Death at the Abbey (22 page)

Violet sliced into the colorfully layered dessert as Polly moved away to help another customer. It was sugary and iced to perfection.

She paused with the fork near her mouth as she caught what Polly was saying at the next table: “. . . work for my father anymore when I come into some money soon . . . live in a fine house . . . better dresses than this old stained thing . . .”

Violet was so engrossed in Polly's statements that she actually put down the cake-laden fork. Hadn't Martin Chandler said something similar about coming into a fortune? She decided she would talk to Polly later in the evening after the dining room had cleared itself of patrons.

Unfortunately, by the time Violet decided the time was right and came back downstairs from reading and talking over Polly's comments with Sam up in her room, Mr. Saunders was turning out the gas lamps, and informed her that Polly had gone off to a friend's house for the night.

As she walked back up the creaking oak steps to her room, Violet made a decision that she shared with Sam, who had just completed his nighttime ablutions. “I believe I need to go back to Welbeck Abbey tomorrow,” she said, unbuttoning the bodice of her dress to prepare for bed herself.

Sam slid into bed, sitting back against the pillows and crossing his fingers on his bare chest. “For what reason?” he asked sleepily.

“I want to go see Colonel Mortimer again, to confront him once more when he isn't ostensibly in his cups,” Violet said, removing her skirt and corset, then sliding into her Welsh flannel nightgown. “Also, since Polly is gone for the evening, I believe it might be beneficial to visit Martin Chandler again to inquire further about the fortune he believes he will inherit. I have no idea if his grandiose idea is pertinent to anything, but I don't want to ignore it, either. Mr. Chandler may have dismissed me from the rookery today, but I won't allow him to do so tomorrow.”

“Hmm,” Sam said absently, his eyes closed. “Well, there is one thing for certain.”

“What is that?” she asked, sitting on her side of the bed and loosening her hair from its pins.

“You won't be going without me.” He opened one eye and looked at her sternly.

“Sam,” she began, “I think I am reasonably safe on the estate grounds. Besides, I carry my knife—”

“Safe on the estate grounds?! Need I remind you that the whole reason for your inquisition is two deaths on those same grounds? A fat lot of good that knife did you in London, either. I'll not hear any excuses or pleas, nor make any bargains with you, woman. I will stand next to you while you interview these dolts, and that is the end of the conversation. Now, all of my anger has made me very overwrought. Come, Wife, and calm me down.”

Violet laughed as she shook out her hair and tumbled into her irresistible husband's arms.

25

T
he next morning was windy and overcast, but Violet thought maybe the clouds would drift away without drenching her in a deluge. With Sam steadfastly at her side as he had sworn he would be, she removed a glove and rapped upon Colonel Mortimer's door. To her surprise, the door fell open at her touch.

Exchanging a puzzled look with Sam, she replaced her glove and stepped into the cottage, calling out for the colonel. She received no response, and thinking he might have truly become intoxicated after she left and was therefore still sleeping it off, she called out louder.

Still no answer.

Violet started to move farther into the cottage, but Sam took her elbow and shook his head no, stepping ahead of her into the small house. “Wait here,” he commanded, and went to search the rest of the cottage.

While she stood inside the front door, she craned her neck to see if anything was amiss. Nothing seemed out of place, but who could really tell inside this overstuffed habitat?

Sam returned. “There's no one here.”

“Curious that he left his door open,” she replied. “Perhaps the wind blew it open. I wonder where he is.”

“This is your opportunity,” Sam said. “Have a good snoop around.”

Violet hesitated. “Do you think we should? Aren't I . . . we . . . trespassing?”

Sam looked at her incredulously. “The man is almost certainly a sot and a liar, and may or may not be a murderer, and you're worried about poking about in his cottage for a few moments?”

Well, when he puts it like that . . .
Violet thought.

Together, they systematically went through the house, looking through drawers and cabinets. Violet's immediate conclusion was that the colonel lived like a genuine bachelor. The man really needed a wife to bring some semblance of order to his life. Not that Violet could claim to have engendered great neatness in Sam's life, but she was an undertaker, after all, and that meant . . .

Well, she supposed it didn't mean much at all when it came to caring for the home. Perhaps it was best to disregard that line of thought—an easy task, for as she went through the colonel's liquor bottles, lifting them up individually and noting with surprise how far down most of them had been consumed, she came across a folded sheet of thick paper.

As soon as she had unfolded it, she knew she had struck upon something significant. “Sam!” she called out urgently.

He rushed out from what was presumably the colonel's bedchamber as quickly as his limp would allow. “What did you find?”

“This,” she said, showing him the paper. He took it and placed it on the colonel's dining table, the only clear surface available.

