Lady of Ashes (33 page)

She was breathing easily once again now that her husband was gone. Was Graham correct in saying she was a poor excuse for a wife?

Violet resumed work, puzzled each day as to why the papers made no mention of Graham’s and Fletcher’s deaths. The next time Sam came round with a gift for Susanna—a miniature but ornate gold-leafed mirror to hang in the Orange Peels’ dining room—as well as a yellow rose for Violet, she asked him about it, but he had no explanation. Instead, he suggested that they leave Susanna with the Porters and make a trip to the British Museum together.

“I’ve heard much about it, and we have nothing to rival it back in the States.”

“Must we be rivals?” she asked.

“No, it’s just that we pride ourselves on all of our advancements, and having a place that chronicles how far we’ve—oh, you’re teasing me.”

“Only a bit. I’ve never been there myself, although I hear the Reading Room is simply magnificent.”

“We shall make a point of seeing it.”

“I’m afraid we can’t. It belongs to the British Library, and one must have a researcher’s credentials to enter.”

Sam smiled. “Surely being a member of His Excellency’s diplomatic corps will enable us that privilege.”

The museum was all Violet could have imagined and more. Wide, sweeping staircases took visitors to upper floors, full of priceless treasures from ancient Greece, Rome, and Egypt. The museum’s collections were vast and overwhelming. For the first time, Violet saw the famed Elgin Marbles brought back from Greece, as well as the Rosetta Stone, which Napoleon’s army had uncovered.

Sam was right about gaining entry to the Reading Room. Although the attendant on duty frowned at Sam’s papers and made them wait while he conferred with a superior, they were permitted inside. The circular Reading Room, immense and spanning all four stories of the museum, was lined all around with bookshelves containing titles in English and Latin.

Violet ran her hand across a row of leather-bound books on English flora. “Imagine having all of this to read at your leisure,” she said.

Sam pointed up. “Don’t you want to visit those before making your decision?”

She laughed, garnering a hard stare from a patron who then scowled upon noticing Violet’s mourning dress.

“Now you’re the one making fun at my expense,” she said before heading up to the metalwork catwalk surrounding an additional story of filled bookshelves lining the massive library. While up there, Violet randomly selected a volume regarding the cultivation of American ferns in England and returned downstairs to take a seat at one of the long tables radiating out from the center of the room. Her Grafton Terrace neighbor, Mr. Marx, sat nearby and gave her a cursory nod of recognition before returning to his studies and furious scribblings.

It was almost like reading a novel, so transported was she by the book she’d selected. Violet whiled away nearly an hour flipping through the pages of ferns artistically pressed down on each page, accompanied by a notation of their Latin names and where the specimens were found, until Sam’s gentle “ahem” brought her back to the present.

He leaned toward her conspiratorially. “I must tell you, I noticed a confectionary on our way here, and I think it imperative to stop for a bowl of sweet frozen delight.”

Violet shut the book. “Oh dear, what of Susanna? She’ll never forgive me for having ice cream without her.”

Sam winked. “Shall we keep it our secret? If you’ll permit me, I can stop by another day to escort you both for ice cream.”

“I wouldn’t like to put you to such trouble.”

“It’s a pleasure, Violet, on many counts.”

 

 

The deceased was an elderly widower of some means, living as he did in a fine home almost in Marylebone and possessing a collection of Limoges snuffboxes that adorned every square inch of available space on tables, credenzas, and mantelpieces.

He’d been discovered that morning by one of his maids, who had found him unresponsive when she brought up his breakfast tray.

In the way of overly staffed homes, the maid told the housekeeper, who then informed the butler, who sent another maid to awaken Mr. Young’s live-in nurse, who dressed and went to fetch the doctor.

How did anything ever get accomplished in society? According to the butler, who summoned Morgan Undertaking’s services at the request of Mr. Young’s son, the doctor pronounced himself satisfied that Mr. Young had died of natural causes and was ready for burial.

