Death at the Abbey (19 page)

“Oh yes, your dressmaker friend,” Hurst said casually. Pratt rolled his eyes, out of Hurst's sight.

Violet took a deep breath. “She has been recovering well in her mourning. In fact, she's just purchased a new Grover and Baker sewing machine to assist her in her business. It's one of their new portable machines, which probably weighs a hundred pounds. It will be delivered in two weeks, and I'm not sure how she will move it around her shop.”

Hurst perked up even further. “Does she need help setting up the machine? I'm sure I can stop by on my way home from the Yard one evening and—”

“Perhaps, Inspector. I shall mention it to her.” Was that an actual bounce in Hurst's step as he left Harcourt House?

There. She had instigated . . . what? A romance between a centurion and a vestal virgin? Between the wolf and Red Riding Hood? Well, at least nothing would happen until Mary's mourning was complete.

In the meantime, she had an audience with Mr. Gladstone in the morning. Perhaps the answers she sought lay with him.

22

V
iolet waited for nearly an hour beyond her scheduled appointment until Gladstone's clerk called her into the prime minister's office. Fortunately, she had brought her copy of
The Heir of Redclyffe
with her, and was thoroughly absorbed in the misfortunes of poor Guy Morville when she was called back to sit before the prime minister.

William Ewart Gladstone was much as Violet had remembered him, with a scowl that was nearly buried under unruly white hair and elephantine ears. What she hadn't recalled was that he was missing most of the forefinger of his left hand.

Before acknowledging her greeting, he noticed what she had thought was her unobtrusive glance at his hand. “Lost it in a hunting accident back in '42,” he said, opening a drawer in his desk and retrieving a black leather finger sheath from it, buckling it over his wrist.

Violet wasn't interested in Gladstone's prosthetics, however; she wanted information about Jack LeCato. She explained to the prime minister the situation at Welbeck Abbey and inquired about the government clerk's activities.

What Violet quickly realized was that Gladstone's scowl didn't mean he was angry or petulant, but merely that he was passionate about topics that concerned him. And he was concerned greatly about the Duke of Portland.

“Yes, Mr. LeCato is an agent of the chancellor of the exchequer. You must understand, Mrs. Harper, that His Grace purchased nearly two million pounds in consol bonds a few years back from the government, and all of a sudden wishes to turn them in so that he can finance all of his ludicrous building projects. We need the money for those bonds to pay the ongoing debt from the expedition to Abyssinia.”

Abyssinia? Violet reached into her memory, struggling to remember what she knew about that country.

Seeing her confusion, Gladstone explained, “Two years ago, we went on a rescue mission against Emperor Theodore, who kidnapped some Christian missionaries for propaganda reasons—appalling, given that the emperor was a Coptic Christian himself. We couldn't allow some minor despot to run roughshod over British interests, encouraging others to do the like. Locking away our citizens—can you imagine? We discovered later that they were chained and severely treated.” Gladstone was working himself into a righteous high dudgeon.

“Of course you're right,” Violet murmured, using the voice she employed for comforting the most aggrieved of mourners.

“Well,” he continued, “it was one of the most expensive affairs of honor in our nation's history, as it required the transportation of a sizable military force across hundreds of miles of mountainous terrain that contained practically no road system. Savages, these Abyssinians.” Gladstone stopped pacing long enough to pour himself a drink from a crystal decanter. He took a long swallow and a deep breath, then continued without offering Violet any refreshment. “Good Lord, we assembled a force of thirteen thousand British and Indian soldiers, built railways, purchased elephants for armament transport, and erected lighthouses and warehouses, all to rescue a half dozen men.” He shook his head dolefully.

“You did rescue them?” Violet asked.

“Yes. For a mere cost of nine million pounds, we rescued the missionaries. Of course, this represented an enormous unplanned expenditure of one-eighth of our annual budget. We couldn't simply raise taxes to immediately collect the revenues, so we appealed to the patriotism of England's wealthiest to procure consols to permit the government to gradually ease in the eventual tax burden. Quite the news to deliver to the British subjects, eh, Mrs. Harper?” Gladstone started to pour more liquor, then put the bottle down, seeming to think the better of it.

