Death at the Abbey (17 page)

“Frederick!” Now the baroness was openly horrified.

He shrugged carelessly in the face of his mother's reprimand. “It's true. And he's been wasting his time and money ever since on those ridiculous tunnels. When I think of the racehorses I would have bought with just half the money my uncle has wasted, well, I would be the star of the Derby.”

“You know your uncle is famous for his horsemanship.”

The baron downed what remained in his glass and shook it back and forth to summon the footman for a refill. “Maybe, but he doesn't race them, which is the exciting part. He just foals them and breaks them, which is the drudgery side of things. Any stable hand can do that. Probably just as well, as if he were to race, he'd have trouble holding on to both his horse and his preposterous hat at the same time.”

Violet knew little about horses except for their utility in pulling hearses, but she imagined that raising good stock was as important as putting them into actual races. That, however, was an opinion she would keep to herself.

Which was just as well, for Frederick had many more of his own opinions about his uncle that he didn't mind sharing with a mere undertaker. “Not only that, he never invites me—us—to Welbeck for parties—”

“Son, you know he doesn't host par—” The baroness attempted to interject.

“—where I could meet all of the heiresses of the Dukeries and their pretty little friends. It's damned unfair of him not to think of his family. After all, he's not producing an heir for the Bentinck line. The least he could do is give our side some assistance.” He waved his empty goblet once more.

Violet noticed for the first time that Frederick had other wine spills on his shirt, and they were in various stages of fading.
His valet must be in permanent despair of him,
Violet thought.

Suddenly, she felt sorry for the Lady Howard de Walden, who was probably struggling to maintain her place in society and secure the family name on the back of a wild and unbreakable stallion.

Fortunately, the veal was just then served, and she was able to absorb herself in her plate and avoid further conversation with the baron. It was just as well, for he drank at least four more glasses of wine—complaining bitterly when the footman had to leave to ask the butler for another bottle—and continued to pontificate on horse races, pretty women, the execrable state in which his father had left the barony, and the injustice being served by his uncle. This spoilt boy, who was probably older than Violet, was giving her a headache worthy of at least two Beecham's Pills and a pot of chamomile tea.

Later, as Violet prepared herself for bed, the sounds of violent retching penetrated the walls around her, followed by spattering and coughing. She didn't envy the poor maid who would be required to clean that up, although she suspected that the servant was probably used to it. The vomiting was soon followed by angry bellowing and the breaking of glass, as well as a soothing voice.

Violet didn't envy the Lady Howard de Walden, either.

19

I
nspectors Hurst and Pratt showed up the following afternoon while Violet was in her room, having just strolled through the rear garden to see for herself if the duke had a point in his desire for extreme privacy. She had to admit, it was rather pleasurable to be solitary among the now-sleeping shrubberies and trees—solitary except for probably the watchful eyes of the baroness, her son, and a myriad of servants.

A maid led her to a front parlor, but the baroness had made it there first and was already questioning the detectives. Fortunately, Hurst wore the expression of a stoic and refused to tell her anything. However, Violet's appearance made the Lady Howard de Walden dig her nails deeper into the arms of her chair, and the woman refused to leave the room. Perhaps it was time for Violet to confess the possible danger the baroness was in.

“My lady,” she began, “there is something you should know. . . .” Violet proceeded to tell her about the attack the previous morning inside Cavendish Square.

“Impossible!” the baroness cried, all hardened expression of aristocracy wiped from her face and replaced with genuine alarm. “This is the most exclusive part of Marylebone. Such . . . such . . . a
common
thing wouldn't happen here.”

“But it did, my lady, and my concern is whether it was a random attack . . . or if it was intended against a lady of quality and, seeing me, they thought I was . . . you.”

“
Me?
” Lady Howard de Walden nearly screeched. “I am not acquainted with any street rogues. Unless . . . unless they are really after my Frederick. What has he done now?”

This piqued Hurst's interest. “Is there a problem with your son, madam?”

“What? Oh no. No, of course not.” The baroness quickly regained her composure and folded her hands in the lap of her copper-colored dress, which caught the light from the chandeliers and made her glow handsomely even in the daylight.

Pratt was scribbling furiously in his notebook.

Despite the woman's astringent behavior toward her, Violet didn't want to see her swept up in an investigation. “Inspector,” she said, addressing Hurst, “did you discover something regarding the men in the park?”

