed and gasped at the same time, sending him into a coughing fit from which he quickly recovered. “Mrs. Harper, when bodies come to us, they are hardly in our ‘care.’ We experiment and dispose. Besides, I can hardly remember one body out of hundreds.”

Violet maintained her composure. “Nevertheless, perhaps you can come to the basement and have a look.”

Blackwell sighed but did as she asked. Once back in the body storage room, she unshrouded Wesley again and waited for Blackwell to look him over. The man frowned, drawing his brows together into a nearly perfect caterpillar as he walked around the body with his hands folded behind his back, sidestepping others propped up nearby.

“Hmm, yes, I see,” Blackwell murmured. Violet had the distinct impression that he was stalling for time.

“Don’t you find there to be something very odd about the body, sir?” Violet asked, still remaining as calm as possible.

“Odd? Well, he is certainly a victim of misfortune to have ended up here, for certain.”

“Indeed. But isn’t it strange that he is fully dressed?”

Blackwell hesitated. “Yes, he is, isn’t he? Oh yes, I remember this body now. He was determined to have died from swallowing acid. A terrible accident, for certain.”

What was certain now was that Blackwell was lying. Violet had dealt with bodies that were victims of acid ingestion. The body always convulsed and recoiled from it, and he should have the telltale spatter marks where acid had flown out of his mouth and hit his chin and upper body.

What was the superintendent hiding?

“Why was he not used for experimentation?” she asked.

He gave her the same condescending look so often employed by Hurst and the now-dead Julian Crugg. “Because of the damage the acid would have done to his innards, of course. We are far more interested in exploring corpses that have been attacked by disease and other ailments not understood by science. A man who has committed suicide and destroyed his body is of little use. Which reminds me, he cannot go into the hospital burial ground, so we’ll have to send him to some unconsecrated ground since he is a suicide.”

Violet was further irritated by Blackwell’s callousness toward the bodies in his charge. “A final question, sir. How do bodies arrive here at the hospital?”

“By hearse or wagon, of course.”

“No, I mean, who provides them to you, the ones that you don’t exhume yourself?”

“A variety of undertakers. Julian Crugg is one of them, or was, until his terrible demise in London. Any reputable London undertaker can offer to bring us abandoned bodies.”

This left Violet in a worse muddle than what she’d been in before she arrived at the hospital. She offered her farewells to Blackwell and headed home. After arriving at Paddington train station, she stopped in at a grocer’s to purchase more black tea for washing her hair.

As she perused the shelves, she considered how her investigative matter was just spinning out of control. What had happened to Yates? Why was Mr. Wesley’s body at the hospital, and how had he died after having been shipped to Brookwood in a coffin? What of Roger Blount and his uncaring family? Was he murdered, or did a perfectly healthy young man really drop dead after dinner, followed shortly by his fiancée? What was Julian Crugg’s involvement in all of this? Nathan Blackwell’s?

She handed money over to the proprietor as his assistant wrapped her tea tin in paper.

Violet had nearly forgotten the attack in Hyde Park, too, which had surely been meant for her. What had she unwittingly uncovered that had necessitated her removal?

And what of the banker Mr. Hayes? Was it crazy to think he was somehow involved? What secret might he be keeping? She would talk it over with Sam tonight.

There were so many possibilities of who might have been involved. But that never-ending question kept clanging in her head like a tolling bell:

 

That evening, Mrs. Wren had prepared a dinner of stewed duck and peas, which Violet indulged in fondly. Violet regretted her overindulgence and excused herself almost immediately afterward, going to her bedchamber to fling off her corset and change into her nightclothes. She was seated in front of the mirror when Sam finally joined her, and they discussed what had happened that day. He listened intently without interruption to her story about Royal Sussex County Hospital, while Violet dabbled black tea onto her head and pulled it through her hair with a brush.

As usual, Sam propped himself up in bed. He wasn’t rubbing his knee, so it must have been feeling better. “So what do you think?” she asked. “Is it possible that Mr. Hayes is involved?”