“But it ended much worse than that,” he continued. “On top of it all, the troops appropriated fifteen elephants and two hundred donkeys to load up with treasure they appropriated from churches and other buildings. Instead of sending it back to the Crown to pay for the war effort, the army simply divided it up as spoils of war and it all disappeared. When did we hire barbarians to serve Her Majesty?”

Violet could think of no words of comfort to offer the prime minister.

“I see you're reading one of Mrs. Yonge's novels,” Gladstone said, completely changing the subject and pointing to the book that Violet had absentmindedly dropped into her lap.

“Oh, I forgot to put it away,” she said, tucking it into her reticule.

“I am a great admirer of her works,” Gladstone said. “Have you read
The Dove in the Eagle's Nest
or
The Prince and the Page
? No? I highly recommend them as excellent historical novels.”

Violet was taken aback that the prime minister should be so interested in light novel reading and said so.

“Lord Tennyson, Lewis Carroll, and Anthony Trollope all read Mrs. Yonge's books,” Gladstone said proudly, as if he were somehow responsible for these famous writers becoming Charlotte Yonge's admirers.

“Yes, but about Mr. LeCato . . .” Violet said.

“Right. No one knew how expensive the expedition would be, and there have been great debates in Parliament over new taxes and other ways to raise revenues. Meanwhile, while Britain is in this terrible quandary, I received word that Portland was demanding return of his entire investment in consols that were being used specifically to repay some of the debt from the Abyssinian venture. Hard to imagine Portland wants his money back just so he can build his godforsaken tunnels and skating rinks. I refuse to allow the empire to default on its good name so that a housemaid can scrabble around on wheels!”

Gladstone was once more working himself into a frenzy, and Violet still didn't have the answer she sought. “And Mr. LeCato went to Welbeck Abbey because . . .” She let the words dangle, in hopes that the prime minister would get back on course.

“Damned inconsiderate of Portland to do it, I say. Of what importance is an unnecessary building project compared to the financing of a military undertaking and loyalty to your country?”

Violet tried once more, attempting to tamp down her impatience, particularly since the man was making her dizzy with his rapid volleys around the room. Heavens, was this what she looked like when she paced? “Your frustration is understandable, sir. Perhaps you might tell me how Jack LeCato became part of your predicament?”

“Yes. Right. We needed to convince the duke to delay some of his building projects. If they were delayed, he might be less inclined to demand the return of his investment in the consols. So I told Denison to find someone he could put in there to do it. I didn't care what story he had to concoct. I needed to stop Portland from cashing in his bonds and work out a reasonable arrangement.”

“You mean to say you asked the Speaker of the House to do this?”

“Of course. Who else would I mean?”

So Hurst's information had been correct. What did it mean that Portland's brother-in-law was involved in the whole mess? Perhaps nothing, perhaps . . . who knew?

“Why was Mr. LeCato chosen in particular?” she asked.

Gladstone shrugged. “It's none of my affair. You'll have to see Denison yourself for that answer. I suppose you'll want a letter of introduction?” He sat at his desk and pulled a thick sheet of paper from a stack, smoothed it with his finger-sheathed hand, picked up a pen, and began scribbling with his right hand. When he was done, he looked up. “That reminds me, Mrs. Harper. The queen says you're to be invited to the opening ceremony for the Suez Canal and invitations are to go out presently. Shall I inform her lord chamberlain that your current address is Nottinghamshire?”

“Yes, thank you.” The way things were proceeding, Violet and Sam would have no time to return to London together before boarding a ship for Egypt. She only hoped that justice would be done for Burton Spencer and Edward Bayes before she stepped up the gangway and on to her passage to Africa.

 

Obtaining an audience with Evelyn Denison was much faster than getting one with Gladstone, and Violet was in front of the man inside of the hour.

Denison was tall and lanky like Portland, but much more self-assured. His office reminded Violet of a law office, with its bookcase shelves bowed under the weight of heavy tomes, stacks of papers and documents on his desk, and long judicial wigs propped up on floor stands in a corner of the room. Violet remembered that the Speaker wore a special robe and hairpiece when he held parliamentary sessions.

Although the stacks on his desk were neat, they were still towering. Despite this, Denison overlooked it all, even from his seated position behind the massive piece of carved oak.

He glanced up distractedly at Violet. “A moment, please,” he said, and went back to writing what appeared to be a very long letter. Denison was either angry or passionate about the topic, for he vigorously underscored words several times.