Hurst gazed thoughtfully at the baroness a few more moments before turning his attention to Violet. “Yes, and what we learned was interesting. It didn't take much to run down our informants and learn that a small-time thief by the name of Ian Hale had bragged of a ‘job' in Cavendish Square. Does the name mean anything to you?”

Violet shook her head. She'd never heard it before.

“And what of you, my lady?” Hurst asked the baroness, who also shook her head.

“What is interesting about him, Inspector?” Violet said.

“He is a petty thief, but he also has a regular position at an orphanage.”

“An orphanage!” Violet and the baroness exclaimed together.

“Yes. Not an important position, so to speak. He essentially serves as a clerk to the administrator there, checking children in and ensuring they are given tasks at local mills to keep them busy: lace making, wool spinning, that sort of thing.”

“I don't understand,” Violet said. “Why would an orphanage worker wish to attack me—or Lady Howard de Walden—in the middle of Marylebone?”

The baroness smiled tightly again, as she had during dinner the previous evening. “This is most disturbing, Inspector, as my husband left a considerable bequest to Coram's Foundling Hospital in his will, a bequest that was quite . . . onerous . . . on the family.”

Pratt's fingers were racing across the page as he picked up on this tidbit of information. He stopped and flipped back through the pages. “It wasn't Coram's, my lady; it was Babbage's Home for Foundlings.”

The baroness seemed relieved, but Violet was still confused. “It doesn't make sense that an orphanage clerk would spend his spare hours attacking women in parks.” Nor that he would attack someone he thought wealthy, who might be a prospective donor to the institution.

“I agree with Mrs. Harper,” Lady Howard de Walden said, in a move that surprised Violet. “I should think that orphanage staff are upstanding citizens, what with their holy duty toward protecting these children.”

“My lady,” Hurst said patiently, “perhaps you are not aware that orphanages are responsible for more than half of the criminal population in London. Some of these institutions are run by good Christian men, but many others turn their charges into thieves or prostitutes, and there are gangs of these children hiding in the alleyways of London. These occupations are the fastest way for them to earn money, and they bring plenty of it back to those in charge at the orphanage. Most donors—such as your husband, I'm sure, my lady—have no idea their generous contributions are used in this way.”

“You seem to know a great deal about orphanages, Inspector,” the baroness said. Somehow, the light wasn't shimmering off her dress so readily now, almost as if she were wilting.

“Commissioner Henderson is interested in starting a reputable orphanage, as well as a widows' fund, and is soliciting police superintendents to join him in the effort.”

Violet had met the commissioner, who was also responsible for initiating the fledgling Scotland Yard. Somehow she doubted an orphanage started by this man would be permitted to descend into such shameful activities as those Hurst had described. “Is Babbage's one of these sorts of disreputable orphanages?” she asked.

“That's what makes it interesting. No, it is not. But there's more.”

Hurst snapped his fingers at Pratt, who put aside his notebook, pulled a folded piece of paper from his coat pocket, and handed it to his superior.

Violet saw that the page had been addressed to a location in London, with no return name or address. Hurst handed the telegram to her, which contained just three lines. She read it aloud for the Lady Howard de Walden's benefit.

Violet looked up, returning the note to Inspector Hurst and trying to maintain a calm composure. “What does this mean?” she asked, although she had a fairly good idea what it meant. She was the “raven,” a lady in black, and someone had instructed Ian Hale to kill her. But why? What “treasure” had she unknowingly stumbled upon? This note clarified that yesterday's attack had not been random. She shuddered to think what might have happened if a passing police van hadn't scared the men away.

Violet came out of her reverie as she realized Hurst was still speaking. “Hale got out of our grasp and fled after we checked his pockets, so we couldn't question him. No one has seen him since. The orphanage has been told to report to us if he shows up again. I expect he's gone to the Continent by now,” he added with a grunt.

“He had a confederate. . . .” Violet said.

“We don't know who that may have been. Might have been one of the boys from the orphanage who has slipped back into his place.”

Violet frowned. “He seemed like a full-grown man to me. And he referred to Hale as ‘Ian,' a terribly familiar way to address his superior.”

Hurst shrugged. “A mere detail. Suffice to say that we don't know where Hale has gotten off to, but it doesn't look like he'll be after you again, Mrs. Harper, and you were never a target, my lady,” he said, turning and nodding to the baroness, whose color was already returning at Hurst's words.

Violet, though, was sure she was so pale as to be nearly invisible. Who wanted her dead, someone in London or at Welbeck?

