Death at the Abbey (18 page)

“I had no idea,” Portland said. “And you say our government won't invest in dynamite? Hmm. I should definitely like to hear more about a substance Gladstone doesn't like. Explain it all to me in great detail, Mr. Harper.”

This was Sam's moment, and he dove in with enthusiasm, explaining what dynamite was and how the combination of nitroglycerin, diatomaceous earth, and sodium carbonate, formed into short sticks and wrapped in paper, made for better shaft tunneling because the nitroglycerin was far more powerful than black powder.

“If you know the formula,” Portland interrupted, “why don't you make your own and cut Nobel out?”

“Mr. Nobel obtained a patent for what he calls ‘Nobel's Blasting Powder' in England in 1867, and is very serious about controlling his patents. Besides, I would never consider trampling upon my gentleman's agreement with him.”

“I see.” Portland nodded thoughtfully. “You know what your problem is, Mr. Harper? Besides the fact that you're a Yankee, of course.”

Sam had heard that particular refrain hundreds of times and remained silent. What was he to do about his American birth?

“The problem is that you have no one of . . . substance . . . championing your cause. Naturally, it has been a lost one, and probably never had any hope of success.”

Sam's optimism dwindled like a meteor crashing into the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Was this a lesson he should have learned during his trials with the banks? Should he have hung up his fiddle after the first “no” he'd heard back in London? Giving up wasn't in his nature, though. If it were, he wouldn't have survived the Civil War, wouldn't be married to Violet now, and most certainly wouldn't be standing before the Duke of Portland, discussing his business aims.

“Sir,” he replied resolutely, “I never give up hope. It defeats a man, and I am never defeated.”

Portland didn't respond immediately but stared critically past Sam, not quite making eye contact. Had Sam somehow sealed Portland's poor opinion of Americans?

When the duke finally spoke, though, his words were nothing Sam expected. “Yes, I suppose a man is defeated when he has lost
all
hope. It is deciding where hope is warranted and where it is best extinguished that is the conundrum. However, Mr. Harper, I believe that in your case, clinging to hope may have its reward. The sticking point here is what to do to make you acceptable in British eyes.”

Bentinck nodded understanding of his brother's intent. “I'm a trustee for the British Museum,” Bentinck said to Sam before turning to his brother. “Perhaps to elevate his status a bit, we should give Harper a position there. Perhaps . . .” He rubbed his chin and addressed Sam once more. “Perhaps you could be curator of our firearms collection. Ha! An American managing a collection of munitions for Great Britain. We shall have to ensure you don't decide to rebel against us again, won't we? Ha!”

Sam wasn't sure if the man was joking or serious about the position, so he remained silent.

“That may or may not be the right solution, but I believe it suggests that we can come up with one. Mr. Harper, I believe I should like to invest in your dynamite idea, and I can be of help in convincing the government to let you build. Would a thousand pounds be enough to start you on your way?”

Now it was Sam's turn for his mouth to drop open. “Pardon me? How much did you say?”

“A thousand. I expect a return on my investment, of course. Something far better than the infernal government bonds of which I cannot seem to divest myself. I shall also expect to be able to inspect your factory periodically. Have you considered building one in Nottinghamshire? Hmm, perhaps I can build a tunnel to it if it is close enough to Welbeck.”

Sam couldn't believe what he was hearing. He was ready to exclaim that he would build his dynamite factory upon Welbeck grounds itself if the duke were willing to endow the project. Nobel would be beside himself when he read the news. Sam would have to send a telegram right away. But first he must attend to details.

“A dynamite factory in Nottinghamshire would be ideally situated, given the number of coal mines sitting atop the Nottingham coalfield,” he said. “However, Your Grace, I don't know how close I can make it to Welbeck, given that I would put it far outside of town and I—”

Portland held up a hand. “I am not serious about the factory being close to Welbeck. Let us repair to the shooting hut to celebrate over a very old bottle of Taylor's I've been saving.”

“What could you possibly be saving it for?” Bentinck asked. “A weekend card party? Ha!”

They returned to the Russian Lodge to drink port, with Bentinck joking about his brother's vast subterranean wine cellar, suggesting that they transplant themselves down there so that they didn't have to wait so long for another dusty bottle to arrive. Sam waited for a “Ha!” which for once did not arrive. Instead, Bentinck turned serious—perhaps it was the port weighing down his mind—and turned to the uncomfortable topic of the deaths that had occurred at Welbeck Abbey.

“They say that death comes in threes,” he said, shuddering. “You've had two in the past week, John. You should expect a third soon.”

