Death at the Abbey (15 page)

“Nonsense. You will stay at Harcourt House in Marylebone. My sister lives there, but Kirby will have a telegram sent to her, announcing your visit. She will be most welcoming, I assure you. She is much more amenable to hosting others than I am, you see. Stay as long as necessary, Mrs. Harper, to divine the true actions of LeCato. Your husband will stay entertained here at Russian Lodge, my shooting hut across the lake.”

The duke's shooting hut must have been located well behind the lake, for Violet had never noticed it. She imagined that “hut” was a misnomer, and that it was probably larger than the mews at Buckingham Palace.

“I should invite my brother Henry for the shooting. He's quite a hound man, and he looks for any opportunity to bring along his pack of vizslas to hunt grouse and pheasant. We'll have quite a diversion here while you look into the doings of LeCato. I am certain he is a scoundrel of an extreme degree.”

Violet was surprised at Portland's stated enthusiasm for the company of others, given his normal reclusiveness, but perhaps the idea of a day shooting caused him to overcome his shyness. Presumably he wouldn't shoot from behind a wooden screen shielding him from both his brother and from Sam.

However, if Violet wasn't mistaken, Portland seemed downright gleeful about sending her to London.

 

Violet met up with Sam that evening at Worksop Inn for supper. She didn't know what she enjoyed more—telling her husband that he was truly to go shooting with Portland or savoring the fish pie, which tonight Mr. Saunders had stuffed with fresh mussels. It was an expensive delicacy that Violet appreciated with every swallow.

“He actually means to do this?” Sam asked, his forkful of stewed venison poised halfway to his mouth, as though he couldn't decide whether to have it finish its journey or put it down to more aptly express his surprise.

“Yes. He has a shooting hut on the northern part of the estate somewhere above the lake and will meet you there. He plans to invite his brother Henry along.”

Sam put his fork down. “I'm to go shooting with the duke
and
his brother? I'm not sure what to think. I wonder if this is a heaven-sent answer to what has been concerning me of late.”

“What is that?” she mumbled over an eager bite of her dinner, wondering if Mr. Saunders might come by and offer her another sliver of pie.

“You know that I have been struggling to find good men to work at the coal mine. My only good fortune thus far has been the Ward brothers. I've been despairing of ever getting it running, and then when everything went wrong at Welbeck . . . well, I began to think that perhaps I was downright cursed. Or that others would view me that way. And if that happened, I would never get the mine open. In fact . . .” Sam paused and stared in the distance at a couple of patrons telling ribald jokes over tankards of ale.

“I think I made a mistake in trying to open a coal mine,” he said, grimacing as though the words were like sour milk in his mouth. “Perhaps I should have just stayed with trying to convince others to buy dynamite rather than showing it off within my own colliery. This has been brutally difficult, from securing the financing to actually getting to the point of striking an ax against the coal face.”

Violet hardly knew what to say. She desperately wanted to say something encouraging to her husband, yet his statement that he might not want to continue with the colliery was like church bells pealing joyfully in her head. How happy she would be if he no longer pursued this business interest.

However, she maintained a steady tone. “So you think that if His Grace is serious about going shooting with you, then he is also serious about investing in dynamite?”

“Possibly. I'm certainly not counting on it at this point. But his endorsement would certainly help me gain credibility.”

Mr. Saunders came around with his trolley, presenting Violet with the last remaining piece of fish pie. She accepted it and sliced into the steaming portion with her fork as he refilled her glass of claret.

“Did you like the blue mussels, Mrs. Harper?” the innkeeper asked. “I added them in just for you. Got them from a Lancashire fishmonger.”

“They're perfect, Mr. Saunders. It's the best fish pie I've ever had.”

Saunders beamed and offered Sam more venison, but her husband was too preoccupied now for more food. Violet, too, became distracted when the front door of the small inn opened and Martin Chandler entered, nodded to Mr. Saunders, and retreated quickly to the rear of the inn where the staff worked.