Was it possible that Mr. LeCato heard of Violet's trip to London, and didn't want to be the focus of questioning and thus hired Ian Hale to silence her? But who would have told him about her trip? The only people who knew of it were Portland and Sam.

Wait. Wasn't she speaking of it to Sam a few days ago at Worksop Inn when Martin Chandler came in? But he went into the rear of the building, so he couldn't possibly have heard her. Then Violet remembered something else. Chandler had called her a raven to her face at Burton Spencer's funeral. He'd even said that the tails on her hat resembled a raven's wings. Who else had been present for that? Ellery Reed, Jack LeCato . . . and Colonel Mortimer.

The colonel had encouraged her to come to London. Had he done so in order to have someone set upon her outside the confines of Welbeck, where no suspicions would be thrown upon him?

Of course, she could say that Chandler or Ellery Reed could have arranged an attack on her, although for the life of her she couldn't discern a motive for either of them.

“Inspector,” Violet said, “there is another man you might find of interest in this situation, besides Jack LeCato. His name is Colonel George Mortimer. He lived in London as recently as two years ago, and was once in the Grenadier Guards.” There was no need to say that he was a close friend of Portland's in front of the duke's sister, lest she send a servant racing to the telegram office to inform her brother of Violet's seeming disloyalty.

As for Martin Chandler, Violet would have to investigate him back at Welbeck on her own.

20

T
he following morning, Lady Howard de Walden was once more seated alone in the breakfast room, nibbling idly at a dish of gingered apples topped with candied lemon peel, when Violet entered.

“Ah, Mrs. Harper, you may as well accompany me to Evensong service at St. Marylebone's this afternoon. Frederick is . . . not quite himself . . . today.”

As Violet sat down and gratefully accepted a serving of the apples, she noticed that the baroness was as wan as she had been during the detectives' visit. Was their visit still upsetting her, or had Frederick Ellis conducted himself rudely again and embarrassed his mother?

“My lady, I would be happy to do so. Perhaps the baron will feel well enough by the time you leave to also attend.”

The baroness nodded without enthusiasm. “Yes, perhaps.”

After several moments of sterling silver forks clicking against Wedgwood plates, Violet said, “I have received a reply from my friend Mary Cooke and have plans to meet her tomorrow to visit the offices of Grover and Baker, to see their new sewing machines. Then I shall meet with Mr. Gladstone and be on my way back to Nottinghamshire.”

“How nice for you. You will have dinner with us tomorrow before leaving, though, won't you?” The baroness didn't seem as happy about Violet's impending departure as she once had. It had been Violet's experience that many mourners relied on their undertaker for expressing their grief, but Lady Howard de Walden wasn't in mourning. Unless her son was causing her far more pain than even Violet could imagine.

Violet preferred to leave the moment she was done with Gladstone so she could get back to Sam, but acquiesced to the baroness's request. “Of course, my lady.”

“You will speak well of your visit when you see His Grace?” the baroness asked, bringing her teacup to her lips and looking at Violet over the rim.

This surprised Violet, who had had no idea the lady was looking to secure a good report, or that her brother's opinion mattered to her.

Without waiting for Violet's reply, the baroness went on. “My brother has many quirks that the rest of us don't have, but he is still a good Christian man who takes care of his family and of those less fortunate than he. He is simply”—Lady Howard de Waldon looked up, as if searching for the right phrase to describe Portland—“simply less forgiving of fools and simpletons, and sometimes it makes him seem abrasive or peculiar. He doesn't appear to see you as a fool or simpleton, though, so I must assume you are neither since I have so little to go on.”

Violet thought that Portland's actions and mannerisms went way beyond dislike of addle-brains, but there was much about the man she had yet to understand, so perhaps the baroness was right, although Violet wasn't sure whether she had just been insulted again or not.

“I remember a particular time not long ago,” Lady Howard de Walden said, an actual smile making an appearance on her face as she put her cup down onto its plate with a delicate clink. “Our cousin William—who is the heir presumptive given that my brother is not likely to marry and beget heirs at his great age—went to visit John, to learn a little about the estate. I suppose William, sent there by his parents, of course, expressed little interest in the running of a ducal estate and more than likely demonstrated his utter boredom in eye rolls and sighs. Having had enough of the boy's impudence, my brother ordered him to stand in an empty room for hours on end until William was reduced to humbly apologizing.”