Sam shook his head. “Sweetheart, I don’t want to say that the theory is crazy, but what advantage is there for the bank to go around murdering its debtors? It’s not as though the bank could empty their pockets and thus be repaid.”

“But aren’t the heirs of an estate responsible for the deceased’s debts?”

“Yes, but wouldn’t it make much more sense for Mr. Hayes to visit those relatives and ask them to exert pressure on the offending family member? Wouldn’t that be more effective than committing a hanging crime?”

Sam was right. Perhaps Violet’s imagination was becoming too wild for her own good. And yet . . .

“Maybe Mr. Hayes and other bankers are helping the debt dodgers stage their own deaths. They then make a claim upon the estate and have their loans returned to them without actually having murdered the debtors.” Violet warmed to this idea, one she had never even considered.

“And why would the debtors collude on this? If they are dodging their debts to begin with, and there is no threat of jail for them in doing so, why would they help the bankers swallow up their estates ?”

Violet frowned. Did Sam have to be so dismally logical? “No, I suppose you’re right. The debtors would never help the bankers in this.” Violet sighed.

Sam wasn’t finished. “Besides, it doesn’t answer the question of how Mr. Wesley ended up dead at Royal Surrey County Hospital, nor what happened to Roger Blount and Margery Latham.”

That, too, was true. Yet Violet couldn’t shake the feeling that Mr. Wesley’s indebtedness had something to do with his death. She put down her brush, ready to climb into bed.

“Oh, before I forget,” Sam said, rising and searching through his coat, which he had earlier hung on the hook on the back of the door. “We had a letter from Susanna.”

“Samuel Harper! How could you hold that back from me?” Violet got under the coverlet. “Come and read it to me.”

Sam changed into his own dressing gown and joined Violet, removing Susanna’s folded missive from its envelope. “She and Benjamin are well. Your mother seems to have adopted Benjamin as her own grandson and has him escorting her all over Brighton so she can show him off to her friends.”

Eliza Sinclair, recently recovered from a serious illness, was probably enjoying the new zest brought into the household by Susanna and her husband.

“How is my father?” Violet asked.

“Relieved to have your mother’s attentions distracted away from him. He is also having a grand time with Susanna. They are reliving her childhood, with trips to buy candy floss and other sugary treats.”

Violet smiled. If she weren’t so busy with her investigative matter, she would have suggested to Sam that they take a few days and head to Brighton themselves. It would have been good to spend a few days away with her family, especially now that her mother was no longer convalescing and was presumably much less discontented and fretful. “What else does she say?”

“That if she stays much longer, eating as much as they are, she will need new dresses.”

Violet put a hand to her waist once more. Perhaps they would go dress shopping together.

“Does she say when they will return to London? I’d like to visit Mary’s shop with her.”

“Doesn’t she specialize in mourning wear? Why don’t you both buy some more colorful gowns instead of that perpetual black?”

“ ‘Et tu, Brute?’ ”
Violet quoted. “No one understands an undertaker’s comfort in wearing black.”

“Hmm,” Sam said, returning to the letter. “Now for the most important part. They are returning in a week.”

“Marvelous!” As much as Violet had felt constrained by having Susanna under her roof for so long, now that her daughter was gone, she missed her terribly. Did all mothers have such wildly divergent feelings?

Sam turned down the gas lamp on the wall over the bed. “Talk to Mrs. Wren about a special dinner when they return, will you?”

“An excellent idea. Maybe we’ll even get a special treat for Mrs. Softpaws. I’m sure she’ll be relieved to have Susanna back again.” She curled up against her husband, hopeful that easy sleep would come to her on the news that her daughter would be back soon.

Unfortunately, it didn’t. She had a dream—bordering on a nightmare—about dead, moldering bodies, a very rare occurrence for Violet despite her daily work with them. After a few hours of fitful sleep, she left the bedroom so as not to wake Sam and spent an hour pacing in her cluttered sitting room. By the time she returned to bed to attempt a few more hours of sleep, she had decided to return to Hurst and Pratt again. Surely they wouldn’t mind a visit to Royal Surrey County Hospital with her.