Sam frowned as he smoothed it out. “This looks like a map of the estate. This represents the house, and this looks like the skating rink site,” he said, pointing at two hand-drawn symbols.

Violet bent down over the map to study it more closely. “There are some very strange marks on the map. They look like three arrows—no, triangles—over in this area. I wonder what they could possibly mean? Do they indicate—oh!” Violet jerked straight up.

“What is it?” Sam asked. “What are they?”

“I'm not sure, but I have a good idea the area being marked.”

“Which is . . . where?”

“They signify places inside the copse of trees between here and the rookery. It's where I discovered the glass eye shard . . . and Mr. Bayes's body.”

Sam put a hand to her back, as if to steady her. “What do you think this means about Colonel Mortimer?”

Violet felt her worst fears being confirmed. “This seems to prove that the colonel had known where Mr. Bayes's body was, and my discovery of the shard proves that he was there with the body.”

“Are there marks where Burton Spencer's body was found?”

Violet traced a line with her finger from the shape representing the house to approximately where she'd found Spencer. “Oddly enough, no. Maybe the mark indicates a grave. Bayes was loosely covered in leaf debris whereas Spencer was not buried at all, but does that mean there are other shallow graves I missed?”

Sam nodded grimly. “I wonder if the colonel has fled the estate.”

“None of his belongings seem to be missing.”

“How can you tell in this mess? Besides, I imagine that a murderer running for his life doesn't bother with much other than the clothes on his back.”

Violet couldn't argue with that. The lingering question in her mind was, what reason could the colonel possibly have had to kill Edward Bayes?

 

Violet and Sam proceeded on to the rookery to visit Martin Chandler, with Colonel Mortimer's map in Violet's hand. They kicked against the curled brown leaves that swirled around their feet, and Sam tapped his cane along the crunchy gravel.

As they neared the area of the copse, Violet tugged on Sam's arm. “Let me show you where I found Mr. Bayes and the glass eye.” She led him off the gravel path, across a patch of lawn, and into the cluster of trees. “The eye was here”—Violet pointed down—“and farther back, near this bramble, was Edward Bay—” She gasped at what she now saw. This simply wasn't possible.

“What's the matter?” Sam asked. “You said—good Lord!” He knelt down and Violet dropped next to him, as if a closer view might convince them that they weren't staring at the body of Colonel George Mortimer. His eyes were half closed, and his balding pate was bloody and covered in bits of dirt and leaves.

26

V
iolet could hardly comprehend what she was seeing. “But . . .” Her voice trailed off on the now implausible thought that the colonel had been her primary suspect. Within moments, though, her undertaking senses took over and she began examining him.

First, she removed her gloves and picked up the colonel's hand, manipulating the fingers. His hand was cold but still flexible. He hadn't been here long, although the mere fact that she'd just seen the man the previous afternoon was proof enough of that. “Colonel, who has done this to you? I fear I must apologize to you for my suspicions of you, although I don't suppose we can completely absolve you of everything.”

Violet sensed Sam moving restlessly next to her, then returning to his feet, dropping his cane, and walking a short distance away.

“Sir, forgive me while I lift your head, like this. . . .” Violet gently cradled the colonel's neck in one hand, as she inspected the rear of his head. It was a sticky morass of pulp that made her queasy, but she swallowed the acid rising in her throat. “You've been battered, sir, far worse than Mr. Spencer was. What did you do to anger someone enough for this? What evil is running unchecked on this estate? And what part might you have played in it?”

She removed her hand from the back of his head and gently lowered him back down, apologizing quietly to the colonel for her tactless behavior as she wiped her hands across her skirts to remove some of his blood. “Here's the weapon.” Sam was standing alongside her again. He offered a hand, and she stood up, too, to see what he held in his other hand. It was a shovel, and if Violet wasn't mistaken, it was the same wide shovel she had seen the colonel with yesterday.

“It belongs to him,” she said.

Sam shook his head. “Is there a greater insult than to be done in by your own weapon?”

Violet, remembering that the colonel had had two digging implements with him the day before, asked, “Did you find another, smaller shovel?”

“No, there's just this.”

Violet's mind was racing. All three of these deaths—Spencer's, Bayes's, and now Colonel Mortimer's—had no link as far as she could see, except that they had all occurred on Welbeck Abbey property, over the space of about two weeks. It was madness. It was also maddening that she couldn't seem to unearth a motive or the correct suspect. Names and the memories of isolated incidents boiled and churned in her brain, but instead of giving her answers, she was merely left with a faint feeling of nausea.

How was it that the curse of the raven the cook had warned her of had come true?

She turned her head in the direction of the rookery, which was only about a couple of hundred yards away. What of Chandler's claim—and Polly's—that there was to be an inheritance soon? Did Chandler know that the colonel was actually well-off?