At least,
Violet thought,
the boy was sure to have had a chamber pot available to him, no matter in which empty room he stood.

“He returned home chastened. Our uncle was outraged by his son's treatment, but he's still the heir and no damage was done, so that is that. Except there will be no more training, and William will be thoroughly unprepared to take the reins. I've no doubt he will end up like Fred—like so many others in his position.”

Violet contemplated all that the baroness had told her. Portland was peculiar—of that, there was no doubt. But did his eccentricities cover up something deeper and more sinister? She began to question why he had been so eager to send her to London. Was it not Jack LeCato or Colonel Mortimer with a motive to attack her but the duke himself? Portland had been terribly vague about his reasons for sponsoring her trip to London. Perhaps she shouldn't have been so trusting of him just because he was a peer of the realm.

Moreover, should Lady Howard de Walden have shared such an intimate family detail with her, a stranger with no real connection to the Cavendish-Scott-Bentincks? Violet was beginning to realize something important. The dowager baroness was a first-order gossip, and not a discreet one at that. She now understood why Portland hadn't told his sister anything, for she suspected that anything that went into the woman's ear would be spilled out at her next card party.

 

Samuel Harper willingly met Portland at Worksop Priory for Sunday services—strange as it was to have to witness the proceedings through a wooden screen in the rear of the church—then accompanied him in the ducal carriage back to Welbeck. Sam was treated to the same experience Violet had told him of in her last letter, with the four-mile trek mostly inside an underground tunnel. They exited next to a European-style chalet, which Portland referred to as his Russian Lodge. With a sharply pitched roof that dominated the entire structure, it could have easily been a home in Sweden, where Sam had visited the dynamite inventor, Alfred Nobel.

The thought of Nobel reminded Sam of his ultimate purpose in meeting with Portland, and he girded himself for whatever conversation lay ahead. He had no idea what it could be since Portland had been utterly silent during their bizarre underground journey and, in fact, had stared out of the carriage the entire time, as though there was something fascinating in the miles of endless stonework they passed.

Portland wore the same old brown overcoat that he had worn at the dynamiting site. On his lap was the same tall hat under which the man could have hidden a giraffe. The duke didn't seem to be one for change in his life.

Sam refrained from grabbing at his own leg as he exited the carriage. Violet's rub of Mr. Johnston's Essence of Mustard had helped, but the autumn chill that seemed permanently set in the air meant that he was in for a painful few months. Colorado wasn't so damp, and it was easier on his leg there, but Violet was flourishing back here in her homeland, so he ignored the soreness, which would be over soon enough.

Nevertheless, he landed hard on the leg that had been wounded in the Civil War, and he couldn't help grimacing as he reached back into the carriage for his eagle-headed cane. Perhaps he shouldn't dread the trip to Egypt for the opening of the Suez Canal next month. Maybe the desert would be more agreeable for his bones, which weren't yet forty years old but sometimes made him feel older than Methuselah.

He shook off such morose thoughts. It was time for the thrill of a shoot, and the opportunity to talk to Portland about dynamite manufacture—that is, if the man would do more than stare off into space, avoiding him. Sam found the duke to be just as peculiar as Violet had described him.

They were greeted at the door of the lodge by a man who was as well groomed and sharply dressed as the duke was wild-haired and old-fashioned.

“Henry,” Portland said warmly, offering the man a handshake, “this is Samuel Harper, the American I wrote to you of who is involved with dynamite. Harper, this is my brother, Henry Scott-Bentinck.”

As Sam shook hands with the man, he noticed that, although Bentinck shared Portland's hooded eyes, he shared no other physical features. In fact, he appeared to be much younger than his age, which Sam presumed to be his midsixties, versus his brother's late sixties.

“Henry is a well-known hound man,” Portland said with pride.

In response, Bentinck put his fingers to his lips and whistled. The sharp sound brought a pack of about eight dogs running from nowhere. It was hard to count them as they dashed excitedly around the men, sniffing the air, the men's trousers, their shoes, and whatever other item they could find. Some of the dogs trotted, as though they thought they were horses, while others wriggled their backsides enthusiastically as they moved.

Sam reached down to pat one on the head. It had a smooth coat of burnished brown, and its pink nose eagerly snuffled at Sam's hand as its unusually short tail shot out proud and erect behind it.

“They're vizslas,” Bentinck said with pride. “The breed originated in Hungary, and holds a rare position among sporting dogs, as they are also good household companions and guard dogs.”