“Come, brother, you're being superstitious, like my servants. My cook, Mrs. Garside, also frets over it. Ever since Aristotle died, she has—Ah, there you have it. There have already been three.”

“A raven hardly qualifies as a noteworthy death. You mock me, John, but I warn you there is more to come. You would do well to heed me.”

Portland shrugged in bland denial.

For someone who Violet said was concerned about his servants, Portland seemed rather indifferent today about the loss of two estate workers. Was he simply—like Sam himself—caught up in the moment of relaxation and camaraderie, or was he genuinely unconcerned about it? After all, he was a peer of the land with innumerable people under his charge. What were a couple of employees he had likely never met?

As the brothers changed topics once more to world events, Bentinck's comments were soon lost in the smoky tendrils wafting upward from cigars Portland passed around.

Stretched back in a leather chair, his feet up on a worn ottoman shared with a softly snoring vizsla and a never-empty glass of savory port swirling in his hand as he and the brothers discussed the currently chilly state of trade negotiations between the United States and Britain, Sam decided that the aristocratic life might have its worries and threats, but it was certainly filled with physical pleasures not easily forgotten or forgone—unlike his coal mine, which, truth be told, he would happily be divested of.

Could he have enough success with a dynamite factory that one day he and Violet could have a country retreat? A place where he could shoot and she could . . . Wait, what did his wife enjoy other than working with dead bodies? Oh yes, Violet could lounge about in the sunshine, reading from her pile of books. In fact, she could have a room full of groaning bookshelves. All of these country estates had libraries, didn't they? The only difference being that Violet would make use of one.

Unfortunately, there would indeed be more death for Violet to contend with before the pleasant dream of a country estate could be realized.

21

V
iolet was happy to spend the day with her friend Mary Cooke. Despite their age difference of twenty years, they had much in common. Both had been widowed; both were in the funeral business, as Mary was a mourning dressmaker; and both loved to read.

Violet took a cab to her own shop in Queen's Road to check on the state of business with her co-owner, Harry Blundell, then went on to Mary's shop in Bayswater Road. Together the two women headed out, their first destination being Hatchards Bookshop in Piccadilly. After the seriousness of Welbeck Abbey and the attack upon her three days earlier, Violet was in the mood for something romantic in nature.

The clerk at Hatchards asked if she had read anything by Charlotte Yonge. When she said she hadn't, he immediately showed her to a shelf crammed with several titles by Yonge. “She writes the most heart-tugging novels. She's been popular for years. You're sure you haven't read her before, madam? No? Then I recommend that you start with
The Heir of Redclyffe,
her first and best-known work.”

He pulled out a copy and handed it to Violet, who flipped through the pages, enjoying the feel of the thick, creamy paper that was always the immediate reward in purchasing a book.

Violet smiled at the clerk and handed the book to him. “Please wrap this for me.”

The clerk bowed with the book in both hands. “Of course. Once you've read this, I recommend
The Daisy Chain,
then
The Chaplet of Pearls,
which was just published last year. I daresay that Miss Yonge's works are more popular than those of Mr. Dickens and Mr. Thackeray.”

Violet tucked the book safely in her reticule, next to the knife that stayed with her at all times, despite its recent ineffectiveness. The two women were soon ensconced in a growler cab heading to Regent Street, where Mary wanted to visit Grover & Baker's.

“They are two American men from Boston who have developed a portable sewing machine, and have expanded their trade to London and Liverpool,” Mary said. Violet leaned back inside the conveyance, one of the more comfortable carriages for hire since it had four wheels, not two.

“I read in one of my dressmaking journals that they offer tours so customers can see their machines being built. Misters Grover and Baker are making over a thousand machines per week! Can you imagine? How fantastic they must be.” Mary's eyes shone with the excitement of a child being presented with a new flavor of ribbon candy.

“Is there anything wrong with your Singer foot-treadle model?” Violet asked.

“No, no, I just thought it would be fascinating to see a new type of sewing machine being constructed. The journal article stated that one day they will be even bigger than Singer.”

However, Mary ultimately succumbed to the oily smell and rhythmic hum of the various machines on display and purchased one that Violet thought too pricey for Mary's circumstances, but hadn't Violet herself fallen victim to the bewitchery of a coffin salesman's samples before?

Later, after the man at Grover & Baker promised delivery of her specially made portable machine in two weeks, the women stopped at a coffee shop to celebrate Mary's purchase, which still had Violet breathless at the expense.

Mary, though, was undaunted. “Wasn't it marvelous?” she said, removing her hat and gloves and handing them to the hostess. “I can hardly wait to make my first dress with it. And I can even move it from my shop to my upstairs flat because it's
portable,
Violet dear. Have you ever seen such a thing?” She patted the puffy gray cloud of hair she wore.

