The Mourning Bells (5 page)

The man went off to do Crugg’s bidding.

“Bird?” Susanna asked curiously.

“Birdwell Trumpington, my assistant.” Mr. Crugg sniffed contemptuously. “Have you ever heard of such a ridiculous name? His parents must have loathed him, but they died years ago in a shipwreck off the coast of India en route to Calcutta on a holiday, so there’s no way to really know. Very tragic. Of course, I never met them, so his story might be an invention, and they may live in Seven Dials right now, for all I know.”

Crugg had further insulted his employee with this mention of such a disreputable section of London. How odd. Violet would be interested to know that Crugg employed a man who was both disheveled and such an object of disdain, although Susanna wasn’t sure yet if that fact was significant at all.

Mother would also be interested in the seeming plethora of avian-related names in London.

Trumpington rolled out a flat cart, atop which sat what looked like a typical coffin, but with a box fitted over where the deceased’s head would lie. The top of this box was fitted with a piece of glass. At the foot of the coffin was a metal crank.

Crugg patted the box portion of the coffin. “We’ve only just gotten it in and haven’t had a chance to set it out for display. This clever device enables the cemetery watchman to keep an eye out on the deceased’s body. The body is buried inside the case below. If he begins breathing, naturally the glass will fog up. The watchman can also peer down to see if the eyes are open or the mouth is moving. After several days or a week without any signs of life, or if there is putrefaction emanating from the body, the watchman merely has to crank this lever”—Crugg touched the handle as Trumpington flipped the coffin onto its side, exposing the bottom of it to Susanna and Benjamin—“and the body will drop neatly into the waiting coffin in the grave below.” Crugg cranked the handle, and the bottom panel of the artificial coffin opened on hinges.

“How . . . interesting,” Susanna murmured.

“What is particularly attractive about this model is that it is reusable. Simply remove it from the grave, drop the real coffin lid over the body, and cover the grave over. The portable chamber is now ready for its next visitor.”

Susanna felt faintly queasy at the thought. Mother would definitely be appalled to see this. “What about the effects of decomposition in the chamber?”

Crugg lifted a shoulder, shrugging off her question. “The body is not inside for very long and so the chamber should air out in between funerals. Besides, you will keep a fresh one in your showroom, and your customers need never know the ones in use were used before.”

She brought a gloved finger to her mouth and frowned, as if in contemplation of the deceit that he’d just demonstrated. It was time to bring the subject around to where she needed it. “This is fascinating, sir, but what we are particularly interested in are the, ah, entry-level bell coffins.”

“Ah, of course.” He snapped again at Trumpington, who rolled the portable death chamber to a location across the showroom and began setting it up for display.

Crugg showed Susanna and Benjamin several versions, and Susanna interrupted with questions such as “What classes tend to be most enticed by safety coffins?”

“All classes are enticed. The question is one of affordability. The portable death chamber I showed you earlier can be rented, and so is a better option for the lower classes. More complicated coffins, such as those with escape ladders, can only be purchased by the upper classes. You will quickly learn which ones to suggest to your various customers. Now, may I show you this bell coffin invented by a German named Franz Vester, living in New York? This one has—”

Susanna interrupted his monologue. “Do you do many funerals at Brookwood, Mr. Crugg? What is your experience there?”

Crugg shut the coffin lid he had just lifted. It settled with the clack of wood against wood. “Brookwood? Do you mean the garden cemetery in Surrey? Why, we certainly have a wide range of cemetery affiliations. I undertake for some of the finest families in London, many of whom have tombs on their country estates both north and south of London, as well as in their county church parish graveyards.”

Crugg was rambling to distract her, Susanna was sure of it.

“But have you sent anyone to Brookwood recently?” she persisted.

“I—I can’t really say without looking at my records.”

“So you also wouldn’t know if you’ve put any bell coffins on the Necropolis Railway?”

Crugg’s eyes narrowed. “What is it you really want, madam? For I sense that it has nothing to do with bringing safety coffins into your shop.”

