The Mourning Bells (6 page)

“First-class funerals? Why, I am renowned for my handling of funerals for the upper class. Not all of them want long laying-in periods for the corpse, you know, and I can have them in the ground like that.” Upton snapped the fingers of his left hand. “Complete with all of the fancy accoutrements a society family could want. I remember I once—”

“But Brookwood . . .” Violet pressed gently.

Upton smiled in an oily way. “Don’t most undertakers service Brookwood at some point, Mrs. Harper?”

Something in his tone had changed, and Violet worried that he might reach a tentacle out at any moment to inject her with his paralyzing saliva before dismembering her.

For all of his braggadocio, Mr. Upton hadn’t really answered a single question of Violet’s. Why was this? Was he naturally this self-absorbed, or was it a way to avoid her inquiries while still seeming to be cooperative?

It was time to leave.

Outside Upton’s shop, a light rain had started and she had no parasol. Violet sighed. Perhaps she should pick up a hansom cab, return home, and leave the remaining three undertakers on her list for tomorrow.

 

The rain continued overnight, but in the morning was just an irritating mist, intent on loosening hair from beneath pins and hats. Violet stepped out of the cab in Chancery Lane, her damp list in hand, and proceeded to visit the remaining undertakers written on it. All three were in this area of the City of London, which was heavily populated with law offices and tailors to support judicial wardrobes, and Violet hoped to be done soon in order to return to her own shop.

Susanna had wanted to compare notes the previous evening, but Violet put her off, wanting to wait until she had visited these final three shops. Her daughter had pouted in disappointment but had refrained from discussing it.

By noon Violet was finished, but not before having a far more disturbing encounter than the previous day’s with Mr. Upton.

James Vernon’s undertaking shop was of average size. There was nothing particularly wrong with the shop except that it seemed unloved, as though Mr. Vernon had lost his passion for the profession. Although there were several sample coffins in the shop, there was little else on display. He also didn’t have the typical display counters of most undertakers, eschewing them for an ornate walnut desk to one side of the shop, heaped with ledgers and papers.

Where were his catalogs? His mourning jewelry cases? His urn samples? Perhaps he kept them in a back room and brought them out on request, which would be odd, in Violet’s opinion, but not wrong by any means.

Like his shop, Mr. Vernon was bland and uninspiring. He was much taller than Violet, reaching at least six feet, with pale hair and matching eyes. Those eyes were disconcerting, for the undertaker blinked constantly, as though he had a piece of grit lodged in each one. He was also considerably older than Violet. She wondered if his age explained why he had seemingly lost the ardor for undertaking. The man himself was polite enough, and more than willing to answer Violet’s questions.

“Certainly, I use the LNR quite regularly. When I come across bodies that have been abandoned or are unknown, I send them off to places like King’s College and St. Bartholomew’s for dissection. They pay well. Quite frankly”—Vernon dropped his voice even though there was no one else in the shop and he had already been speaking in a low monotone—“I find it an easy profit since I don’t have to do any preparation, it cleans up London’s streets of undesirables, and it helps the medical profession. I’m lucky all undertakers aren’t smart enough to do this. I probably shouldn’t have even told you about it.”

Violet put a hand to her chest. “Sir, are you hiring resurrectionist men?”

Vernon’s eyes flew open in a horrified look, his first moment of spirit that Violet had seen. “Of course not! I am respectable. Besides, that trade died out years ago. You should know that.”

There were both legal and illegal ways for medical men to obtain bodies for dissection, and the illegal means were horrifying to a religious British public, for they involved the disinterment of recently buried bodies. Night watchmen patrolled cemeteries for just this purpose—to prevent the unlawful snatching of corpses from graves by those called resurrectionists.

Vernon was right, though; the resurrectionist trade had largely died out many years ago. Nevertheless, the specter of grave robbing and intentional desecration of the dead was ever looming in society’s mind, along with the fear of being buried alive.

Undertakers could profit greatly on such fears, not only with safety coffins but also with burial devices intended to discourage robbers from breaking into graves. A representative from the Needle Brothers coffin factory once tried to sell Violet a “patent coffin,” an iron contraption with concealed springs that prevented its lid from being levered open by a robber. Mr. Vernon didn’t seem to have any such devices in his shop.

Violet returned to her questioning. “But the universities you mentioned are in London. How do you use the LNR?”

“The LNR is a convenient way to send bodies to the Royal Surrey County Hospital in Guildford, about seven miles from the Brookwood train station. Before my services, they had a devil of a time obtaining legal corpses for medical training.”

“I see.” Violet understood the importance of anatomical research, but she cringed at the thought of what the bodies must look like afterward. “Have you ever lost any of these bodies?”