A
s expected, Inspector Hurst was more than willing to accompany Violet back to the hospital in Farnham Road in Surrey. He talked incessantly of the “elegant Mrs. Cooke” the entire way, cloaking his admiration in a discussion of Violet’s shop renovation. Violet was exhausted after the hour-long train ride, and as she stumbled out of the carriage, she wondered whether it was time to talk to her friend about the detective’s attentions and whether they were wanted.

“Again?” was Blackwell’s curt greeting upon seeing Violet in the doorway. Once he realized she’d brought along someone from Scotland Yard, though, he was much more amenable, courteously escorting them back down to the storage room when Hurst barked for it in his most authoritative Roman-centurion voice.

As the superintendent opened the door, he said, “It may interest you to know that Crugg Undertaking delivered two more bodies last evening. Given your interest in Crugg yesterday, we haven’t done anything with them yet.”

How was that possible? “Pardon me,” Violet said. “Did you say Crugg Undertaking? His business no longer exists. I watched it being packed up myself. Are you sure it wasn’t another undertaking firm?”

Blackwell shrugged. “The two men said they were from that shop. I assumed you knew them. Don’t all of you undertakers know each other?”

Although Violet had darkened the doorsteps of many of London’s undertakers in her recent investigations, it wouldn’t be correct to say she actually knew them all. What she did know, though, was that Crugg Undertaking no longer existed.

Unless Birdwell Trumpington was carrying on in his former employer’s name.

“Show us those bodies,” Hurst commanded.

Space had been cleared on the floor for them, a pair of elderly people, a man and a woman. Neither was even shrouded yet. As usual, Violet felt bile rising in her throat at the callous treatment of these corpses.

As he stepped back into the hallway, Blackwell said, “I’m not sure what you’re looking for, Detective Hurst, but be assured that all of the staff here stand ready to assist you in whatever way possible. Shall I post someone outside the door to summon me if you have need of my assistance . . . ?”

Violet didn’t remember such a generous offer yesterday. Hurst might be tiresome and bearish, but his stiff-necked demeanor and his association with Scotland Yard certainly made people jump to carry out his wishes.

Could Mary possibly tame Magnus Pompey Hurst? Turn him into a gentleman? Violet rolled her eyes at the thought that Hurst could be made over into a gentle human being. Mary Cooke was far too timid to shoulder the effort required to make Hurst agreeable. After all, the poor thing hadn’t been able to do anything with that scoundrel of a husband, George.

Hurst wrinkled his nose and put up a hand to cover his mouth and nostrils. “Smells like the Thames in July in here,” he said, his voice muffled.

Violet ignored him and knelt down next to the woman’s body, going through her usual routine of examination. As she did so, Hurst took a deep breath from behind his hand, then knelt down himself next to the man, employing his own detective skills in looking him over.

At almost the exact same moment, they each stood.

“This woman died of old age,” Violet said.

“As did this man. I expect they were a married couple. When one went, the other couldn’t take it and stopped breathing.”

Hurst had a marvelously delicate way of putting things.

“Their clothing—” she began.

“I’d say they were of the lower classes. You can see some patching on her dress. Her fingernails are none too clean,” Hurst said with authority.

Violet agreed, but that wasn’t really where her mind had wandered. Who was doing business under Crugg’s name? From what location was he operating? Blackwell had mentioned two men. Who was the second man? If she asked the superintendent, would she receive more than a shrug? Should she ask Hurst to interrogate him over it?

“Inspector, perhaps I should show you Raymond Wesley, who Mr. Blackwell said committed suicide by swallowing acid. In my estimation, there are no marks on him to suggest this is true, but perhaps your expert eye will result in a differing opinion.”

Hurst puffed at the compliment as Violet led him to the table upon which Wesley’s shrouded body lay. Violet removed the wrapping quickly and, at seeing what lay before her, cried out, “No!”

She dropped the shroud, hardly noticing it flutter to her feet.

