Lady of Ashes (36 page)

Once inside, Susanna gasped at the magnificence of what lay before them, although Violet was merely reminded of her visit to the Crystal Palace Exposition a decade ago. Together they walked through displays of fabrics, rugs, sculpture, furniture, silver, glass, and wallpaper. Mr. William Morris’s firm of Morris, Marshall, Faulkner and Co. had a very busy showroom attracting a great deal of attention.

After browsing through the decorative arts, they made their way through the bustling throngs of suited men, corseted women, and awestruck children to other exhibits, including a cotton mill, an analytical machine by a Mr. Charles Babbage, and an ongoing international chess tournament.

Susanna pulled Violet over to an exhibit where a man was barking his wares over the noise of the crowds. He introduced himself as William England of the London Stereoscopic Company, and invited people to gaze inside his wooden stereoscope.

“You will be transported into an amazing world, ladies and gentlemen. The magic lanterns of yesteryear were just the beginning. Feast your eyes on this new invention, which will change entertainment forever.”

Violet and Susanna waited patiently for their turn at one of three stereoscopes Mr. England had set up. They were large, upright wood boxes with a pair of eyepieces set in front and a rotating knob on one side. When Violet peered into the eyepieces, she was amazed. It was an image of the exhibition hall they were in, but it had depth to it that couldn’t be found in one of Mr. Laroche’s ambrotypes. The picture was a scene showing what looked like large pieces of agricultural machinery, evident by bales of hay and containers of threshed wheat around the machines.

She drew her head back a bit. There were actually two images inside the unit, and somehow they combined when her eyes were pressed up against the eyepiece, creating a single wondrous illustration that she felt she could practically step inside of, so realistic was it. Turning the knob brought up a new image, this time the exterior of the exhibition building.

Violet shook her head as Susanna took her place at the eyepieces. What marvels of technology she was witnessing in her lifetime—photography, flushing toilets, and mass production of basic goods. It was extraordinary.

Too bad such advancements didn’t include acceptance of her embalming techniques. With so much other progress in the world, maybe Violet would one day find herself embalming as a matter of routine.

 

Refreshed from her visit to the exhibition, a symbol of optimism in man’s future, Violet went back to work with renewed determination to figure out what strange ailment had stricken two Londoners and might affect more. First, though, Violet hired moving men to see her goods over to their new residence. Once the movers had placed the few pieces of furniture she retained from the old house and unloaded all of their worldly goods, it was up to Violet and Susanna to unpack clothes and possessions and see to decoration. It was exhausting work, but Violet loved their cozier surroundings.

She’d hardly had time to get settled in her shop the day after moving into her new quarters when Mary stopped by with a tattered old book to show her.

“I found this in Mr. Hatchard’s shop.”

“Ah yes, the eminent Mr. Hatchard, who now finds me so distasteful.”

Mary closed her hand over Violet’s. “Dearest, I’m sure he was simply swept up in the unpleasantness of the time. He didn’t mean anything by his curtness toward you. Besides, I told him I was doing some research on diseases for you, and he was quite happy to give me assistance. He even sold me the book at a discounted price.”

Violet looked at the title Mary held out:
A Treatise of Known Diseases and Their Origins
.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I read through it with George, and together we think we’ve found the answer.”

“I see.” Why was Violet distinctly uncomfortable with Mary’s enthusiasm on the topic?

Although it did beg the question of why Violet herself was so obsessed with finding out what had killed Mr. Young and Mrs. Atkinson. It made no sense whatsoever. After all, she was just the undertaker, not a doctor. Her concern was inexplicable.

Yet here she was, determined to discover the truth about their deaths.

Mary flipped through the pages until she reached one that had been folded over to mark it. “See?” she proclaimed, holding it up proudly.

It was a chapter entitled “Chicken Pox.” Violet scanned the symptoms of chicken pox, which included skin rash and pockmarks. The only problem was that the condition was only rarely fatal.

“George says this must be what you were seeing. How fortunate we are to have him.”

“Mary,” Violet began, hoping to find the right words that would not alienate her friend. “Do you remember that I asked you not to repeat what I told you about Mr. Young and Mrs. Atkinson?”

“Yes, but George is the soul of discretion, I assure you.”

“That may be, but it would appear that Mr. Hatchard has now joined the circle of confidence.”

