Death at the Abbey (16 page)

17

I
n the morning, Violet was once again sent a tray. She finished every morsel of the veal kidney omelet and seeded biscuits slathered with quince marmalade set before her, before changing into her day dress, alleviating her standard black with a cobalt-and-black-checked jacket. However, she did tie her undertaking hat with its tails to her head to give her an air of authority. She hoped.

Thus attired, with a black wool cape for added warmth, she marched past the footman standing at the front door, down the steps, and onto the pavement. Violet Harper might not be a welcome guest, but she was a guest nonetheless and entitled to use the front entrance.

The day was chilly, bright, and clear, marred just a bit by coal smoke drifting from chimneys and the occasional smuts drifting through the air. Across the street, the view inside Cavendish Square was unhindered by the bare trees, whose branches made little movement on such a still day. They seemed to be framing the variety of statues, plaques, and pathways inside the park. She decided it was worth a short walk to tour the small square before heading off to Westminster.

To her surprise, the first statue she came upon was a life-sized bronze of none other than Lord George Bentinck, Portland's brother, who had died in 1848, according to the plaque set inside the tall stone block upon which the figure stood. Violet's head reached the bottom of his feet, making Bentinck grand and imposing in his collared cape that draped casually around his ankles. A half ring of boxwood shrubbery was set back about five feet from the rear of the statue, as if to represent a laurel-leaf crown upon it.

Violet was about to move on down a path to another statue when a dog came bounding up to her, panting and wagging its tail. “Hello there, Mr. Spaniel,” Violet said, forgetting about Mr. Bentinck for the moment. “What brings you out on such a fine day?”

She bent down to pet the dog, which had rich chestnut markings running down its back against a pearly white coat, along with floppy brown ears and a chestnut spot on its forehead. “Why, if I'm not mistaken, you are a Blenheim spaniel.” The dog licked at her hand as if to affirm that that was indeed what it was. “Have you escaped from your master or mistress? Which of these fine homes is yours?” Maybe the dog even belonged to Lady Howard de Walden.

Before Violet could even decide what to do about the loose dog, which was obviously well groomed and fed and therefore not a stray, she found herself grabbed roughly by her right arm, the arm that had been scalded and scarred in a train accident several years ago. She heard the grunts and mutterings of two men behind her, as one of them yanked her arm behind her back, nearly pulling it out of its socket. At her feet, the spaniel whined in distress.

Violet cried out in pain, but was too startled to do much else. How was it possible that she was being attacked by cutpurses in the middle of Cavendish Square in broad daylight?

Unfortunately, her reticule, containing a sharp and handy knife, dangled from the arm that was now pinned painfully behind her. She was shoved around to the rear of the statue so that she and one of her attackers were concealed from view by the statue's base on one side and the half ring of boxwoods on the other. The second man remained at the front of the statue, clearly watching out for others.

Despite the pain in her arm, Violet had regained her senses. “What is it you want? All I have to do is scream and there will be a dozen officers here to help me.”

“And all I have to do is cut your throat and stop your pretty little scream before it reaches its first note,” the man said, his voice low and dangerous, as he whipped her around to look at him.

He wasn't what Violet expected. He wasn't filthy, he didn't smell foul, and he wasn't missing teeth. In fact, he looked almost, well,
normal,
with freshly laundered clothing and combed hair.

Normal except for the rather large knife he brandished in his free hand, the tip of it held to her neck. In fact, he gently nudged the point against her skin, and the searing pain of that made her forget completely about her arm.

“What is it you want?” Violet repeated, this time her voice a whisper as she stilled herself, lest the blade make a very unwelcome entry beneath her skin and to vital points therein.

“Watch your belligerence,” he growled, using a rather long word for a street criminal. “You hear me well. You and your kind”—he took the knife blade and flipped up the collar of her cape, as if to emphasize its quality cut—“should keep your noses out of other people's business.”

He brought the knife back to her neck and lowered his face so that it was mere inches from hers, his murky brown eyes boring into her own dark ones. The malevolence in them frightened her more than his weapon did.

Which reminded Violet of her own knife, still dangling uselessly inside the reticule behind her back.

“What business do you mean?” she asked, wondering if she could distract him enough to dislodge herself from his grip. However, the man was intensely mindful of his task, a task Violet couldn't fathom.