“Lost them? How could something as large as a body be lost?” He looked sincerely confused.

“What I mean is, has a body ever turned out to be alive and therefore lost to death . . . and lost to the hospital?”

Vernon shook his head and admonished her in all seriousness. “Mrs. Harper, dead bodies don’t reanimate themselves.”

That was what Violet used to think.

 

The following morning, Sam and Benjamin wanted to visit the British Museum to view an exhibit of medieval law documents. Pleading headaches, gout, tuberculosis, and a number of other illnesses to avoid the tedium of staring at parchment covered in faded Old English, Violet and Susanna remained behind to discuss their findings from the interviews each had conducted. Sam’s final bribe upon leaving was that Violet would miss out on the dishes of ice cream he and his son-in-law planned to have on the way home.

That was a sacrifice Violet was willing to make. Susanna, she noticed, was also thoroughly relieved not to accompany the men on their journey.

The two women sat together in the dining room since the sitting room was too messy. Violet told Susanna of all her visits, including those to Mr. Upton and Mr. Vernon, while Susanna spoke only of her interaction with Mr. Crugg. The girl was wound tightly with excitement over it.

“You were right, Mother, he does despise you.”

“I think of it more as his having an aversion to me.”

Susanna shook her head, her blond hair still loose and unpinned this morning and bouncing along her shoulders. “I’m fairly certain he would be happy to see you burst into flames.”

Well, that was certainly disappointing. “What is it you think he’s hiding?”

Susanna pondered the question for a moment, then said, “I’m not sure. He didn’t want to discuss any specific bodies he’d sent to Brookwood, so I think he’s your most likely suspect. And, really, if he’s gotten wind elsewhere that one of his bodies ended up alive, is it any wonder he won’t discuss it?”

“Hmm, that is true, dear girl. And who are we to force him?” Violet sighed. “I suppose what we are left with, once again, is that no crime has been committed. At least not one that the law recognizes. I guess the matter is over with.”

Violet found herself unexpectedly disappointed not to have an investigation at hand. Even more surprising was the fact that Susanna looked crestfallen, as well.

H
arry was busy with a funeral at Highgate Cemetery in London today, so Violet took charge of accompanying another body on the LNR to Brookwood. Several days had passed since she and Susanna had discussed the undertakers they had visited, but the subject still nagged at Violet.

She had gone back to her daily routine of meeting with the grieving, preparing the dead, and visiting with cemetery directors. Interestingly, Susanna had begun tagging along, offering to help Violet and Harry with their daily duties. Although Violet adored Susanna, and had enjoyed every minute of working together in Colorado, this shop belonged to Violet and Harry. It didn’t seem right to have Susanna involved on a daily basis, even if she didn’t want any pay for her work.

Violet had the uncomfortable feeling that it might be time for Susanna to go home to Colorado.

She had easily convinced Susanna to take care of the shop today while she and Harry attended to their individual errands. Now, as the early-morning necropolis train pulled out of Waterloo station, with both the conformist and nonconformist funeral vans packed full, Violet willed her usual queasiness away by looking out the window at the thin fog swirling around the carriage like smoke from a recently extinguished fire. Once she felt settled, she took out her copy of Richard Blackmore’s latest novel,
Lorna Doone,
from her large reticule, but after only two minutes of attempting to read in the shadowy early-morning light, she felt nauseated again.

It seemed there was nothing else to do but dwell on the man who had seemingly risen from the dead the last time she was at Brookwood. Everything about the situation bothered Violet, from Mr. Upton’s long-winded soliloquies that said nothing to Mr. Vernon’s side business with anatomists, and especially Julian Crugg’s refusal to discuss anything having to do with Brookwood. Susanna thought Crugg was lying, and Violet wished she had been present to see the man’s demeanor for herself.

What bothered Violet the most, though, was that maybe she was wrong about safety coffins. Maybe they really were useful. Maybe they could prevent the unintended burial of live persons due to the incompetence of some of those in the funerary business.

Had she ever been responsible for burying someone alive? The thought made her far sicker than the train ride.

 

Violet stood on the platform at Brookwood North station, surrounded by coffins waiting to be buried in the nonconformist section of the cemetery. At least this time the horse-drawn biers were already present and loading up coffins. To her dismay, she noticed another bell coffin, again with Mr. Boyce’s maker’s plate on it. Had this coffin been shipped by Crugg, Upton, or Vernon? Or had it perhaps been sent by one of the other undertakers they’d interviewed, someone who hadn’t stood out to them?

