Death at the Abbey (23 page)

Apparently resigned to Portland's pronouncement, Sam retrieved his cane, which now resembled a menacing weapon in his hand, and took Chandler by the arm to escort him back to the rookery, leaving Violet alone with Portland . . . and Colonel Mortimer's body.

“Your Grace,” she said quietly, “would you like a moment alone with your old friend?”

Portland took a deep breath. “Poor George. Always such a tragic fellow.” He took a few steps forward in the direction that Violet was indicating, but then held back, refusing to approach too closely, and removed a black-trimmed handkerchief from his pocket, which he held to his nose.

That is odd,
Violet thought.
Does His Grace keep a supply of mourning handkerchiefs at his elbow, to be prepared in case of an unexpected death?

The duke stood quietly, gazing off in the direction of the colonel's body, which was partially obscured by leaves and plant matter. Violet stepped away as quietly as possible to give him privacy. After several minutes, Portland called for her and she hurried back to his side.

“Return tomorrow morning at eleven o'clock to discuss George's funeral with me, Mrs. Harper. I'm afraid such decisions are best left to a new day. I presume you will take care of his . . . more immediate needs?”

Violet knew that that was the duke's way of telling her he needed time to grieve, and she would never argue with a mourner's need for it. She turned to leave, but Portland was not quite finished. “Mrs. Harper, you must understand that I have never fired an employee here at Welbeck. Anyone who secures employment here has it for life. Everyone knows it, and I shouldn't wish to have any other reputation.”

Violet nodded, although she didn't agree with the duke's philosophy. He turned back to the house, and she went to retrieve Sam to prevent him doing Chandler any great harm, before going on to arrange for the colonel's body to be moved to his cottage.

27

I
nstead of escorting her to Portland's private rooms the next morning, Kirby showed Violet into the cavernous dining room, and there she found Portland waiting for her. They sat down face-to-face in the location where Burton Spencer's body had been laid out not two weeks ago. Violet suspected it was a measure of Portland's respect for Colonel Mortimer that he was willing to spend such a lengthy amount of time outside of the protection of his privacy screen in order to discuss the man's funeral.

Or perhaps he was finally getting used to Violet.

“George is . . . comfortable?” Portland asked. His expression was certainly more haggard than it had been yesterday, but he seemed to be bearing up stoically, especially given that this was the third death on his estate in just over two weeks, and this one involved his oldest friend. Actually, Violet wondered if Portland now considered anyone else to be a close confidant.

“Yes, Your Grace. He is laid out nicely on the dining room table in his cottage. Would you like to visit? I can accompany you—”

Portland held up a hand to stop her. “No, no, that will not be necessary. I cannot bear to see him in any manner other than the jovial fellow he was. He was my friend and comrade in arms, as you know, and he understood me like no one else ever has. George was the only man alive who knew of my affections for Miss Adelaide Kemble all those years ago, and never thought the worse of me when she married elsewhere.”

Apparently His Grace was not aware that just about everyone knew about his great passion for the opera singer.

“As you wish.” Violet moved on with the preliminaries of the funeral, mainly what class of service the duke wished to purchase, given that the colonel had no other family to do so for him. Portland held up a hand again. “I'll spare no expense on it. Provide the best of everything for him.”

Violet withheld a sigh. It was commendable that Portland wanted to do well by his friend, but the colonel wasn't entitled to, say, a society funeral. However, there were ways to work around this. For example, the colonel could have a fancy coffin, but not the extras such as multiple ostrich-plumed horses and dozens of professional mourners, which were visible hallmarks of an upper-class funeral. This had to be broached delicately, so as not to offend Portland regarding the status of his friend.

“Your Grace, may I recommend that we honor your friend with an elegant coffin? I can obtain one in perhaps an elm burl—very popular with the society set—or perhaps in a finely finished mahogany.”

“Hmm. Those are nice choices, yes, but I've heard of glass coffins trimmed in brass. Very elegant and rare. Have you access to any of those?”

“Yes,” Violet said hesitantly, dreading the very thought of such a coffin. They weighed around three hundred pounds empty and were exceedingly fragile. The weight made them difficult for six pallbearers to manage, and their fragility meant that the slightest slip could result in shattered glass everywhere. They were the bane of an undertaker's existence. She had to steer him away from the idea.

