Death at the Abbey (12 page)

“Retreat to safety!” Sam shouted at his workers as someone else blew a horn. They all scattered away from the area that would soon constitute the beginning of an underground skating rink for all of Welbeck Abbey's workers. Sam himself rejoined them behind the metal wall, surreptitiously kneading his bad leg. Violet made a second, more important mental note that she needed to retrieve her bottle of Mr. Johnston's Essence of Mustard from her luggage and rub some of the pungent oil into Sam's old battle wound.

Now there was an eerie silence in the air, save the distant cawing of ravens, as all of the spectators realized that something monumental was about to occur, and a collective breath was held in a mix of gleeful anticipation and utter terror of what the dynamite would do.

Even Violet found herself not breathing, wondering what the combination of noise, smell, and theatrics would produce.

Sam crouched over the blasting machine, placed a hand on either side of the wooden plunger handle, and pulled it up from the top of the detonator. Violet heard a strange whirling sound emitting from the machine. Counting loudly to three, he pushed down hard. The whirling continued, and Violet knew from Sam's description of the machine that it was sending a discharge down the wires to the dynamite securely lodged in its strategically placed locations.

It took only moments for Violet to witness the greatest spectacle of her life. The deep, reverberating boom was accompanied by dirt shooting up in the air in great, jagged streaks, like lightning in reverse. The streaks held motionless in the air for the briefest of seconds before plunging back down to the ground in the cloud of earth that was also billowing below it.

The amazing vision turned instantly into horror as Violet realized there was more than just dirt falling back down to the ground.

There was also a body.

12

W
ith no regard for the shouts of Sam, Reed, and LeCato, Violet sprinted as quickly as her skirts would allow her to the explosion site. She tripped over a fallen branch, but managed to regain her balance before falling and embarrassing herself in front of an audience of hundreds, who would soon be following her as soon as they realized what she'd seen.

As she neared the central point of the excavation, dust quickly settled into her eyes and her nose, stinging them and making her cough violently. She wiped her sleeved arm indelicately across her face, wiping away as much as she could, as she continued to bumble her way to the site.

She'd only had a moment to see the body, but was certain it was a man. Where was he? She thought he had gone down—was it here? No. Over to this side? No. She looked around wildly.
Please, God, do not reveal that on his descent the man . . . came apart.
Wait, wasn't that a scrap of billowing shirt? Yes, there he was. She scrambled a few feet farther, to one edge of the dynamited area, falling down on her knees next to him.

As she frantically brushed dirt away from the body's face and hair, she didn't know whether to laugh in relief or cry in frustration and heartbreak.

The black-and-white-striped shirt . . . the volcano tattoo . . . Violet had just found the missing man from yesterday.

She didn't even have an instant to consider how he had gone from the woods to the explosion site, for the men who had been behind the metal wall were upon her, and she could hear the gossiping and exclamations of concern from the estate workers behind them.

“Violet, what in tarnation do you think you're doing—ah!” Sam pulled up short next to her. Before he could say anything further, Ellery Reed barged between them to see what they were hovered over.

“Good Lord!” he exclaimed, putting a fist to his face. “Edward Bayes. It really
is
him. What in heaven's name is happening here, Mrs. Harper? Honestly, there has been nothing but carnage and ruin since you arrived—what?—a mere four days ago.” His voice was rising on the edge of agitation.

Sam, meanwhile, was as pale as Edward Bayes. Which explained why he didn't ferociously rise to Violet's defense as he ordinarily would do.

“Mr. Reed, I may be an undertaker, but I hardly think my presence has been the cause of these deaths. You've simply been fortunate that I was present to assist. In fact—”

Violet was interrupted by Jack LeCato, who inserted himself into the situation. “Ellery, I realize you are upset, but you must realize that your judgment is clouded. The problem is not Mrs. Harper's presence at Welbeck; it is Mr. Harper's dynamite, which has killed someone, after we were assured that it is a perfectly safe method for excavation.”

Now it was Violet's turn to blanch. No wonder Sam was in shock. He didn't realize . . .