Eventually, he signed the letter and pushed it off to one side. “Mrs. Harper, I believe? You have come at Gladstone's request?”

“Yes, sir, thank you for seeing me.” Violet had no idea what the proper etiquette was for addressing the Speaker of the House of Commons. “Sir” always seemed adequate when all else failed. “I've come about an agent of yours, Jack LeCato.”

Denison's eyes narrowed. “What of him? How do you know him?”

Once more, Violet explained her situation at Welbeck, and also informed the Speaker of her conversation with Gladstone.

Denison sighed. “I tried to tell the prime minister that I have no control over what my brother-in-law does, but he insisted that I put a man in there to influence Portland's efforts. Does Portland know that I appointed LeCato?” There was genuine worry in his expression.

“No, sir, not to my knowledge. Actually, I think he believes Gladstone put him there.”

Denison blew out a breath of relief. “Thank God. I knew LeCato was trustworthy, but one never knows how these things will go.”

Violet foresaw eventual trouble between Portland and Denison. After all, for how long could this actually remain a secret, despite LeCato's supposed trustworthiness?

“You were placed in a most difficult position,” Violet said, hoping to elicit more information.

“Gladstone was only trying to protect the party,” Denison replied. “He felt that my brother-in-law calling in his bonds had the potential to stifle the British economy and he had to be brought to heel. There was simply no way to cover those bonds all at once. If the government is unable to cover its obligations, the economy will likely stall, meaning the end of Liberal Party rule. That couldn't happen, and Gladstone decided our best chance to stay in control of Parliament was to . . . influence . . . my brother-in-law.”

“I would say that is an ambitious goal. His Grace is very . . .” Violet was at a loss for description.

Denison nodded. “I agree. Now, Mrs. Harper, ordinarily I would not permit a mere undertaker to question me, but Gladstone's letter was most insistent. However, if there is nothing else, I must get back to my—”

But Violet wasn't nearly done. “In fact, sir, I have an important question. Who is Mr. LeCato? Why was he the man you appointed?”

Denison put down the pen he had just picked up. “Jack LeCato is an assistant to Robert Lowe, the chancellor of the exchequer. LeCato had a reputation of being very serious and very eager to do his duty, a trait probably carried over from his time in the navy. I also knew from various sources that he was very eager to leave Lowe's employ.”

“Why is that?” Violet asked.

“Robert Lowe is wretchedly deficient. Spending has risen, and he constantly underestimates revenue. There are other issues brewing at the chancellor's office that might sweep LeCato out the door with Lowe, and LeCato wanted to rid himself of Lowe's stench, and the Welbeck situation provided a good solution for us both.”

“I see.” The explanation was quite . . . tidy, but was it perhaps
too
tidy? Or was Violet frustrated because there was nothing in what the Speaker—or the prime minister, for that matter—had said to implicate LeCato in anything that had to do with Spencer or Bayes?

She had one further question. “Do you know if Mr. LeCato has any association with Babbage's Home for Foundlings?”

Denison frowned. “An orphanage? I don't think so. Why?”

She decided against telling the Speaker about the attack. “Just a silly thought I had. Not worth mentioning. It appears that you have been working on some theological discourses,” she said as a distraction. Several of the papers on his desk had biblical references on them.

Denison was easily led away from their previous discussion. “Yes, for quite some time I have seen the need for a plain but complete Bible commentary, something easily accessible by the public. After many meetings with some of the bishops, it was decided that the archbishop of York would undertake the production of the commentary. The canon of Exeter, Frederick Cook, has just been chosen to edit it. As the commentary has my endorsement and support, I am naturally most interested in all aspects of it, and I not only helped to put together the advisory panel for the project, but have been providing Mr. Cook with helpful suggestions.” Denison tapped the letter he had just signed. “Today I am advising him to divide the Bible into eight sections, and for each section choose a different scholar to provide commentary.”

Violet could only imagine how . . . appreciative . . . the canon would be of Denison's regular missives advising him on how to do his work. The Speaker and Reverend Appleton had much in common and would probably enjoy a good theological debate together.

She left Denison's office shortly thereafter. Later, as she reflected upon her meeting with him, it seemed to Violet that a man who was interested in assembling a biblical commentary couldn't possibly be involved with anyone or anything particularly depraved.