“Such a coffin will require eight pallbearers, not the usual six, because of the weight. Who do you think would be appropriate men to do this? They must all be of good size.” She couldn't imagine that the colonel had eight men who would be considered friends on the estate and that this conundrum would veer Portland off of the idea.

Not so. “I'll have Kirby select some strapping young men for it, not to worry, Mrs. Harper,” he said, clearly warming to his own idea. “Decorate the top with the flag. I'll find some army mementos to lay on it, as well.”

Violet tried once more. “Your Grace, a glass coffin will require special casing around it inside the grave, a large effort for the grave diggers.”

Portland waved her off, in the manner of the wealthy who never understand the work required of their whims. “Not to worry, Mrs. Harper. I have plenty of diggers who can assist with a simple grave.”

Violet repressed a sigh once more and made notes.
Adult brass-and-glass coffin. Additional lifting straps. Union Jack.

“Will you have all of the staff come out for the colonel's funeral?” she asked.

“No,” he replied quickly. “This will be a very private affair.”

“Then . . . just you and perhaps a few of your chief employees, plus the pallbearers?”

“No, no, the employees have been under enough anxiety and worry. We won't trouble them with this. We will just bury George as quickly as possible so that we can, hopefully, dispel the aura of gloom that has hovered over Welbeck these past days.” Portland nodded, as if declaring it would make it so. Violet had her doubts that a quick funeral would make fifteen hundred estate workers forget about the death surrounding them all. In fact, remembering Mrs. Garside's hysterical reaction to just Aristotle's demise, Violet was quite certain that it wouldn't.

“Very well, Your Grace. Shall I hire any professional mourners?”

“No, no, that's just more fuss, especially in town.”

“I see,” Violet said, wondering whether there was to actually even
be
a funeral. “So, other than the pallbearers, you will be the only mourner, sir?”

“Hmm,” Portland said, resting his chin in his hand, his elbow on the polished surface of the intricately inlaid mahogany table. “No, I believe I shan't go outside that day. Besides, I've already attended one funeral in recent days. You may start the procession at the front door, and I will view it from an upstairs window.”

Violet was flabbergasted. The duke planned to pay for an elaborate funeral, to be attended by . . . no one. Well, it was her responsibility to put the deceased into the ground in a dignified manner, and she could certainly accomplish that. It just seemed a shame that he wouldn't have anyone attending his interment except the pallbearers, Reverend Appleton, and Violet.

A discreet clearing of the throat alerted them that they had company. Kirby, the butler, had entered the room with the noiseless stealth of a cat. “Yes, Kirby?” Portland said.

“Your Grace, pardon my interruption of your discussion. Mrs. Neale and I were just consoling each other over your terrible loss.” He said this with the blandness of someone mentioning that tea was served. “It reminded us of the celebrations for All Hallows' Eve that the staff have been preparing for. Do you wish that we should stop? We do not wish to intrude on your grief, and Mrs. Neale and I thought perhaps it would be an unseemly amount of frivolity.”

“Ah, you always have my best interests at heart, Kirby,” Portland replied warmly. “However, I do not wish to steal away the joy the servants have each year with the festivities. You may proceed as planned. Hold the events down in the ballroom.”

Kirby bowed and departed, and Violet thought she saw a hint of a smile upon the butler's lips.

After talking through a few more details with Portland, Violet stood. She still had to make final preparations to Colonel Mortimer's body, then head over to Worksop to telegram Harry and visit with Reverend Appleton. Portland, however, waved her back down.

“One more thing, Mrs. Harper. I plan to release Mr. Chandler for the funeral. In fact, he shall be a pallbearer.”

More disappointment for Violet. “Are you certain, Your Grace? After all, we haven't cleared his name in connection with the recent deaths.”

“Is Mr. Chandler your suspect in all three deaths?” Portland asked.

“At the moment, sir, he is my best guess,” Violet replied truthfully. “Except that I cannot be sure of his motives.”

“He is not the culprit.”

“Your Grace? How do you know?”