“Forgive my impertinence,” Susanna said, putting a hand on his arm, hoping that she was being successfully flirtatious. She felt Benjamin stiffen next to her, but that couldn’t be helped. “I’m really just curious as to whether Brookwood welcomes these coffins, as we have received several requests for funerals there lately.”

“Is that so? What’s your name again?” he asked with open distrust.

“Susanna Harper.” Susanna offered her maiden name without thinking, not quite used to her married name of Tompkins yet. She immediately regretted the lapse.

“I know that name,” Crugg said, pouncing on it like Mrs. Softpaws on a spider. “Are you by chance related to Violet Harper?”

“She’s my mother, but—” Susanna’s protest was cut short.

“Get. Out.” Crugg said this through clenched teeth as he pointed to the door. “I want you off my premises immediately.”

Mother was certainly right about the man’s displeasure about her. She tucked her arm in Benjamin’s. “Shall we go?” she asked brightly, pretending the other undertaker’s reaction didn’t bother her in the least.

“Now see here, Crugg,” Benjamin began, and Susanna could feel the tension tightening in her husband’s arm muscles. “I’ll not have you talk to my wife like that.”

“Benjamin, please . . .” Susanna pleaded, trying to diffuse the situation, but she was interrupted by Crugg.

“Very well, sir. If you prefer not to hear it, perhaps she shouldn’t darken my doorstep ever again. To think that Mrs. Harper, knowing her sin, stoops to having her daughter do her bidding. I’ll not have custom with that viper of a woman ever again, nor with anyone related to her. Good day to you both.”

Crugg stalked into the rear of the shop as his assistant gaped at them helplessly.

Susanna, though, was exhilarated. She had left Mr. Crugg in a completely angry, and wary, frame of mind, but he was hiding something, she was sure of it. She couldn’t wait to tell Mother.

If Benjamin was trailing somewhere behind her, she hardly noticed in her excitement to return to Morgan Undertaking. Dark clouds gathered overhead, but what Susanna noticed was how bright the world seemed all of a sudden.

 

Sam left that morning to pursue his banking interests, while Violet visited the undertakers on her own list, some of whom remembered her from her visits while she was investigating the death of Lord Raybourn a couple of months earlier. Most were wary of another visit so soon, but answered her inquisitive questions about bell coffins and Brookwood Cemetery readily and without appearing suspicious.

Shortly after the lunch hour, Violet found herself weary of traipsing about the streets of London. She was beginning to think that maybe she had embarked upon the wildest of goose chases.

And apparently all for naught.

Maybe it was as Sam had suggested yesterday—that the family of the “living dead” hadn’t employed an undertaker’s services and had purchased the coffin on their own.

And then there was Uriah Gedding, the stationmaster, insisting yesterday morning that no crime had been committed.

Yet there was just something like a guilty conscience that nagged at her. Just a little something about this whole affair that didn’t seem quite . . . right.

As she ventured into Chelsea, searching for the shop of one Augustus Upton, Violet could quickly see that this part of London lived up to its reputation as unconventional and bohemian, with the streets and cafes filled with oddly dressed and mannered artists.

She easily found the shop, located in a narrow but elongated building. The jangling of the doorbell announced her entrance. It was unnerving to say the least when a man popped up from a leather chair, strangely placed near the window of his small showroom. It was as if he were curled up like an octopus, waiting for unsuspecting prawns to float by so he could grab them. In fact, his dark hair was parted sharply in the middle, and thick strands hung down around his head like tentacles.

“Good afternoon, dear lady, good afternoon,” Upton said, pumping Violet’s hand up and down. He was around Violet’s age, and was fighting the bulge far harder than she was. In fact, Violet was quite certain she could see the telltale boning of a corset beneath his clothes. “Augustus Upton at your service. My deep sympathies for your loss. Devastating, I’m sure. How may I be of assistance in your time of need?”

“Actually, sir, my name is Violet Harper, and I, too, am an undertaker.” She extricated her hand from his sticky grasp. She knew she hadn’t met this man before; who could ever forget such pomposity? It was truly befitting to his name.