Again Violet had to remind herself that even though she felt the safety coffin was morally reprehensible and someone happened to have been saved by it last time she was here,
no crime had been committed.

Realizing that it would be some time before a bier was ready for her own coffin, she ventured over to Mr. Boyce’s coffin, knelt down next to it, and stroked the top of it. It was a finely crafted piece made of white oak, with an inlay of dark walnut around the sides and in the top. This man or woman had wealth and was sure to have a first-class funeral.

Well, it didn’t look like this bell coffin’s occupant was going to be as energetic as the last one she’d seen here. Violet reached her hand up and flicked the bell idly.
Ting-a-ling-a-ling,
the bell sang.
Ting-a-ling-a-ling
.

It was ironic how unlike the peal of a church bell it was, yet both were used to announce life.

She hit the bell a little harder to hear its music once more.
Ting-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling.

As if in response, there was an immediate knocking from down below. In an instinctive reaction, Violet screeched, loudly and not very much like a demure undertaker at all, falling backward and onto her rump.

She stayed frozen in her awkward position, too frightened by the sound from within the coffin to even breathe. Gathering her wits, she untangled her skirts, went back to the coffin, and began tugging on the lid. To her amazement, she was able to easily remove it; there were no nails holding it in place.

She staggered onto her backside once more when, yet again, a man struggled out of the coffin. He pushed her aside as he crawled out of the coffin, coughing and gasping. He was younger than the first man but just as well attired.

“Sir,” Violet said, once again regaining balance and approaching him with concern, “are you quite all right? May I help . . .”

The man had a hunted, feral expression on his face as he rose up, tottering on his feet. “Who are you?” he demanded. Violet smelled the distinct odor of cloves on his breath.

“I’m Violet Harper, sir, and I believe you have been mistakenly—”

“Where am I?”

“Brookwood North train station, sir. You must let me find a doctor for you. You’ve been—”

The man grunted something unintelligible and began lumbering off.

“Sir!” Violet called, chasing after him and taking his arm when she reached him. “You must let me help you. Surely you need—”

The man pushed Violet away from him, nearly causing her to tumble again. Violet called after him, but he ignored her.

Still bewildered, she took a few steps once more in his direction, but the shock of the experience stopped her in her tracks. She watched helplessly as he stumbled out of the station and into the nearby woods. What was there to do? She couldn’t force him to stay with her. After all, it wasn’t a crime to become undead.

But Violet was once again overcome with the idea that there was
something
criminal going on. She just wasn’t sure what. How was it possible that two men had popped out of bell coffins, not two weeks apart, before her very eyes? Was this some type of clever huckster’s advertisement for safety coffins?

Perhaps she should go to Magnus Pompey Hurst, detective chief inspector at Scotland Yard, with whom she had dealt on other cases. Violet hesitated. He was usually skeptical of her claims. She could only imagine what he would say to this one. No crime had been committed. He’d probably have a good laugh over it at her expense. After all, who could be arrested for a dead person coming back to life?

 

With the body of Mrs. Elvira Danforth, a senile old woman who had mistaken rat poison for baking soda and accidentally used it in a sponge cake—apparently not trusting her household help to make it for her—now waiting at the chapel for her services, Violet returned to the North station to greet the mourning party.

Given what Violet had seen of Mrs. Danforth’s kitchen when she went to visit the body, it was no wonder the woman had made the fatal error. It was difficult to discern the difference among her kitchen, her larder, and her scullery. Of course, if Violet didn’t have day help in Mrs. Wren and Ruth, her own small kitchen might be just as catastrophic.

Did that mean if she ever gave up the cook and maid, she ran the risk of doing herself in with rat poison?

She shook her head to clear it of such ridiculous notions. As if she was capable of baking anything edible in the first place!

A distant train whistle alerted her to the imminent arrival of the mourning party. The North station was built on exactly the same plan as the South, intended for Anglican funerals, and Violet posted herself inside the first-class reception room. Railway workers helped people wearing black armbands, hats, gloves, and jewelry off the train and into the reception area, where Violet then greeted them and murmured appropriate words of sympathy. One particularly large woman, who wore the most enormous black ostrich feather in her hat that Violet had ever seen, was fanning herself and mopping her face with a black lace-edged handkerchief, all the while moaning dramatically about “dear Aunt El.”

Once everyone was assembled in the reception room—and already several men had purchased multiple cups of ale for themselves—Violet led them on the somber procession to the chapel. The funeral line was made a little less dignified by the drunken men offering incoherent words of comfort to Mrs. Danforth’s wailing niece.