Violet and Susanna arrived for preparation of the body. Violet ignored the butler’s frown of disapproval at seeing Susanna at her side. She was used to the sidelong glances and hostile stares her profession and Graham’s shenanigans heaped upon her and mentally brushed the butler aside, much as a horse would an irritating but harmless fly.

They went upstairs to Mr. Young’s rooms to prepare him for his funeral. Violet recalled his son as someone in attendance at Admiral Herbert’s funeral. Perhaps he had some sort of high commission in the Royal Navy? No matter. Mr. Young’s son was coming into London from his home in Greenwich later in the day to meet with Violet over arrangements.

Violet was struck by Mr. Young’s agonized expression. Some people died with expressions of utter calm and composure, even smiling at the end, whereas others died with fearful looks on their faces, as if they had peeked beyond the veil and were unpleasantly surprised by what the afterlife had in store for them.

Mr. Young, however, appeared to have been personally escorted by Satan to dance in the fiery depths. His mouth was contorted in anguish and his partially open eyes shouted in horror. One hand was clutching the edge of the bedcovers as if Mr. Young was protecting himself from something. It was most unusual.

Violet shut the man’s eyelids and put a hand on either side of his jaws to soften his appearance, but his skin was not obedient. Rigor mortis was setting in.

“Our job will be difficult today.”

Susanna nodded in understanding. With effort, Violet removed the twisted covers from Mr. Young’s clutches and unrolled them to expose his arms and torso, which were covered with his nightshirt.

What was this? She straightened the shirt sleeve that was not bent from his grip on the bedclothing.

“Susanna, bring the lamp closer.” Susanna did as she was told, lighting a nearby oil lamp and bringing it to Violet’s side for closer examination of the body.

She gasped. Mr. Young had the same worn-away—no, eaten—spots on his nightshirt that Violet had witnessed on Mrs. Atkinson. She pushed up the sleeve. His bare arm was covered with a spattering of decaying spots.

“Sir, what kind of disease do you have? And for heaven’s sake, why didn’t the doctor call for an autopsy? You deserve one, sir.” Violet shook her head. “It’s outrageous. What sort of incompetent physician attends you? Of course, I run the risk of total censure if I dare question a doctor’s judgment. Still, there’s no excuse for his having overlooked—Susanna, what’s the matter with you?”

The girl still held the lamp aloft but was backing away from where Violet was working, her blue eyes now little round globes of horror. Susanna put the lamp back in its place and stood near the door, refusing to come closer.

“Child, whatever is wrong?”

“I can’t help you with Mr. Young, Mama,” she said. Her voice was tremulous.

“Susanna, you did the same thing when we visited Mrs. Atkinson. Why won’t you tell me what bothers you so?”

Silence.

“All right then.” Violet pulled the covers back over Mr. Young, pushed the table back, and picked up her bag. “Let’s go find Mr. Young’s doctor and have a chat with him, shall we?”

That drew Susanna out from her hiding place.

Downstairs, Violet sought out the butler again. “Kindly tell me who Mr. Young’s physician was.”

“Of course. He left his calling card when he was here earlier.” The butler found it in a silver tray of other cards and handed it to Violet. “It’s not Mr. Young’s regular doctor, who has been away on the Continent for several weeks.”

She looked down at the card. It couldn’t be.
Dr. William Beasley, Aldersgate Street, near St. Bartholomew’s Hospital
. The same doctor who signed Mrs. Atkinson’s death certificate also tended to Mr. Young? Both bodies had mysterious flesh markings, and in neither case did the doctor see reason for an autopsy? Either the man was a quack or he was seriously inept.

“I see. Please tell Mr. Young’s son that I’ll return this evening to discuss his father’s funeral.”

Violet grabbed Susanna’s hand and they marched off to Aldersgate Street.