Mary put her hand to her chest. “I am very sorry. It’s just that you didn’t seem at all upset that I told George, and when he suggested that we help you by doing some research, well, I just—”

“Mr. Cooke suggested going to the bookseller?”

“Yes. So you see, he’s most thoughtful of others around him.”

Violet didn’t care much to be so deeply in Mr. George Cooke’s thoughts, even if the book may have been a good idea.

She laid the book on her counter. It might require further reading later.

“Mary, perhaps we can let go of this subject for now? I’m sure you and Mr. Cooke have better things to discuss than me.”

Mary’s cheeks flamed. “Of course, of course. I apologize.” She brightened immediately. Infatuation had made Mary impervious to more than a few seconds of gloom. “Speaking of better things, I’ve decided to purchase a new model of Mr. Singer’s sewing machine and hire an assistant to use my old one. George thinks I’m ready to expand my business. It’s a frightening thought, but a little thrilling, too. Oh, and while I was at the bookshop, I bought a novel called
Lady Audley’s Secret
. It’s quite scandalous. I’ll pass it along to you as soon as George and I finish it. He loves books as much as we do, and especially likes it when I read aloud to him. . . .”

After she’d apprised Violet of all of George’s inestimable qualities, Mary finally left. Violet’s stomach sank at the realization of feeling relief over her friend’s departure.

What of Sam? Wasn’t he an important part of her world? No, he was just a friendly acquaintance who would one day return to his homeland.

The thought kept her up far into the night. Eventually eschewing sleep, she picked up the book on diseases. Was there possibly another answer to the puzzle inside?

Violet scanned the pages, looking for a condition that might accurately describe what she’d witnessed with Mrs. Atkinson and Mr. Young.

Dawn’s rays were peeking through the curtains before she closed the cover, having gleaned nothing new.

Violet was no closer to an answer than she was before.

T
he day was unusually hot and stifling, leaving Violet soaked after the brief walk from her home to Morgan Undertaking one Monday morning. Even Susanna was visibly limp from the heat.

It was times like these that Violet was glad for the shop’s low lighting and heavy draperies, intended to bring a sense of calm and peace to visitors, but which also served to keep the interior air cooler.

Will had left a note. He and Harry were already at the mews, repainting the carriages with black paint before the sun rose too high. It was amazing how solicitous and thoughtful her employees had become since Graham’s death. Will and Harry were now perpetually asking what they could do to help and offering suggestions for improving the shop’s operation. It was as though they thought they were helping to fill Graham’s place since his death.

Regardless, the shop ran efficiently—and peaceably—now.

Violet set Susanna to sweeping and dusting the shop, something Will and Harry never seemed to do well, while she took out her appointment book to determine what preparations she needed to make for the week.

Mr. Boyce wanted to meet with her to discuss a new coffin design on Thursday, so she needed to decide whether to leave Susanna at the shop or take her home first before heading to Curtain Road.

The Kalon man was stopping by to see what cosmetics Violet needed to order, so she had to be sure to take inventory before his arrival on Friday—

The front door opened and banged violently against the wall. Violet jumped, and saw that two men had entered the shop. They looked neither like grieving family members nor like funeral supply salesmen. One was tall with a belly that strained against his ill-fitting, crumpled brown suit. The other was shorter, with a nose so large it practically floated on top of his face. He, too, wore a suit that looked like it belonged to someone else.

“Gentlemen, welcome to Morgan Undertaking. How may I help you?” Violet asked in her most solicitous tone, despite feeling that there was something very wrong with these two, and that they most certainly were not gentlemen.

“Need to talk to you, Mrs. Morgan, about your husband.”

Violet sighed inwardly. Was there no end to Graham’s dealings?

“Is there perhaps a bill that he was unable to settle before his passing?” She stayed behind the counter, whereas normally she would come out to greet a visitor. She liked having the walnut expanse between them.

As if sensing Violet’s wariness, Susanna set aside her dusting rag and joined her behind the counter.

“You could say that. It’s a mighty large bill, though. What do you mean, ‘his passing’?”

Violet looked down and back up at the man who spoke, the taller one. “Surely you see I am in widow’s weeds, Mr. . . . ?”

“Slade.”

Violet turned her attention to the behemoth-nosed one. “And you are . . . ?”