Violet was mortified. This was not the behavior she expected from first-class patrons. She discreetly moved within the ranks of the mourners making their way to the chapel and whispered to the niece and her companions about the disrespect they were showing Mrs. Danforth. Those words didn’t seem to make a dent in their rude comportment, but a reminder of the special eternal punishments reserved for those who desecrated not just tombs but also funeral processions certainly brought about the desired results.

The niece gaped at her like a strangled flounder, but her tears and howling ceased immediately, and although the men still stumbled along the pathway, they, too, stopped their garrulous talk as the group solemnly walked the remaining hundred feet in reverential silence.

The nonconformist, or dissenters’, chapel looked much like the chapel in the Anglican cemetery, with its faux-Tudor timbering and entry doors with rounded arches above them. The group entered the chapel through the tall doors located in the steeple tower, stepping past the waiting horse-drawn bier to do so. A driver sat on a black-velvet-covered box, as still as if he were made of marble. He would remain there until the service was complete.

The interior was as plain as any of hundreds of modest chapels Violet had worked in before. Mrs. Danforth’s coffin of mahogany, topped with a veneer of elegantly swirled mahogany burl, sat on a folding bier in the center of the chapel, surrounded by urns of lilies that Violet had arranged earlier. Mourners took their places on the long, simple benches arranged in rows around Mrs. Danforth, while the minister came forward to begin the first-class service.

First-class funerals were for the uppermost strata of society, and so, of course, were the most elegant. Glass hearses, fine hardwood coffins, and magnificently adorned horses and mourners could back up traffic in London for hours as people gathered to watch the distinct personage roll by. Mrs. Danforth’s entourage through Brookwood Cemetery was much more sedate than the typical London society funeral procession.

Second-class funerals, intended for wealthy merchants and the like, were toned down a bit, with fewer accoutrements.

Third-class funerals were for the working-class poor, and reflected the status of the deceased, with simple pine coffins, a hearse that was not much more than a black-painted cart, and little embellishment to mark the deceased’s journey to the grave.

Violet had coordinated them all, although third-class funerals were infrequent, as her services were generally unaffordable for them. Violet retreated to an alcove in the rear of the chapel, to make herself as inconspicuous as possible. She shivered. It was strange how the interiors of chapels could be cool even on the warmest of burial days, almost as if they instinctively understood the chill associated with mourning and loss and adjusted themselves accordingly.

Some undertakers used this period of the service to spend time elsewhere, perhaps finding their own cup of ale or a slice of sponge cake, or even smoking and gossiping with cemetery workers. Even now, the hearse driver was undoubtedly swiping at the sweat gathered on his brow before reaching into the driver box for a flask.

For Violet, though, it seemed disrespectful, after the departed’s long and arduous journey of life, to abandon the body under her care, even for a few moments to satisfy hunger. The thought of food reminded her that she hadn’t eaten since before sunrise this morning, an eternity ago, what with all of the tumult that had occurred since. She willed herself to forget about her appetite and to attend to more important things, such as whether it was pure coincidence that another body had sprung out of a coffin today. This was the second such one in ten days that Violet had seen, and she’d never before witnessed such a phenomenon.

They were both men, and both had been laid inside Putnam Boyce’s bell coffins. Mr. Boyce’s coffins were sold to many undertakers in London, making it difficult to narrow down which undertaker had purchased these two particular coffins.

It suddenly occurred to Violet that the two bodies may have even been cared for by two different undertakers, which would make their individual waking even more bizarre and coincidental.

It had happened at the North station this time, so there was nothing connecting the two bodies by religion. Unfortunately, Violet didn’t know whether either man was destined for a first- or second-class funeral. Each man was obviously too well dressed for a third-class funeral. Besides, a safety coffin was an impossible expense for a lower-class family.

Despite all of her intense puzzling over the situation, her mind continued to come back around to the same problem. No actual crime had been committed. In fact, it was more like two joyous miracles had occurred.

The chapel’s organ began piping Chopin’s haunting funeral march, Violet’s signal to return to the service, where she directed the coffin bearers—none of whom had been drinking earlier, fortunately—to lift the coffin for its final procession. They hefted the box and carried it out of the chapel to the hearse. The driver sat rigidly, staring forward, as the box clunked down hollowly onto the hearse, then slid roughly forward into place. Violet would have to return later for the bier, but meanwhile, she had other male mourners pick up the urns and sprays of flowers to carry to the grave site.

As Violet followed the minister and the male entourage out of the chapel, she saw from the corner of her eye that Mrs. Danforth’s niece was becoming hysterical once again, and the other women in the party were surrounding her with waving fans and solicitous words. That would keep them occupied here until the men buried Mrs. Danforth, as was customary.