 

“How dare you inquire as to my findings?” Dr. Beasley said, his languid voice hiding the irritation that flashed in his eyes. He threaded his hairy, sausage-like fingers together across his waistcoat, from which dangled a silver watch. Expensive to demonstrate prosperity, but not gold and thereby offensive to his more prosperous clients. He wore a black wool frock coat trimmed on the lapels with velvet. Dr. Beasley was the perfect picture of a respectable doctor, sitting across his desk from Violet and a still-trembling Susanna.

Except that Violet was fairly certain he wasn’t, and she was determined to figure out how Dr. Beasley was managing to overlook a condition so obvious on at least two of his patients.

“I may be merely an undertaker and not of your august stature, Dr. Beasley, but it does seem curious to me that you didn’t notice the peculiar wasted spots on both Mrs. Atkinson and Mr. Young.”

He unlaced his fingers and spread his hands wide. “Come, Mrs. Morgan. Mrs. Atkinson was of a lower class and her habits were none too clean. She’d had many ailments and complaints of nonexistent ailments. Some rash or skin infection was certainly not the cause of death.”

Mrs. Saunders never mentioned Mrs. Atkinson’s complaints. At least Violet couldn’t recall so from the haze of the woman’s chattering. Nor did she remember Mrs. Atkinson looking particularly dirty.

“But Mr. Young was from the upper crust. Did he have a variety of complaints as well?”

“Mrs. Morgan, you’re trifling with me over two different people who happened to have similar skin conditions. It is my professional judgment that Mrs. Atkinson died of a sudden heart ailment and Mr. Young simply expired from old age, although yes, he had been suffering some sort of ague prior to his death. Now, if there are no further questions, I have patients to see.” He stood, ending the interview.

That evening, after visiting Mr. Young’s son to discuss his father’s funeral, Violet left Susanna at home and went out to supper with Mary to share with her all that had happened and to ask her friend’s advice.

Over rich dishes of baked apple custards, Mary asked, “So the doctor thinks it’s nothing to worry over?”

“Yes.”

“Then,” she said, popping a spoonful of dessert in her mouth,

“it seems as though you should forget about it, my dear, lest it get you into trouble.”

“Into trouble? Why would concern for the dead get me into trouble? Oh, you mean should the physician begin to spread rumors about me.”

“Yes, that’s what I mean. Mmm, that was delicious. Shall we have cups of chocolate? It’s a bit too indulgent for my waistline, but George says he likes me a bit filled out. He’s such a dear. Perhaps you should talk it over with him, Violet. I know you aren’t very well acquainted with him yet, but he does give very sage advice. Just the other day he made suggestions for moving things around in my shop to best display my new mannequins. Such a help. Reminds me so much of Matthew.” Mary sighed. “I suppose that’s why I enjoy his company.”

“I’m sure he is of great comfort to you, Mary.” Violet reached over and squeezed her friend’s hand. “But I prefer to keep this between us for now.”

“Of course I won’t breathe a word. Now, I hear that a new opera,
Love’s Triumph,
is at Covent Garden theater. Let’s make a plan to go so you can get to know George. Bring Mr. Harper along; he might enjoy our theater.”

Violet frowned, causing Mary to apologize. “How insensitive of me! Of course you’re in mourning for Graham and have no desire for entertainment.”

“It’s not that.” It was that she’d hardly thought of Graham lately, as her mind was preoccupied with other things. Even donning her black garb each day felt more like ritual than honor of the deceased.

Violet wondered what Sam would think of one of Covent Garden’s playhouses. Did she really dare go out to the theater in her initial stages of mourning? With a male escort, no less. Her heart beat wildly at the thought of disobeying rules that were not only well established, but about which she herself had advised scores of grieving women.

“Let me think on it, Mary. I might enjoy such a diversion.”

She did, despite the furrowed brows and glove-covered whispers she encountered at Covent Garden theater. The comic opera about Adolphe, employed at the court of the Princess de Valois and in love with a woman named Therese, who was not only bound to be married to another man but also closely resembled the princess, with much confusion and cross purposes resulting, had them all laughing uproariously.