“They have striking coats,” Sam murmured, scratching the same dog behind its floppy ear. As his reward, the dog sat squarely on Sam's foot to better enjoy the attention.

Bentinck became more animated in his enthusiasm for the animals. “Yes, and they are not only excellent pointers but admirable retrievers, as well. They are absolutely fearless and make brilliant swimmers. Outstanding noses, too, and can be trained to perform nearly any trick. I once even trained one to pick out ‘London Bridge' on a piano. Ha!”

With so many perfect qualities, Sam wondered if the dogs shouldn't be near to canonization.

With another whistle, this one not as piercing, the vizslas settled down on their rumps, expectantly staring at their master. “Stay here,” Bentinck said and turned back to the lodge. Sam and Portland followed him inside, where servants waited to help them select weapons and ammunition, a luxury to which Sam was quite unused.

A half hour later, they had hiked to a remote part of the estate with an attendant who kept their rifles loaded and cleaned. Soon they were firing at a variety of game birds—pheasants, plump little gray partridges, and French partridges with their bright red eye rings. The pheasants made a loud
kok-kok-kok
noise as the dogs frightened them into bursting out of their cover of shrubbery. The birds' wings made a distinct whirring noise as they made a futile dash for cover.

The vizslas went wild with chasing the carcasses down and trotting back proudly with them gently cradled in their jaws, stubby tails wagging. The men rewarded the dogs with pats, then sent them on to the attendant so he could take the birds and string them together.

Sam enjoyed shooting the pheasants most. He was glad the duke kept them so well stocked on the estate, even if he was unlikely to be invited to partake in a meal that the estate's cook might prepare with them.

In between shots and moving to other locations for the vizslas to scare up more fowl, the men talked companionably. Portland spent considerable time talking about his skating rink project, while tactfully avoiding the subject of the late Edward Bayes. Bentinck, who apparently had no current occupation other than his dogs, talked about past accomplishments.

“. . . then I was the member for North Nottinghamshire from 1847 to 1857. Our brother-in-law Evelyn Denison followed me into Parliament. Must keep things held close, eh? Ha!”

“Denison married our sister Charlotte,” Portland said as explanation. “They live at Ossington Hall, about fifteen miles away, and have no children, either, so I suppose we are lucky the family has so many other members to carry on the name, eh, Henry?”

Bentinck reddened, and Sam noted that the man had made no mention of a wife or children, so he assumed Portland's brother was also a stopping point in the family tree. As disheartening as that was for commoners, how devastating was it for the aristocracy, what with their bloodlines and estates to manage and transfer? America certainly had her own aristocracy in industrialists like Commodore Cornelius Vanderbilt and Andrew Carnegie, but their wealth was self-made and not invested in the propping up of ancient edifices and pedigrees.

Is one any better than the other?
Sam wondered. Perhaps one day the Vanderbilts and Carnegies would also worry about posterity and the continuation of family greatness.

Sam's contribution was to grouse about the state of banking in Great Britain. “With no offense meant, sirs, but it was nearly impossible to secure financing for my endeavor. Your new Debtors Act has fouled things up and made bankers frightened to loan money.”

“Ha!” Bentinck said. “You can be sure the banks are continuing to shovel in gold coins like brass buttons, even if they never release a single ingot. Isn't that right, John?”

Portland nodded. “The same is true for other venerable institutions in this country.”

Sam noticed a storm brewing in the man's expression after it had relaxed considerably while they had all been outside together. It cast a somber mood over the affair. Eventually, though, Portland guided their talk to the point of their excursion. “Tell me, how did you become an enthusiast for dynamite, Mr. Harper?”

“I'm a lawyer by trade,” Sam explained. “I became interested in dynamite after meeting Mr. Nobel, though, seeing the value of it for safer mine tunneling. We worked diligently to get authorization to open factories in Wales or England, but most authorities refuse to consider the idea that a powerful explosive may actually be safer that what has traditionally been employed. My wife tells me that even in private the queen herself is vehemently opposed to it.”

“Mrs. Harper knows the queen?” Bentinck asked, his mouth open.

The man's astonishment filled Sam with immense pride. “Indeed. She has performed many services for Her Majesty, from assisting with the Prince Consort's funeral to investigating suspicious deaths in the royal circle.”

The brothers lowered their guns as they lost interest in the pheasants with Sam's revelation about his wife.