She rose once again, sure that she was quite a sight with bits of clay and rock dusting her hair, face, and dress, but spoke as forcefully as her appearance would allow. “You are mistaken, sir. This man, Mr. Bayes, died prior to this. You are falsely accusing my husband of an unsafe procedure and you owe him an apol—”

LeCato clucked his tongue, which irritated Violet in its arrogance. “It is appalling that this experimental explosive is responsible for the death—no, murder—of one of the duke's employees. Weren't we to understand that dynamite was supposed to be
safe?
It is obviously as perilous a substance as any black powder ever used. I shall recommend to His Grace that all work on the skating rink cease immediately.”

“Experimental!” Violet was on the verge of exploding herself. “I'll have you know that my husband—”

“Violet, enough.” Sam had found his voice once more, and it was deathly low. “Mr. LeCato is right. I have staked my entire reputation with Mr. Reed—and, ultimately, the duke—on the notion that dynamite is not just quick and effective, but perfectly safe. This is disastrous.”

She tried again. “Sam, you must listen to me. This has nothing to do with your blasting. Edward Bayes died yesterday. Or perhaps several days ago, I'm not sure. I found him yesterday buried under a pile of leaves, but he disappeared from the wooded area after I went to fetch help—then he turned up here. I don't know how his body got here.”

Violet's mind raced. Who had moved Bayes here? And
why
was he moved?

Her questions were compounding with each passing minute.

Sam, though, was studying her in curiosity, but whether it was because she had offered him a life preserver, or because she had gotten tangled up with another corpse, she didn't know.

The estate workers who had gathered to view the blasting stayed back at a respectful distance, but Violet heard them muttering about trouble coming in threes and the third thing coming was sure to be the worst of them all. Some grumbled that the minute they'd heard the plan to dynamite out a tunnel, they knew no good would come from it.

Yet they had all come in a crowd to watch.

One complaint she overheard disturbed her above all the others.

“It comes back to the raven, don't it? Its death spells doom for all of us 'ere at Welbeck.”

Violet wished she could shout from the rooftops that Aristotle's death had been an accident, that the bird had simply ingested a shard from a glass eye, and that it wasn't possible for a mere raven to determine the fate of thousands of people.

Instead, she sighed. Who knew? Perhaps at this point Welbeck's superstitious workers had a better grasp of things than she did.

William John Cavendish-Scott-Bentinck, 5th Duke of Portland, captain in the Grenadier Guards, and renowned horseman, waited patiently as Pearson helped him into his overcoat. He owned six of them, all the same shade of trampled mud, all made by Mr. Henry Poole in London, whose family had founded Savile Row at the turn of the century.

Portland had Mr. Poole make one each year when the duke went to stay at his London residence, Harcourt House. Mr. Poole had received the royal warrant from Her Majesty this year and, in his newfound vanity, had attempted futilely to convince Portland to adopt the smoking jacket fashion the Poole house had created for the Prince of Wales.

Portland was loyal to his queen, but Poole's suggestion that he begin wearing gaudy Japanese silk to prove he was worthy of lounging about in a London club like Victoria's son was taking things a bit too far. Poole complained that Portland's penchant for his unfashionably long and drab coats proved he was at least twenty years out of date in fashion.

Better that than to be a dandy,
he silently retorted, suppressing the thought that there had been a time long ago when he would have enjoyed the admiring glances of ladies. Before Adelaide Kemble happened, of course. Portland swept the thought of her away, too, just as Pearson was now quickly running a brush down the sleeves of his jacket.

“There you are, sir, ready to watch that new Arabian gelding being broken. He must be nearly seventeen hands high,” Pearson said, stepping away and offering Portland a tentatively encouraging look. His valet was one of the few people—including George—whom Portland could tolerate having around him for more than a few moments at a time. Other people simply made him uncomfortable.

Oh, and that Mrs. Harper, she was strangely comforting, although what Mr. Poole would have to say about her own fashion, one could only wonder. She was almost as careless in her dress as he was. Well, perhaps not careless, she just didn't seem to value any societal opinion on her appearance. Perhaps that was why he didn't mind having her around. She was a kindred spirit.

“Thank you, Pearson,” Portland replied. “Yes, I do believe that horse will prove to be a good—” His words were interrupted by a deafening boom and the rattling of the window panes. Even the covers of the room's gas lamps vibrated and threatened to break.