Once more, she swallowed the bile in her throat.

“Sweetheart,” Sam said softly, interrupting her agitated state, “I believe it's time we notified His Grace.”

“Yes, of course.” Violet shook her head to clear it of its squawking accusations. Her first priority must be the colonel, who had to be removed from his insulting circumstances. Portland, though, would be devastated at the loss of his friend. She dreaded this confrontation, but it was one she had to make without Sam's presence. If Sam delivered the bad news, how might it unintentionally impact Portland's view of her husband, and thus Portland's interest in investing in dynamite? Violet didn't mind being the bearer of bad news.... She frequently was.

“Sam, I will go back to the house for His Grace. Will you wait here so that the colonel won't be alone, nor spirited away like Mr. Bayes?”

Sam nodded, and Violet took off to report to Portland, ready to accept whatever consequences there might be.

 

Portland's reaction was not only the total disbelief that Violet anticipated; he practically went into a stupor over the news. Violet employed everything she had to comfort him, or to at least bring him around to communicating with her.

Finally, he seemed to come to a silent decision and summoned his valet, Pearson, to have him dressed in his usual heavy brown coat and tall hat. He then argued for several moments with Violet over summoning Molly Spriggs to bring his lantern to guide them both, but Violet was adamant—there was no time.

Portland settled for just his umbrella, and Violet then led him to the copse. Or, rather, Violet scurried to follow on the heels of his long-legged stride.

When they arrived, it was no longer just Sam standing watch over the body. Martin Chandler had joined him, and Sam looked as though he might snatch the man by the neck if he attempted to go anywhere. As if they had gathered to protect their master, ravens filled the trees above the two men, perching silently as ebony witnesses to whatever drama was about to unfold.

The birds would not be disappointed.

“I presume this is your falconer, Your Grace,” Sam said, jostling Chandler so that the two of them blocked the colonel's body from view.

“Yes, what is the meaning of this? Where is George?” Portland addressed Chandler in rough tones, but it was Sam who answered, though he kept to his own topic.

“Mr. Chandler came traipsing through here,” he said, “which I found most interesting, given what my wife just discovered here a few moments ago. Thought I'd corral him to see if he also knew what lay here.”

“Y-y-your Grace,” Chandler stumbled. Faced with his master, he lost his easy smile and self-assuredness. “I was just d-d-doing some training and s-s-stumbled upon this man, who threatened me with force if I were to leave.”

Chandler seemed almost . . . panicked. Violet knew that a panicked man will commit irrational acts and it was best to confront him now before he did anything more foolish than he already had. She hadn't anticipated facing him in front of Portland, but there was nothing she could do about the timing of it.

“You just happened to be out with your birds, and chose this particular copse of trees to wander through?” Violet asked, more sharply than was necessary.

Chandler pointed up, his finger trembling. “They like it here.”

“It would seem that Colonel Mortimer, too, once liked it here, but found quickly that it was not a particularly safe location for him,” Violet said, noting that Portland winced as she mentioned his friend's name. “I know of a few men who might wish to track his whereabouts . . . or who might have an interest in his death.”

“Are you mad, woman? I have no interest in the colonel's death. How could I possibly want him dead?”

Violet dug into her reticule, retrieving both the map and the telegram Hurst had taken from Ian Hale, and handing them to Chandler. She regretted doing this in the midst of Portland's grief, but it was vital that a murderer be caught. Chandler paled visibly at both the map and telegram, refusing to take either one. She offered them to Portland instead, who shook open the map with one trembling hand and cocked his head to one side as if to decipher what it was. Propping the umbrella against his leg, he then shook open the folded telegram with his other hand and scanned it quickly.

“ ‘The raven is at Harcourt House.' How very dramatic. I presume you are the raven, Mrs. Harper?”

“Yes, Your Grace. Mr. Chandler referred to me as such at Mr. Spencer's funeral, and it certainly makes sense that he would use such language.” She pointed upward, as Chandler had moments ago. One of the ravens on a nearby branch ruffled its feathers in response.

Portland handed the telegram back to Violet. “Yes, but this is certainly not
proof
of any kind. What is this other document, though? It appears to be some kind of map.”

Violet showed him the landmarks of his estate and various other markings on the map, including the strange triangles in the copse—one of which, she supposed, might mark where the colonel's body now lay. “You may find it interesting to know that Mr. Chandler has claimed that he is coming into an inheritance soon. It is my suspicion that that inheritance was something promised from the colonel, and Chandler got impatient waiting for it.”

“You don't know what you're talking about,” Chandler protested. “I have no inheritance coming.”