He ignored her question. “It's the fancy ones I most enjoy doing in—”

“Ian!” the other man hissed from around the side of the statue. “There's a police wagon coming around the corner.”

The man named Ian uttered several oaths and froze, as if unsure whether to finish his task and risk being caught, or to simply flee and avoid his own trouble. With a final curse, he pushed Violet against Lord Bentinck's statue. Her head struck the back of the bronze cape, and she sank to the ground, blurry-eyed, with no idea where the two men had gone.

It took her several minutes to stop trembling and regain her bearings. Her head and right arm throbbed. She massaged her arm with her left hand but found no relief. By the time she rose on shaky legs, the police wagon and the spaniel were nowhere to be found.

The men, she assumed, were across the Thames by now, to parts unknown.

18

M
ildly recovered from the shock and pain of the attack, Violet changed her plans and made her way to Scotland Yard. It was a mile-and-a-half walk, but she used the time crossing through Mayfair and St. James's Park to clear her mind and think through what had happened so that she would have a cogent tale to tell Detective Chief Inspector Magnus Pompey Hurst, her contact at the Yard, with whom she had worked on several investigative matters. In his usual stubborn way, Hurst would undoubtedly try to find a way to accuse Violet of being mistaken, or hysterical, or a victim of misunderstanding, but eventually he would take her seriously.

As she stumbled along, regaining her footing while trying not to draw attention to herself, her primary thought was that her attackers were not a pair of cutpurses on the loose. What was it the man named Ian had said? “You and your kind should keep your noses out of other people's business.” What in heaven's name did that mean? The man was a complete stranger to her; she didn't have a nose—or any other body part, either—in his business.

Unless he had been hired by someone else. In an instant, Jack LeCato's face rose in her mind. But why was someone trying to scare her?

Violet entered St. James's Park, passing quickly by the barren trees that now loomed like specters over her, in complete opposition to how they had seemed to invite her into Cavendish Square. The name “Cavendish” sparked another thought. Ian had growled at her that it was the “fancy ones” he was after. Combined with his comment about Violet and “her kind,” well, did he think Violet—who, after all, had emerged from a home facing the park—was an aristocrat?

Another thought struck her cold. Could it be that Ian and the other man had been hired to attack Lady Howard de Walden and assumed Violet was she? But why? The baroness was gossipy and haughty, but such qualities didn't deserve more than a shrug.

Maybe it was time to learn more about the baroness.

Violet entered the large oak doors of Scotland Yard, which added gravitas and dignity to the building they fronted. Within minutes, she was seated at a round table with Inspector Magnus Pompey Hurst and his protégé, Second Class Inspector Langley Pratt, whose fingers were always covered in graphite from note taking, and whose expression was always beleaguered, more than likely due to Hurst's “mentoring.” Not only his name but also Hurst's manner and build always reminded Violet of a Roman centurion issuing commands to his legionaries as he led them into war—or, in Hurst's case, investigations.

As Violet began to speak, Pratt's expression immediately turned into concern as he jumped out of his chair. “Mrs. Harper! You need to see a doctor straightaway.”

“I do?” she asked, confused. “I'm not ill.”

Now Hurst was staring at her strangely. “For the love of God, Mrs. Harper, you're bleeding. Your neck. What happened to you? I thought you had gone away to Nottinghamshire.”

Violet brought her hand to her collared neck, and could feel not only the crustiness of dried fabric there but the wet flow of a still-open wound, as well.

Had she received strange glances while walking here? She had been so preoccupied she couldn't remember a single face she had passed on the streets.

Perhaps Ian's knife had laid claim to more territory than she'd thought. The idea that she might have died not an hour ago set her trembling again. Pratt ran from the room and came back with a handkerchief and a cup of water. She accepted both gratefully, and with the cloth pressed up to her neck and several swallows of the cool liquid inside of her, Violet was ready to tell her story.

Except that she wasn't sure where to begin. She took a deep breath. First things first. “The reason I came to London . . .”

Violet proceeded to tell them that she was here at the wish of the Duke of Portland to speak to Mr. Gladstone regarding a man named Jack LeCato, who might or might not have a malevolent purpose at Welbeck Abbey. She then relayed what had happened to her at Cavendish Square. When she reached the point where Ian had said that she and her kind should keep their noses out of other people's business, Hurst interrupted her.