“Cubby. Your husband disappointed us, Mrs. Morgan.” The man wheezed noisily through his nose. Violet was unpleasantly reminded of Mrs. Scrope, although these two could prove to be far more foul than her previous servant was.

“Well, I cannot defend my late husband’s actions, as I am mostly unaware of them. If the bill is reasonable, I am happy enough to settle it for you now.”

“You keep saying your husband’s dead, Mrs. Morgan,” Slade said. “When did he die?”

“In March. His ship sank on crossing to America. His brother died with him.”

“We didn’t read anything like that in the papers.”

Violet doubted they read anything much at all beyond some gossip papers. “It wasn’t in the newspapers.”

“What? A dirty character like your husband dies and the rags make no mention of it?”

“The government kept it out of the press.”

Cubby snorted and rubbed his hands together, like a bull anxiously waiting for someone to gore. “Do you take us for idiots, Mrs. Morgan? The government would have been happy to report on the demise of a traitor. Of course your husband is alive and well, and hasn’t bothered to repay us.”

Violet tried to keep any fear from flickering in her eyes. “Did my husband borrow some amount from you?”

“I’ll say he did. He wanted five hundred pounds. He couldn’t get it from any other sources, so I reckon he had to resort to Slade and me.” The two men laughed.

“I don’t believe you. Mr. Morgan couldn’t possibly have borrowed that much money. For what reason did he need it?”

Cubby shrugged. “A business concern with his brother that we naturally know nothing about. We just want repayment. With interest, he owes us six hundred. We know they left in December, so they should both be back by now. We made a visit to Fletcher Morgan’s quarters, but he seems to have skipped out on us.”

Violet was completely alone in the shop except for Susanna, and her employees probably wouldn’t return for hours if they were painting all three carriages with two coats of black paint. She had to get these vile wretches off the premises on her own. She squared her shoulders, figuring that belligerence might startle them enough to get rid of them.

“You’re both filthy liars trying to take advantage of a grieving widow. How dare you barge in here with your false accusations against my dead husband and brother-in-law?”

“Your husband ain’t dead, though, is he?” Slade said.

“And you furthermore impugn my own reputation by accusing me of pretending to be a widow. Do you think I wear all of this for enjoyment, you clodhoppers? You’re nothing but clumsy, godless oafs intent on destroying a respectable woman’s livelihood.”

“You ain’t that respectable,” Cubby muttered.

“How dare you!” Violet picked up her appointment book and slammed it on the counter for effect. It worked; both men jumped. Unfortunately, she overturned her inkpot in the process. A trail of black ink made its way down the front of the display case.

“Tell me, gentlemen, do you slither about from shop to shop, accusing helpless women of their husbands’ mysterious financial dealings? How much have you managed to collect? How many widows and children have you managed to starve to death?”

Slade was visibly irritated. “Mrs. Morgan, we don’t play false and I don’t care about all of your female whining and crying. Your husband borrowed a lot of money from us, and we intend to have it back. Now, do you want to pay us now, or should we come back later when Mr. Morgan returns?”

“I tell you, my husband is dead.”

Cubby took over. “I’m sure he is. And if that be the case, then I suppose you’ll be paying us back.”

“No, I will
not
be ‘paying you back.’ I’ve nothing but your word that my husband borrowed anything from you in the first place.”

“Our word is good as a gold coin, Mrs. Morgan. Which reminds me, you can pay us either in gold coin or the good queen’s currency. But pay us you will.”

“Leave my premises. Now.” The more frightened Violet grew, the angrier her façade became.

Slade stepped up against the counter, his stomach preventing him from getting too close, but his presence emphasizing his towering height over Violet. She refused to give in to her brain, which was rapidly assessing the situation and suggesting she grab Susanna and run.

She realized Susanna was no longer standing next to her. Where had she gone? There was no time to contemplate it, for Slade was leaning over to stare eye level with her. “I’ve had enough of your foolishness, Mrs. Morgan. Either you’ll pay us yourself or you’ll tell us where your husband is hiding.”

“I’ll do neither. I’m not answerable to criminals.”

“Ah, now, that hurts, after all the patience we’ve extended you. I must inform you that we take our business transactions seriously, and there will be consequences if we aren’t paid back. We wouldn’t be in business long if we permitted customers to walk off without holding up their end of a deal, would we?”