Portland put a finger to the side of his nose. “I know it isn't possible for my falconer to have committed such acts. Anyone who cares for feathered creatures the way he does could not possibly wish to commit violence against a living being.”

Violet considered that a weak conclusion. Many a brutal murderer had a pet kitten at home on whom he doted. “Your Grace, perhaps it is time we called the police—”

“It won't be necessary, Mrs. Harper. I am confident you will quietly find the culprit. I prefer not to have the commotion that involving the police would bring. When the police come, the press are typically right upon their heels, and soon there would be engravings and photographs of everyone from the lowest laundry maid to my own self splashed through every paper in England. This was always my concern, but now that I know the government is looking for ways to avoid repaying my bonds in a timely fashion, I am doubly concerned about the estate's reputation. I don't want them to figure out a way to use distress here as a mechanism for refusal to pay—or, worse, as a reason for sending in more busybodies.”

Violet realized that Portland's care for his workers was considerable, but would not extend beyond his own . . . what was the word? Oh yes, his
dignitas,
she thought, remembering the ancient Roman word used to describe a nobleman's sum of his clout, personal reputation, moral standing, and entitlement to respect.

With that understanding, she knew that she would have to continue bearing the responsibility of justice for three men on her own. Very well, then, that was what she would do.

Taking her leave of the duke, Violet rushed back to Worksop and met with Reverend Appleton, working patiently to overcome his consternation that a funeral would be held so quickly with no time for visitation of the deceased. It was a delicate dance she performed, explaining the urgency of the funeral without revealing that the man had been murdered, nor that there were simply to be no mourners. Reluctantly, he agreed, but would not permit her to leave before he pressed a bound collection of his sermons into her hand.

She then rushed off to telegram Harry for a glass coffin, hoping he could ship it on a train this evening. At the last second, she also added in a request for him to send along the finest elm burl coffin in the shop. Just in case the glass one failed to contain its occupant.

Violet had never held her breath so much during a funeral before, a great irony given that it was just her, a coachman, and eight pallbearers making the trip from Welbeck to Worksop Priory. It was just short of a miracle that the glass coffin had survived the handling and train trip from London, and she supposed that as long as it survived the distant viewing by the duke, she could let out a small sigh of relief.

She had worked diligently upon returning from town the previous afternoon to put the colonel into a condition ready for display within a glass coffin. Along with copious amounts of cosmetic massage, his red-jacketed Grenadier Guards uniform, with its enormously tall, furred hat, hid the damage that had been done to poor Colonel Mortimer.

Portland offered a wave from an upper-story window as the pathetic little procession departed. Violet didn't know any of the men that Kirby had selected as pallbearers except for Martin Chandler, who avoided even glancing in her direction. Normally, Violet would have walked at the back of a procession, but this time she climbed onto the box with the driver, and once they had exited the long estate driveway, the pallbearers loaded the coffin onto the carriage, and all found places to hang from on the side of the conveyance, to speed their trip to town.

Violet attempted to muse about her investigative matter as the horses clopped along, but they found every rut in the road to drag the hearse's wheels through, rattling her bones and driving her to distraction with worry that the coffin would shatter into pieces. Dear God, how she hoped she wouldn't have to return to the storage locker at the train station to retrieve the elm coffin.

However, they made it to the churchyard without any damage, and the good reverend did his part well. Violet probably stopped breathing for a full minute as the pallbearers slipped the lifting straps around the coffin to pick it up and lower it into the hastily constructed enclosure in the ground. Each sway of the flag-draped coffin caused her to restrain a gasp. With a sickening clank it finally made it to its destination.

Violet hoped to never deal with a glass coffin again.

As the party made its way back to the hearse, Chandler finally acknowledged Violet's presence. “Mrs. Harper, if I might have a word. . . .” he said, a spark of his old self-assuredness back. “May I ask that you visit me at the rookery upon our return? I would offer to visit you directly, but of course my present circumstances make that impossible.”

Would he remain confined until Violet solved this case? If so, she needed either to conclude definitely that Chandler was the killer or to quickly find another culprit. “Yes, but what is it you wish to see me about?” she asked.

His lazy smile had returned. “Believe it or not, I wish to tell you a story that you will find most interesting.”