“ ‘You and your kind'? What? Does he mean lady undertakers? That makes no sense. You must be the only one in London. You don't have a ‘kind.' ”

Violet could see that they were quickly entering the phase where Hurst would dismiss what she was saying.

“He later said he preferred doing in ‘fancy ones.' I think he may have been watching me leave Harcourt House and that he was referring to ‘my kind' as aristocrats, not realizing that I am merely a commoner.”

Hurst nodded and scratched one side of his muttonchops. “Go on.”

“I have a theory. . . .”

At this, Hurst bristled. He never liked to imagine that Violet might be ahead of him on an investigation. “What is that, Mrs. Harper?” His words were patient but laced with derision.

“I believe he may have thought I was the Lady Howard de Walden, the duke's widowed sister who lives there. While my clothing is not as fine as that of the lady in residence, it may have been quality enough to convince him that I was she.”

Hurst frowned as he waited for Pratt to catch up on the scrawling he was doing inside a battered little notebook. “Are you saying, then, that the man was actually after the Lady How—What was her name?”

“Howard de Walden. I don't know, I think it is a possibility. Or perhaps he was just a street criminal, but I doubt that. He was entirely too well groomed.”

“The most depraved wolves in the world sometimes come dressed in the finest sheep's wool, Mrs. Harper. We will see if there is any word on the street about this Ian fellow, but you shouldn't count on anything.”

Violet stood. “Thank you, Inspector. Also, would you be willing to learn what you can about Mr. LeCato?”

“What do you suspect him of?”

Violet bit her lip. “I'm not sure.”

Hurst rolled his eyes. “More will-o'-the-wisps to chase, eh? Very well, we will discreetly look into the man, but not in such a way that his reputation is harmed. If he's at Welbeck at Her Majesty's request, it would do the commissioner no good if he was being investigated for a paltry reason.”

Violet couldn't argue with that. Hurst agreed to call on her at Harcourt House as soon as he knew something.

From there, Violet walked another half mile south along the Thames to Westminster, hoping the dried blood on her neck had faded into the dark color of her jacket and cape. It wouldn't do to frighten Mr. Gladstone the moment he saw her.

The condition of her clothing didn't matter, though, for she was informed that the prime minister wouldn't have time to see her for three days. Frustrated that her visit to London would be extended, Violet agreed to the appointment offered and consoled herself with the thought that she could use the extra time in the city to visit with her friend Mary Cooke.

 

That evening, after writing letters to Sam, her daughter, Susanna, and Mary Cooke, Violet was surprised to receive an invitation to attend dinner with Lady Howard de Walden and her son Frederick.

This of course posed the question of whether Violet should inform the baroness of the day's events, but she decided not to reveal anything, lest she make the woman anxious over a potentially isolated situation.

Violet, regowned in her traditional black after handing the blood-encrusted pieces to the maid with a futile prayer that there would be no gossip below stairs about it, was escorted through the main dining room into a smaller breakfast room. The table stood elegantly under a pair of gas chandeliers and was set for three: one at the end and two on either side. It could have easily seated twelve.

Lady Howard de Walden was the only one in the room at the moment and was as exquisitely gowned as ever, this time in shimmering royal blue folds that conformed to her figure so well that it must have been cut and sewn directly upon her. “My lady,” Violet said, unsure once more what she was supposed to do. She stood behind her chair, and luckily, the baroness indicated that she should be seated across from her. The head seat was obviously reserved for her son.

A footman stepped forward from the shadows and poured red liquid into a goblet for Violet. The baroness nodded at her, which she assumed was a signal that she could drink. The wine was rich and powerful, so she cautioned herself to sip slowly. “Exquisite, my lady,” Violet said in appreciation.

“Were you able to meet with the prime minister?” the baroness asked, not bothering with the platitudes normally employed by her status. “Was he helpful?”

“Not yet, I'm afraid. He won't be able to see me until Tuesday.”

“So you were able to secure a meeting, then.” Lady Howard de Walden smiled tightly, and Violet wasn't sure if the woman was pleased with Violet's failure to achieve an immediate audience, or if she was disguising disappointment at her guest staying longer. Given that the baroness might have been the target of this morning's attack, Violet decided it might be wise to engage her with kindness and courtesy. Who knew what might happen in the days ahead where the baroness might need her? Or vice versa?