Violet put her hands on her hips. “Since your deal was with my husband and you are convinced that he is still alive, I recommend that you comb the city until you find him. And may you both be bitten by rabid dogs for your efforts. Now, get out before I start screaming.”

“She’ll scream, Cubby, did you hear that?” Slade turned briefly to his companion and laughed before turning back to Violet, his face transformed into a mask of fury. “Let me tell you what our efforts will be, and this only because I’m feeling generous toward a woman who might not know where her husband is.
Might
not. You’ll meet us at the White Hart Inn down the street in three days’ time with our money, or you won’t much care for what happens next.”

“I don’t fear you. You’re filth.” Violet could feel red blotches creeping up her neck to her face, an expression of fear she refused to let come out in her voice or posture.

Slade put out a hand and pinched Violet’s cheek. The pain was sharp, but she refused to react. “You’re full of hiss and spit. It has been a pleasure doing business with you, Mrs. Morgan, and I look forward to seeing you in three days.”

With that, he nodded to Cubby and the two left the shop. Violet came out from behind the counter and sank down onto one of two upholstered chairs meant for anguished visitors. She gave over to her own fear, trembling over what had just taken place.

What had Graham gotten himself into? It was probably no wonder he and Fletcher were dealing with felons to finance their illegal doings. Who would be the next rat emerging from a dark corner to accuse or blame Violet for things out of control? Would she never be safe again?

She needed to tell Sam what happened; he’d know the best thing to do. Before she could act to send him a message, Will and Harry burst through the door with Susanna on their heels.

“Where are they, Mrs. Morgan?” Will asked, dripping both sweat and black paint despite the apron he wore to protect his clothes.

“Don’t worry, they’re gone,” she said, rising to go back behind the counter.

“Which way did they go? We’ll go after them.”

“No, Will. All is well now. You can return to your duties.”

“Miss Susanna says they were threatening you and demanding money. If you won’t let us hunt for them, we should at least fetch the police.”

Violet shook her head. “It’s not necessary. I’ll take care of it.”

“You don’t intend to give in to their demands, do you? Harry and I will scour London for them and they’ll wish they’d never set foot inside Morgan Undertaking.”

Violet smiled at the man’s bravado. “Peace, Will. I won’t be giving them any money, and I’m sure there won’t be any more trouble from them.”

Will gave her a doubtful look. She didn’t feel so sure herself.

 

“You say Graham borrowed money from them?” Sam asked as they sat down together. His mere presence in the shop was a comfort and went a long way to erasing the memory of Slade’s and Cubby’s visit.

“That’s what they claim. Is it possible that once you finally rejected Graham’s and Fletcher’s smuggling plans, they went elsewhere to get financing?”

“I guess, but why continue pursuing it without a ready buyer in the States?”

Violet thought about the coat remnant that she’d stuffed into a box and moved to her new location, hiding it down in the basement. “I don’t know.”

Sam rubbed his chin. His brown eyes were full of worry. “You need police help.”

She shook her head. “My business is on tenuous enough footing. Imagine the London talk if a bobby was pacing in and out of my shop. I can’t risk it.”

“Maybe I should go to the White Hart and meet them.”

“No, I couldn’t allow that. Perhaps they’ll forget about it.”

“Forget about six hundred pounds? You must be joking.”

“Still, I couldn’t ask you to place yourself in danger on my behalf.”

“Violet, you can’t live in fear that two thugs are going to show up at any minute to hurt you. If nothing else, I insist that you stay out of the shop for the next few days.”

“I can’t. I have work to do, and I never know when someone will call on me for a funeral. Such things can’t wait.”

Sam blew out an exasperated breath. “Then I presume I’ll have to stand guard in front of your shop and new house day and night.”

Violet smiled. “That sounds perfect. You wouldn’t mind?”

“Well, I guess I could. I’d have to talk it over with the minister and—oh, you’re teasing me again.”

“Just a little. I’m not sure what to do, Sam. I admit I’m afraid, but I refuse to let them intimidate me.”

“Then you must let me meet with them. It’s the only answer.”

Violet sighed. “Very well,” she said, and described what each man looked like. “I’ll be very worried about you.”

“There’s no need to be concerned about me, although I find it a pleasing thought.”