“What the—?” He hardly had those words out when, as if in delayed reaction, a few small chunks of plaster fell from the ceiling to the carpet beneath their feet. One piece struck him in the shoulder, sending white chips and dust down the arm of his jacket, which had just been brushed so carefully.

“Your Grace, I believe the skating rink area has just been dynamited,” Pearson said, retrieving his brush and going back to work on the jacket as though nothing startling had just happened. It was the mark of an excellent servant, and Portland appreciated him all the more. What he did
not
appreciate, however, was hearing the term “dynamite.”

“What did you just say? What do you mean that the skating rink is being dynamited?”

Portland regretted his sharpness, for now Pearson looked nervous, although he didn't cease grooming his master for even an eyeblink. “Well, sir, Mr. Reed hired Mr. Harper to come in and demonstrate the use of dynamite for excavating the skating rink, instead of how they've been doing it, with pick and shovel.”

That was quite a liberty Reed had taken. “You knew of this plan?”

“Yes, sir.” Pearson's eyes were downcast. “Word moved around quickly that there was to be an explosive used on the estate.”

“And yet no one thought to consult me and obtain my permission?” Again, Portland regretted the sting of his words to his valet, who was not responsible for what had just happened. Reed, though, would be smarting soon from his unconscionable actions. If only Portland were of a mind to fire workers who angered him, but he liked the reputation he enjoyed among the Worksop townspeople, that a position at Welbeck meant security for life.

However, that didn't mean Portland wouldn't tongue-lash Reed severely. The estate manager enjoyed great autonomy in running many aspects of Welbeck and Harcourt House, but inviting a man in to—

“Wait. Did you say it was a Mr. Harper who brought in the dynamite?”

“Yes, Your Grace. He's the undertaker's husband.” Pearson stepped away to assess his master's clothing once more. Satisfied that all was neat and tidy, he put the brush away in a grooming kit.

Portland, though, was incredulous. “The undertaker is married to a dynamiter?”

“No, sir. I mean, yes, she is married to him, but I believe he is the newest colliery owner in Nottingham. That is what I've heard downstairs, anyway.”

This is outrageous,
the duke fumed. The undertaker had brought in her explosives-handling husband, and together they had convinced Reed to employ it
at Welbeck Abbey?
Was Reed mad to have entertained the idea? Everyone knew that dynamite was very dangerous. The queen herself was repulsed by it and had announced it publicly.

The household staff must be upset. Kirby must be informed of the dynamite—although he probably already knew of it—and sent to calm them all, especially the women. Portland himself had more important things to do.

“Pearson, my hat. I must see for myself what has happened. Someone will be out on his—or her—ear today.”

 

Violet saw the look of grim determination on Portland's face, and wondered how word of another body being found had traveled so quickly up to the man's quarters. She was prepared to tell him that this was the same body she had mentioned last evening, but Reed not only bested her by speaking first, he changed the subject entirely away from Bayes's body.

“Your Grace, I must apologize if you have been disturbed. I had no idea the sound could be heard so far away.”

Apparently, Portland had not yet seen the corpse that lay behind Reed and Violet, and also must not have heard about it, for he launched into a castigation of Sam over the employ of dynamite at Welbeck Abbey. It was a long and rambling speech, full of accusations and recriminations for the utter destruction of this part of the estate and the near demolition of the house itself, as well as his overcoat.

Violet's husband stood stoically, taking the verbal punishment over his audacity in bringing his faith in dynamite to Welbeck like St. Stephen enduring a stoning for his religious faith.

A brief flash of Sam's eyes, though, told Violet that he wouldn't endure Portland's rhetorical beating to the death. She hoped the duke would be done soon, lest her husband put on an equally vigorous defense of his faith in dynamite, and then the true explosions would begin. Sam shared Violet's unfortunate habit of speaking his mind, even when it was inconvenient and improper.

However, this was the most animated Violet had ever seen the duke, and she realized from his words that his greatest concern was for the safety of his workers, an admirable trait in a person of power, considering how many people were mangled and mauled in coal mines alone each year. And once the duke realized a body was involved in this incident, she couldn't imagine his response.