“Isn't that the duke's falconer?” she inquired. “Is he a guest here tonight?” She found it curious that he would so brazenly come in and make his way to the private part of the inn.

“No, no. He sometimes helps me when he has time,” Saunders said cryptically. Violet wondered what skills the falconer possessed that would be of use to an innkeeper. However, it was none of her business.

As Mr. Saunders moved on with his trolley to another patron, Violet forgot about Chandler and continued with her earlier conversation, telling Sam of Portland's plan for her trip to investigate LeCato. “He wishes for me to stay over once more at Welbeck Abbey and take one of his tunnels back to Worksop in the morning, then board a train for London.”

Sam concentrated on his wife once more. “That makes no sense. The train station is a few minutes' walk from here. Why not stay over here?”

“You forget, my belongings are still in a guest room at Welbeck,” Violet replied.

“Yes, I keep hoping you are imminently returning, but now you are off to the city. How long will you be gone?”

“Just a couple of days, long enough to try to see the prime minister.” She spoke with more confidence than she felt. Would Gladstone actually be willing to see her?

“I think it high time you returned here with me,” he grumbled in the manner Violet knew was one of irritated acceptance. “But I'll escort you back to Welbeck. Don't be long in London, though. Who knows what news I may have when you return?”

16

C
ourtesy of the Duke of Portland, Violet took a harrowing ride through his personal tunnel to Worksop station, the clattering of the carriage wheels inside the confined space nearly deafening her during the ride. The groom riding on the rear stand seemed not to notice the bumping and jangling. In fact, Violet was certain she heard the young man laughing behind her.

As they pulled up in front of the station, Violet waited for the groom to open the carriage door, but she waited in vain. After several minutes at a standstill, the driver proceeded forward again, this time very slowly. The next thing Violet knew, the horses were being unhooked and several men were lifting the carriage, rocking her unsteadily until she landed with a thud inside a train carriage.

She rode to London like this, wobbling back and forth inside the carriage as it rocked inside what must have been a train compartment specially made for the duke.

Violet felt positively ridiculous.

With relief, she arrived at Paddington station. There the carriage was lifted out once more by unseen hands and reattached to the horses, which must have traveled with the driver and grooms elsewhere on the train. Within minutes, she was driven the remaining mile or so to Harcourt House in Cavendish Square.

Once more, Violet was assailed by another aspect of how peculiar the Duke of Portland really was. His London home was as tall and stately as the rest of the properties in this exclusive area of London, except that one side and presumably the rear garden were surrounded by a wall that reached nearly eighty feet in the air.

The wall shimmered in the sunlight, and upon closer inspection, Violet saw that it was constructed of ground glass in varying colors. How positively odd.

It was as if the duke had constructed his own personal prison inside London. Given how reclusive he was, Violet could almost understand how the noise and busyness of the city would cause him to retreat inside this grand edifice when he was here.

But it was through the duke's sister, who resided year-round in this unusual sanctuary, that Violet would receive even more disconcerting tidings about Lord William John Cavendish-Scott-Bentinck, and begin to wonder if Sam having business dealings with His Grace was actually not such a grand idea.

 

Lady Howard de Walden, née Lady Lucy Cavendish-Scott-Bentinck and the widow of Charles Ellis, the 6th Baron Howard de Walden, greeted Violet from inside an overdecorated parlor, rising graciously to acknowledge the undertaker's presence. Was Violet supposed to curtsy to a baroness? Shake her hand? The aristocratic rules of etiquette were so intricate and illogical as to be simply irritating, and so Violet chose to dip her head and shift her body so that it might be taken as a bumbling effort at a curtsy, or perhaps not one at all, hoping that it would suffice.

The baroness was tall and elegant, with hair swept up in a complicated, blooming coiffure that surely took her maid hours to complete each morning. Despite the fact that she must be in her sixties, Lady Howard de Walden was dressed in the latest style, a lavender-and-cream confection with layers of scalloped edging around a full skirt. Violet felt like a dowdy old matron next to the woman, even though she was surely more than twenty years younger than the baroness.