Given the size of the wood box and its internal ironworks, Violet imagined that “portable,” in this case, merely meant that the machine could be put on a lift and sent upstairs, but it couldn't exactly be carried about by a handle. It was as portable as one of her coffins. But she couldn't deny her friend's enthusiasm.

“You will have thousands of hours of sewing enjoyment, I'm sure,” she said.

Once they had pots of coffee and raisin crumpets topped with butter and jam in front of them, the two women drifted into various points of conversation: Violet's daughter, Susanna; Mary's recent clientele; and Violet's upcoming trip to Egypt. Violet told Mary of the suspicious deaths at Welbeck Abbey and her subsequent trip to London for an investigation. As Violet recounted the attack in Cavendish Square, Mary spilled her cup of coffee, the brown liquid splashing into its saucer and onto the table.

“My dear, no! Not another dire situation! How do you manage it?”

Violet shook her head. “I don't know. Undertaking seems to have gotten more and more dangerous as time goes on.”

“It's all of this investigating you do these days. Oh, honestly.” Mary grimaced. “This coffee has obviously been
boiled
. Dreadful.”

Violet agreed that it was atrocious. “I suspect they make it in quantity twice a week, to be heated up when ordered. This was probably made last Thursday.”

Mary giggled, and Violet joined her. Seeing Mary express joy made Violet happy, as well. She was about to comment on her friend's seeming contentment when Mary asked a question that stopped Violet cold. “How is that handsome detective who has helped you in your investigative matters?”

Had Mary actually just batted her eyelashes? And did she think for one moment that she was convincing in her pretense of not remembering Hurst's name?

“Has he visited you or otherwise made contact with you?” Violet asked, too sharply. She wanted her friend to be happy, but why oh why did it have to be with Magnus Pompey Hurst? Inspector Hurst had developed a puppy-like devotion to Mary since meeting her several months ago, but Violet had been stern in warning him away from her friend, so recently in mourning for her husband, George. George had been an unfaithful fool, and Mary's grief was already perfunctory, but it was just . . . unseemly . . . for Hurst to express interest.

“Of course not, dear. I'm only in my fourth month of mourning. I just remember how kind and helpful he was with assisting me in hanging the draperies for your shop. Such a brave, chivalrous man. I don't wonder that it must be a delight for you to work with him.”

Violet could see that Mary was refraining from asking the question she truly wanted to ask: Was Inspector Hurst attached?

The answer—that Hurst was a bachelor and obviously enamored of Mary—stuck in Violet's throat like an unchewed dumpling. Why was she so resistant to the idea of Hurst paying court to her friend? Did she believe that his gruff and overbearing manner would eventually assert itself and cause yet more heartbreak for Mary? Or was it that Violet was terrified for
herself
that a romance might bloom between the two? What sort of chaperone would she have to play? Would she and Sam be invited to dine with the other couple? After her last investigation—during which Sam nearly came to blows with Hurst—Violet wasn't sure a peaceable meal was possible. When had Mary taken notice of Hurst, anyway?

But Mary's hopeful expression was too much for Violet to bear. The woman deserved some happiness, and if it could be had with Inspector Hurst, well . . . Violet swallowed the lump and said, “The inspector is a bachelor, you know.” Mary's eyes lit up, so Violet swallowed once more and continued. “I believe he finds you most attractive.”

Mary's cheeks reddened, and she buried herself in the previously detested coffee as though it were suddenly apricot nectar.

Perhaps she would mention Mary's interest to Inspector Hurst. Much as she dreaded the thought of the bearish detective paying court to her friend when her mourning period was over, Violet didn't want to be responsible for preventing Mary's happiness.

Violet sighed and picked up her own coffee cup. She could hardly believe she would willingly draw Hurst's cranky disposition into her own life.

 

After escorting Mary back to her dressmaking shop, Violet headed back to Marylebone, where she found Inspectors Hurst and Pratt sitting in the parlor with Lady Howard de Walden. Unlike her behavior during their first visit, this time the baroness politely excused herself from the room, leaving Violet alone with the detectives.

Hurst was more congenial today. He had been much more mercurial since meeting Mary, and Violet suspected he wanted to be cordial to her for Mary's sake, but it wasn't in his nature to do so, what with his perception that Violet was troublesome.

“You've returned quickly, Inspector,” she said, taking the warm seat that the baroness had just vacated.

“Scotland Yard is always efficient, Mrs. Harper. Although I'm afraid our information isn't as salacious as you might have hoped it would be,” Inspector Hurst said, waving at Pratt.