“You are?” He cocked his head at her in surprise. She half expected him to reach out a tentacle to inspect her. “Why, I guess you
are
in the traditional garb. Can’t say as I’ve met many women in this business. Did you inherit from your husband?”

Women commonly retained businesses that they had worked in with their husbands, and Violet was no exception, having inherited the trade from her first husband, Graham Morgan, now long deceased. It was not a period she preferred to dwell on or even discuss. She nodded briefly. “Yes. I came to see you because I understand you are an expert in safety coffins.”

This statement had elicited preening in the other undertakers she’d seen, who were then happy to show off their samples, as well as their knowledge of the contraptions.

Augustus Upton was no different.

“Dear lady, indeed, you have come to the right place. My knowledge of safety devices is unparalleled in London. No, dare I say, unparalleled in all of Great Britain?”

Violet hadn’t expected quite this much of a welcome to her questions.

“I am glad to hear that, sir. I am wondering if you—”

“Please, please, you must sit down.” Upton strode off as quickly as his corset would allow. He was obviously not used to wearing it. In moments he had returned with a delicate chair whose seat was covered in a deep-blue velvet. He placed it near his leather chair, and they both sat.

Upton templed his fingers together, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair. “Now, what can I answer for you?”

“I would like to know what type of safety coffin you feel is the best.” Hopefully he would quickly admit to a preference for bell coffins.

“Ah, there are so many types. I used my first safety coffin—an elaborate affair with multiple tubes and vents—about five years ago. I remember how devastated the family was when their loved one—an ancient woman, really, as delicate as parchment paper and not a likely candidate to survive the burial process—did not awaken and they—”

“Mr. Upton,” Violet gently interrupted, “did you find this type of coffin to be the best safety coffin?”

Upton frowned. “Mrs. Harper, if you wish to benefit from my vast experience, you must allow me to instruct you.”

Fortunately, he didn’t seem to notice Violet clamping her lips together to prevent herself from making a sharp retort.

“Now, where was I? Right, the Pemberton funeral. The family was simply aghast that old Mrs. Pemberton didn’t pop up hours later, after they had invested in the safety coffin. Nearly apoplectic, they were. I had to explain that purchasing a safety coffin does not result in an automatic waking of the dead. If it did, I’d be wealthier than the Crown, now wouldn’t I?” Upton chuckled at his own joke.

Violet stared past him, hoping that he would reach the end of his rambling anecdote soon. Alas, it was not to be.

“I remember well the Kingsley funeral, too. Every last one of them dead drunk during the proceedings, even the women. Some of them trying to crawl into the coffin to see if they could fit inside with the body. I had quite a time managing that one, I can tell you. Now if there was ever a time that a safety coffin was needed, that was it. You can’t imagine . . .”

Upton went on for several more minutes about various times that he had either used a safety coffin or wished he had used one. Finally, Violet couldn’t take another moment more and stood while he was in midsentence, stunning him into silence.

“I see, sir, that you have used many safety coffins on many occasions, but appear to be an expert in none of them, so I will take my leave—”

“Dear lady, you misunderstand me. Please, be seated, so I can be of more assistance.” He waved her down with his hand, and she reluctantly sat again.

“You have inquired about the best safety coffins. This type of coffin has proved very popular in recent years and comes in many varieties. There are trumpet coffins, escape hatch coffins—what I could tell you about those!—metallic burial cases, bell coffins—”

Violet found her opportunity inside Upton’s ongoing autobiography. “Bell coffins. What do you think of bell coffins? Are they effective?”

“I think you would find it valuable for me to instruct you in the world of all safety coffins before you target just one of them.”

Violet might be in her dotage before he was finished. She tried another tack. “Have you ever sent bodies via the London Necropolis Railway?”

“I’ve done some third-class funerals at Brookwood,” he said. “As you may know, a third-class funeral is marked by vastly less pomp and plumage than a first-class funeral. In fact—”

“Yes,” Violet said, stopping him before he traveled too far down that rail line. “Have you ever conducted any first-class funerals at Brookwood?”