“And as I've stated before,” Portland said in stubborn insistence, “the colonel had no fortune. He was dependent upon my beneficence.” His voice cracked on that last word, but he maintained his aristocratic stoicism.

Violet shook her head. “I'm afraid I will have to disagree with you, Your Grace. Scotland Yard told me personally of the home the colonel had in Green Park.”

“So you've said. I refuse to believe that. It is simply not possible that George lied to me.” Portland handed the documents back to Violet, who wasn't sure what to do next. Fortunately, Sam was more than willing to lead, and shifted the subject to what was uppermost in his mind.

“Did you have anything to do with my wife's attack in London?” he growled at Chandler. Violet was thankful Sam's cane wasn't in his hand at present.

“What attack is this?” Portland asked, pushing his hat back on his head to get a better look at Chandler.

“My apologies, Your Grace,” Violet said. “I wasn't seriously hurt—”

“Only by great providential mercy,” Sam thundered, far more aggravated now that he had the man potentially responsible in his hands.

“—and so I thought it best not to worry you by mentioning it.”

Portland's expression was one of shock, but his response was not what she expected. “I can hardly believe my sister didn't thrash the telegram office clerk in her haste to send me the gossip. I received no news of it at all from London.”

Actually, come to think of it, Violet was rather surprised by that herself.

“Perhaps the baroness didn't wish to dishearten you regarding your decision to send me there,” she offered.

“You did meet my sister, did you not, Mrs. Harper?” Portland said, in the closest thing to humor Violet had seen yet in the man's demeanor. She was actually glad to see it in the midst of his misery. “Now, what was this attack to which Mr. Harper refers?”

Violet explained what had happened in Cavendish Square, while Portland frowned and grunted several times. “And were you responsible for this, Chandler?”

The falconer's forehead beaded with sweat, despite the chill air surrounding them. “Your Grace, no! I—I—I hardly know Mrs. Harper or the colonel. Why should I wish harm on either of them?”

Violet jumped on the stammering falconer's words. “I think you are involved in some monetary scheme involving the colonel, and when he did something you didn't like—perhaps he refused a demand, or informed you that his will was to include someone else, or maybe he discovered your involvement in other mischief on the estate—you decided to murder him before he could cut you out or tell on you.”

“You don't—I—This is all wrong,” Chandler mumbled in desperation, red-faced.

“Were you here to move the colonel's body, just as Edward Bayes's body was moved a week ago? Who else but you—what with your accompanying the ravens here on what I presume is a regular basis—would not draw suspicion, and would know this to be a good hiding place for a corpse?”

“I don't know anything about hiding corpses. Your Grace, please let me explain. You see, the colonel occasionally came to see how the birds were doing in their training. He particularly liked the ravens. So I let him help sometimes—”

“Yet you said you hardly knew the colonel,” Sam interrupted. “You've just started your tale and already it's a lie.”

Violet was worried that the falconer wouldn't survive his own story if her husband had anything to do with it. “Sam, please,” she said, pleading.

Sam glared at Chandler but motioned for him to go on. The falconer took his case back to Portland.

“And so, Your Grace, I came to know the colonel a bit, but 'tweren't as though we were friends, if you understand. Now I do remember the colonel saying to me—oh, probably a month or so ago—that he knew a great secret. A secret that could bring down the estate.” Chandler glanced furtively at Sam.

“What secret is this?” Portland asked gently, as though to blunt Sam's anger.

“I don't know, he never said. That's the truth, Your Grace. I don't know what he meant.”

Violet was absolutely certain there was very little truth in what Chandler said, but she had no way to prove it. She also couldn't prove that Chandler had anything to do with the colonel's death—just a strong suspicion combined with the man's unexpected appearance at the crime scene.

Violet saw the reluctance on Portland's face to do anything about disciplining his falconer.

“Mr. Chandler,” Portland finally said, gravely, “you have had serious allegations lodged against you in relation to my dear friend. Yet I believe it is in my best interest—and that of everyone who lives here—if we continue to investigate the matter further and not assume you to be guilty.”

Chandler's relief was palpable, as was Sam's disappointment.

“However,” Portland continued, “I think it might be best if you confined yourself to your quarters in the rookery for a time, eh? Until this is all sorted out, so that no one worries that you might flee.”

“But, Your Grace, the birds . . . Odysseus has been training on rabbits, and Sophocles has almost completely finished a maze I've built for him. I must be able to—”

“Very well. You may go from your quarters to the rookery.”

That was it? It didn't seem like much of a confinement to Violet, given that that was how the falconer spent most of his days, anyway. Portland was terribly quick to grant leniency in this situation, but grief didn't lend itself to good decision-making. Perhaps it was time the police were brought in. There was certainly no question whatsoever this time that a man had been murdered.