“Will the baron be joining us?” Violet asked politely. “I would be honored to meet him.”

The older woman's eyes lit up. “Yes. He is being dressed. He's had a busy day, I'm sure, so he's a bit late. I hope Cook was able to keep the veal warm and moist.” A shadow passed over her face, so quickly Violet almost missed it, to be immediately replaced with that forced smile.

“What shall you do with your additional time here in London?” The baroness asked the question while lifting her own wineglass to her lips.

Presuming this was an attempt to divine how much time Violet would spend inside Harcourt House, she assured her hostess, “I have many visits to make, to a dear friend of mine, as well as to my shop. I expect I will be quite occupied until I meet with Mr. Gladstone.”

“Yes, we will all be eager to know what he has to say.”

What did that mean?

“I am surprised that Lord Howard de Walden is not married,” Violet said, changing the subject and hoping she wasn't being too forward, “given his stature and pleasing looks.”

The baroness sighed. “He is quite handsome, isn't he? It's why he's the only bachelor of my children, despite being the oldest. I've picked out a lovely girl for him, but thus far he has been too high-spirited and distracted to consider marriage.”

Violet understood this to mean that he probably spent his time gambling, racing, and being obsessed with a myriad of other lofty pleasures. “Perhaps the lady has not captured his heart.”

“I don't see why not. Blanche Holden's family may not be quite peerage, but Frederick would do well to have their Palace House in Lancashire among his holdings.”

Violet had no time to contemplate the virtues of Miss Holden and her residence, for Frederick Ellis, the current Baron Howard de Walden, made his dramatic entry, a valet on his heels attempting to put a jacket on his master, which the baron shrugged impatiently away. The valet slipped away, jacket in hand, as the discreet footman hurried to pour wine into the baron's glass, which Frederick first sniffed and then drank a long gulp of before sitting down.

“You must be the undertaker I've heard so much about,” he said without preamble, looking at Violet curiously as though she were a newly discovered insect waving its feelers from under a bell jar.

The baroness cut in. “Mrs. Harper was unable to meet with Mr. Gladstone today, so she will be with us several more days, until Tuesday at least, Frederick. We've been chatting about your bright prospects in the marriage market.”

Frederick turned to Violet and rolled his eyes so his mother couldn't see. “Has Mother been telling you about Miss Holden? I told you, Mother, she has that one ridiculous tooth that juts out sideways. Imagine what little goblins our children would look like. And she isn't even the daughter of a peer.”

The baroness's expression was one of mortification. “Frederick, please. We have a guest. . . .” She nodded at Violet, a sign that he shouldn't speak so plainly before company, much less before a mere undertaker.

Frederick grinned wickedly and took another swallow. A few drops landed on his shirt, unnoticed. Perhaps this wasn't his first glass today. “Of course, Mother. Mrs. Harper, you should know that I am very marriage-minded, just not in the manner expected of me. Perhaps if I'm to be forced into a marriage I don't want, I'll choose to remain a bachelor.”

“I hope you don't follow in your uncle's footsteps regarding marriage, my son,” the baroness said.

Frederick laughed in derision. The rawness of his outburst was like a pistol shot in the room. “You think I'll end up like the mad duke, Mother? Not likely. I can hardly think he allowed himself to imagine he would marry an
opera singer,
of all things.”

The baroness reddened at her son's exposure of a family failing but explained, “My brother fell in love with Miss Adelaide Kemble, back in the early '40s. She was the sister of Fanny Kemble, the actress, and therefore wholly unsuitable even if she weren't a stage singer, but she was. I'm sure John thought she would view him as her savior from a life of drudgery in the theater. Instead, she rejected him and ended up marrying some Liberal member of Parliament. My brother was permanently heartbroken.”

Was there no end to the unlayering of the Duke of Portland? Violet had had no idea of the depth of the man's emotions.

Frederick had his own opinion on the situation. “He wasn't much of a man to have allowed it to turn him batty, which is probably why Miss Kemble spurned him in the first place. All the women who would have sold their souls to the devil to marry a duke, and he pined away for Miss Kemble. There were many other delicacies to have been sampled at the buffet table, but he decided to sit in the corner with a glass of water.”