Hurst cleared his throat. “I can say with certainty that his death wasn’t caused by ingesting acid.”

Wesley lay before her, mutilated and completely unrecognizable, as though someone had charged in here with a knife and gone to work on Wesley, treating him like no more than a dinner roast. It was unspeakable.

Violet picked the shroud up from the floor and began covering the body up again. “Dear Mr. Wesley,” she said quietly, “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here to prevent this happening to you. I know nothing about you, but I’m positive you didn’t deserve this, sir.” She completed her task by pulling the shroud over his face.

Putting her hands on either side of his disfigured face, Violet patted him gently through the cloth. Behind her, Hurst huffed impatiently. Violet ignored the detective.

“You may rest assured, sir, that Inspector Hurst and I will not rest until we see justice done for you. You may rely upon me.” With a final pat, she turned away from the corpse, only to find Hurst rolling his eyes at her.

“Is there a problem, Inspector?” she asked, arms crossed, practically challenging him.

“No, it’s just . . . never mind. I wonder who did this?” Hurst said, presumably to change the subject.

“I know who did it,” Violet said resolutely.

Hurst raised an eyebrow at her.

“Whoever came here with the two elderly bodies, ostensibly representing Mr. Crugg’s shop, did so for the express purpose of getting into this room and destroying some sort of evidence on Mr. Wesley.”

“That makes no sense. Why wouldn’t they have dealt with the body before bringing him here?”

Violet made no reply, afraid to voice her thoughts. Whoever it was knew that Violet had been down here yesterday, and was either angry or afraid. Either way, Violet was probably in grave danger.

“What will you do now?” she asked.

“I plan to head back to London. I think Crugg’s assistant may have had something to do with this, so Inspector Pratt and I will go see what he has to say about the old man and woman there,” Hurst said, pointing at the corpses. “And you?”

“First, I plan to make the gentleman and his wife more comfortable.” More eye rolling from Hurst. “Then I’m going to talk to Mr. Blackwell once more. Perhaps he hasn’t told me all he knows.”

Violet just hoped it was safe to be alone with the man. At this point, she didn’t know who was friend or foe. Or lunatic.

 

“More questions, Mrs. Harper?” Blackwell waved off a student who appeared to be presenting a report to him.

The student gave Violet a curious glance as he hurried out of the room.

“Just a few,” she said, refusing to be intimidated yet hoping she carried Hurst’s shadow behind her.

Blackwell invited her to be seated, but Violet was too full of nervous energy. Instead, she paced as she sorted through a morass of questions and selected the most important one.

Just as she was about to ask it, Blackwell said, “Where is Inspector Hurst?”

“He’s gone back to London.”

“Ah, how disappointing.” Violet wasn’t sure if his voice was tinged with deep sincerity or sarcasm.

“Yes.” She paused, standing directly in front of his desk and clasping her hands together. “I am of the impression that you didn’t personally know the undertakers who brought in the elderly bodies yesterday.”

“That is correct.”

“May I ask you to describe them to me?”

Blackwell looked at the wall behind Violet, as though trying to conjure up their images. “One was a young fellow, rather short and slight. It actually surprised me that he had the strength to carry the weight of the dead, even if it be that of papery-thin old people.”

Violet compressed her lips tightly, hopefully her only outward sign that she disapproved of his description.

“The other one was middle-aged, nondescript. No, wait, I do remember that he had an abnormally tall hat and wore a light-colored coat. Oh yes, and he had some of the densest muttonchop whiskers I’ve ever seen.”

This was saying something coming from a man whose own facial growth was—

Violet’s heart raced as she stared at Blackwell, openmouthed. “Did you say he had thick muttonchop whiskers?”

“Yes, why?” The superintendent’s own furry features contracted as he frowned.

“Oh my. Thank you for your time, sir. I must be going.” Violet spun on her heel without explanation as the explanation was too chilling to put into words.

What in heaven’s name did Mr. Ambrose have to do with this situation? Did he hold the key to this entire situation?