“My brother sent me a note that an undertaker was performing some work for him in London, but he didn't say what it was. . . .” Her regal, plucked eyebrows rose in question.

If the duke hadn't shared it with the baroness, Violet wasn't about to, either. “Yes, His Grace has asked me to visit some people on his behalf, to discover their opinions on certain topics.”

The eyebrow rose higher. The baroness didn't believe her. “Isn't it rather odd that my brother has asked you to perform important work for him? I hear that you recently cared for two of his workers—and most admirably at that—but you are, after all, just an undertaker.”

Violet considered herself a respectable tradesman, but it was typical for people from all ranges of the social spectrum to view her as
just
an undertaker. “Yes, my lady, but as you are aware, your brother is quite . . . reserved . . . in his relationships. He is not someone who would be inclined to run off to London himself, nor would he consider sending any of his staff. I was more than happy to do it for him, as I have regular dealings in London for my business.”

“Is that so?” The baroness was nearly overcome in her curiosity over Violet, but good breeding would not permit her to ask a penetrating question about Violet's relationship with Portland. Instead, she tried the kindness approach. “Perhaps I can help you. I have many important contacts in the city and can make introductions for you.”

“You are gracious, my lady, but I am here to visit only the prime minister, if he has time for me.”

“Oh. I see. I'm afraid I won't be able to assist you with an introduction to a station as lofty as that.”

“That's quite all right, my lady. I've met Mr. Gladstone before.”

The baroness frowned, and her expression was one of confusion that someone like Violet claimed to be acquainted with the prime minister. “I see,” she repeated, but clearly she didn't. “How is it that you have been introduced to Gladstone?”

Violet knew she shouldn't tease the baroness further but couldn't help herself. “The queen acquainted me with him when I did a personal service for her.”

Mere confusion swiftly turned into astonishment. “Pardon me? Did you say you did a personal service . . .
for the queen?
”

“Yes. I recently assisted her in a couple of sensitive investigative matters involving both a diplomat and several of her family members.” Violet couldn't help adding, “Of course, I also helped to prepare the Prince Consort's body in 1861.”

She could almost see Lady Howard de Walden mentally writing notes to all of her friends to inform them of the most unusual houseguest she had. To the baroness's credit, she didn't sputter or express further astonishment but instead regained her calm. “Ah, I'm sure I was out of the country then. My husband was the Minister Plenipotentiary to Belgium at the time, so we spent a great deal of time abroad with his diplomatic missions. I followed my husband to many important cities—Stockholm, Lisbon, Brussels—although none so important as London itself, of course.” The baroness lifted her chin, looking every inch a cultured diplomat's wife.

Violet hoped her stay here would be brief and wouldn't involve too many encounters with the widow. She changed the subject. “Harcourt House is quite beautiful, my lady.”

“Isn't it? My brother gave me use of it for the rest of my life. I'll never remarry, of course. Not when there is so much to do in caring for my sons, especially Frederick.”

“You have young boys, my lady?” Violet asked, incredulous that a widow of her age would have sons in their minorities living with her.

“No, four of them are married, but I still have my Freddy with me.” She reached over to a table and pulled off a framed photograph of a uniformed man in his late thirties sitting astride a horse, with a saber in his white-gloved right hand. He was handsome and well formed, but his lower lip pouted in a manner that suggested an aristocrat who had never been acquainted with the word “no.”

Violet murmured appreciation of the man's good looks and handed the picture back to the baroness, who gazed at it fondly once more before setting it back in its place. “He is such a smart and dapper boy, although he chastises me for calling him a boy, since he is thirty-nine now and a major in the 4th Light Dragoons, not to mention that he holds the title of 7th Baron Howard de Walden.”

Violet had met this type of widow before, who was fully cognizant of her stature in society. In Lady Howard de Walden's case, it was as the sister of a duke, the widow of a baron, and the mother of the new baron—and resting all of her fortunes in what that son might do.