The junior detective flipped through his battered notebook. “Colonel George William David Mortimer, formerly of the Grenadier Guards, having served at the pleasure of His Majesty King George IV from 1818 to 1830, with fighting experienced during the Anglo-Burmese War from 1824 to 1825. Colonel Mortimer has a residence in Arlington Street overlooking Green Park.”

“Green Park? How can that be?” Violet said, confused. How was it possible that Colonel Mortimer—who was relying on Portland's generosity for the very roof over his head—had a townhome in fashionable Green Park?

Hurst shrugged. “Many gents and ladies live there. Go on, Pratt.”

Pratt ran his finger down the page until he picked up where he left off. “A year after leaving the army, the colonel married Esther Theodosia Bell, but she died shortly thereafter of unknown causes. The couple had no children. The colonel then became interested in railroads and invested a fair amount in them, making enough to enable him to move to Green Park. As far as anyone knows, the colonel has never again considered marriage. His neighbors say he is a quiet and considerate gentleman, even if he is a merchant upstart.”

“No doubt,” Violet said absently, trying to make sense of what Pratt had just told her. Was Colonel Mortimer's presence in Nottinghamshire as a poverty-stricken friend simply a ruse for him to keep an eye on his old army companion? Was it really the colonel looking out for Portland's well-being instead of the other way around?

Or was the colonel up to something that Violet couldn't fathom?

At this point, she was sure tongues in Green Park were wagging faster than a telegraph operator's finger making a war announcement. It wasn't often that Scotland Yard detectives came prowling around such a neighborhood.

“One last thing,” Pratt added. “Most of his neighbors didn't recall him enough to have an opinion of him, but those who did said that Colonel Mortimer suffers from insomnia, for whatever that's worth.”

It was worth much, for it explained the colonel's night wanderings around Welbeck Abbey. But was he somehow using that insomnia for some devious purpose? Violet had no idea what that purpose could be. Worse, was Portland fully aware of what the colonel was doing? Was the colonel doing it on Portland's behalf?

Violet was thoroughly confused, but Hurst was about to make her much more so.

“This Jack LeCato you asked about. He's a clerk who works for the chancellor of the exchequer and was installed at Welbeck Abbey for unknown purposes by the Speaker of the House, Evelyn Denison. Interestingly, Denison happens to be the Duke of Portland's brother-in-law. That was all we could get from our sources at the treasury. They were very secretive about whatever it is LeCato is doing.”

Violet stared at the detective, speechless as her mind worked rapidly to make sense of what Hurst had just told her. She remembered Denison from an investigative matter she had worked for the queen, one that had her sitting through a parliamentary debate on the Contagious Diseases Act that Denison had overseen.

The duke was infuriated by the presence of Jack LeCato . . . who had been installed at Welbeck by his own brother-in-law? Why would Denison have done something so egregious against his wife's brother?

Every time Violet sought an answer in this matter, a dozen more questions shot up as if she had riotous Guy Fawkes Day fireworks skyrocketing in her mind. Enough with the ongoing questions. She needed
answers
.

But Hurst had his own questions. “This Colonel Mortimer bloke seems harmless enough. What has you so agitated about him?” he asked.

Without the baroness present, Violet was more comfortable talking about him. “He resides at Welbeck . . . as His Grace's impoverished guest.” She went on to explain the men's military experience together.

Hurst frowned. “Does His Grace know that the colonel is well-off?”

“I don't think he does. Curious, isn't it?”

“Maybe,” Hurst said. “Do you suspect him of something other than taking advantage of his host?”

Violet sighed and echoed Hurst's own sentiments. “Maybe. I'm not sure.”

“Well, there's nothing here for Scotland Yard to be worried about,” Hurst said, rising. Pratt also stood, and Violet joined them.

“What about Ian Hale having attacked me here in Cavendish Square?” Violet said.

“First of all, he's left London without a trace. Second, you weren't actually murdered, Mrs. Harper, and so it isn't a case for Scotland Yard. It was a great favor to you that Inspector Pratt and I did the investigating that we did. We have to return to our real cases.” He motioned to Pratt to leave.

As blunt as the detective had been, he was correct. There was no shocking murder to be investigated, so it was a matter for the police, not Scotland Yard. Violet knew she should be grateful for what he had done thus far. Well, there was one way to express her gratitude.

“I saw my friend Mary Cooke today,” Violet said. Hurst turned back, standing up straighter, while Pratt arched his eyebrows in surprise. The junior detective knew of his superior's interest in Mary, and was also fully aware of Violet's disapproval.