“His Grace is fortunate to have you here to manage his property.”

The baroness's laugh tinkled against the fringed draperies and painted ceiling medallion. “I don't concern myself with managing property, Mrs. Harper. That's the job of my brother's estate manager. I am simply furthering the family's fortunes with my connections.”

How much further do they need to go?
Violet thought.

“Of course, my brother gave me free rein to redecorate Harcourt House. John is fortunate to even have this house, considering how it came into his possession.”

“My lady?” Violet wondered if the duke had run a tunnel from Welbeck to London and taken over the house like a hermit crab moving into a new shell.

“My brother didn't tell you? I thought you were a close confidant.” The baroness appeared to relish not only the gossip she had to share but also the dig she was able to make at Violet. “No matter. The house was built in 1722 for the 1st Earl Harcourt, but did not stay in the family long, for the 3rd Earl held a card party here, attended by my grandfather, who won the house during a particularly heated game. My brother doesn't own it outright today, of course. The house was entailed as part of Harcourt's larger estate, but the Dukes of Portland have a leasehold tenancy that will last into the next century.”

Violet couldn't imagine putting up, say, her undertaking business as a mere wager in a card game, but then, she wasn't bound by the unfathomable edicts and commandments that the upper classes were.

“The property is most unusual, my lady,” Violet said to veer off the topic of lost wagers. “Particularly the wall around the garden.”

At this, the baroness was no longer laughing. “That. Yes. My brother erected it so that he could walk through the garden without anyone seeing him from Henrietta Place or Wigmore Street, nor even from the upper story of a neighboring building. I've talked to him many times about removing it—so unfitting of a ducal property, and he only visits on rare occasions—but he won't hear of it. Frederick says he welcomes the privacy, too, so I suppose I mustn't be too fussy about it.”

Here was yet another oddity of the duke's: impossibly tall walls to screen himself from his neighbors on his isolated visits to the city. Portland seemed obsessed with shielding himself from others. The duke was very confusing. He seemed to be very generous with his workers and concerned for their well-being, yet he could hardly tolerate the presence of others. It was almost impossible to understand how he chose those whom he could tolerate. Violet mentally ticked off people Portland would endure: his valet, Pearson; the butler, Mr. Kirby; the lantern-carrying girl, Molly; his army compatriot Colonel Mortimer; and now Violet herself, as well as Sam. Presumably Portland was tolerant of the baroness and his other relatives, but Violet wouldn't wager on it unless she saw them together.

It had been less than an hour since she had entered Harcourt House, and already Violet was thinking of wagers, as if she were a carefree aristocrat.

She dusted away the thought as Lady Howard de Walden continued with stories about the duke's London home and her role in elevating its magnificence, interspersed with crafty questions about the purpose of Violet's visit. Violet kept her responses to minimal “Yes, my lady” and “I'm sure I don't know, my lady” statements. The baroness never invited Violet to sit down, and the undertaker was certain she might faint from hunger and weariness, until the baroness finally ran out of ways to interrogate her and summoned a maid to escort Violet to a guest room.

When the dining hour arrived, without sending a maid to ask Violet what her dining preferences were, the baroness had a tray sent to her rather than inviting her to the dining room, thus informing Violet of her displeasure with how the earlier interview went. Violet didn't mind, for it gave her time to read over the list of questions she had been working on during the afternoon.

Who had a reason to kill Burton Spencer?
No one, unless perhaps Spencer witnessed something or was blackmailing someone. All speculation.

Who had an opportunity?
Everyone on the estate.

Who had a reason to kill Edward Bayes?
No one.

Who had an opportunity?
Everyone on the estate. Except poor Mr. Spencer.

 

Violet tapped the rounded end of her fountain pen against her lips. She was becoming more confused by the minute. She hoped Mr. Gladstone would provide answers about Mr. LeCato that would enable her to conclude her investigation. The next morning, though, Violet had far greater concerns than what Jack LeCato might or might not be doing.