Death at the Abbey (24 page)

 

Violet sat across from Chandler inside his cottage, which was just a single room. They sat at a worn oak table, with an oil lamp between them providing an incongruously merry light for their discussion.

“I suppose I owe you an apology, Mrs. Harper,” Chandler began. “I haven't been entirely honest with either you or His Grace.”

Violet was silent. This much she knew.

“You see,” he continued, “I thought that if I pretended not to know the colonel all that well, I could continue my own . . . investigations, shall we say . . . in the background while you continued with yours. I figured my confinement would only last a few hours until His Grace realized how unfair it was and I would be free to act as before. But now I'm not so sure that will happen. And I have information you need in order to do some intelligent questioning about the colonel's death, because I can tell you, Mrs. Harper, that you are as far off the path as an eagle hunting for a fox in a bog.”

Violet ignored the jibe, waiting to see if Chandler had anything valuable to say.

“I confess I feel right bad about His Grace, thinking the colonel was such a dear friend of his. The colonel had his plans the minute he moved onto Welbeck estate.”

“What plans were those?” Violet asked.

Chandler interlocked his fingers on the table. “I guess I should start from the beginning. Do you know about the Cavendish sisters?”

Where had she heard about them before? “Oh, you mean the seventeenth-century Royalists, Jane, Elizabeth, and Frances? Yes, His Grace told me that they protected Welbeck from Cromwell's men during the war.”

Chandler nodded. “Was that all he told you? There's far more to the story than that. The Cavendish sisters were very clever. When word came that the Roundheads were on their way, their father fled like a coward, but the girls set to work protecting the house. One of the first things they did was to gather the servants together to help them bury all of the silver. Well, all of it except for enough forks, knives, and serving bowls to convince the Roundheads that they had done no such thing.”

Violet was intrigued. “Where did they bury it?”

“No one knows. It might have been in one place, or it may have been scattered around. Legend has it that the girls made a pact to leave it buried until their father came home. Of course, he never did, and as the sisters began making good marriages with wealthy men, they simply forgot about the enormous treasure they had buried.”

Events and conversations began clicking together rapidly in Violet's mind. “So you and the colonel were working together to try to find this supposed treasure.”

Chandler nodded. “The colonel heard of the legend, and used his old friendship with His Grace to his advantage, pretending to be down on his luck. Knowing His Grace's good nature in certain circumstances, he was right to assume His Grace would invite him to stay on the estate.”

Now it was Violet's turn to nod. This confirmed her suspicions about the colonel. “I found some strange holes on the property, particularly in the area where his body was found. They must have been his attempts at testing the earth for locations containing storage trunks.”

“Yes. Sometimes he used his cane, which made less-noticeable holes, and sometimes he used a special, narrow shovel he had purchased.”

Colonel Mortimer must have been affecting to be much more of a drunkard and an insomniac than he really was, in order to stumble about the estate without anyone being suspicious,
Violet thought.

“The last time I saw the colonel alive, he was standing outside his cottage with a couple of shovels, and when he saw me, he feigned being in his cups. I presume now that that was to throw me off track. He was hunting around a dilapidated shed behind his cottage.”

“Yes, I know the one,” Chandler said. “It's smothered in a rose vine. I hear that Miss Kemble, the lady His Grace fancied many years ago, visited here a couple of times and commented on how much she adored the roses on the building. They are some unusual shade of yellow, I think. He has never allowed the building to be removed, nor does he maintain it, and that's why it just rots on its own. Like his heart, I expect.”

“Was there something about the cottage that made the colonel think there was treasure there?”

Chandler shrugged. “He never told me how he decided on locations. I always figured he chose them randomly. It was only when you showed me the map that I realized he was doing something more methodical.”

That reminded Violet of a large question to be answered. “How did you become involved with the colonel? I'm surprised he would share the treasure with anyone.”

“I think he realized it wasn't possible to search the entire estate alone. I told the truth when I said he liked to spend time with the birds. We talked, as men do, and I told him that I wanted to be married one day but didn't want to take on a wife on a falconer's paltry wage. It gave him the idea that he could help me realize my plans while getting himself a helper who wouldn't be likely to blab. He offered to split the haul evenly with me when we found it, so there would be no arguing over percentages.

“I suggested to the colonel that I could train the ravens to do some overhead scouting for us, and he agreed. Told me it was a brilliant idea.” Chandler said this with pride in his own ingenuity. “So I did. Aristotle was the best seeker of them, but that really only meant he was the best at finding unusual objects. It was difficult to figure out how to train them to look for odd rises or depressions in the land. When your husband grabbed me so roughly—and unjustly, might I add—I had followed the ravens to that copse of trees because they were behaving excitedly and I thought perhaps they'd found something. What they had seen was Colonel Mortimer. I was just as surprised as you were to find him there, all done in.”

Chandler seemed to have no grief over the loss of his friend, but perhaps friendships developed in the bonds of thievery didn't tend to be firm and enduring. Remembering back to her first encounter with the falconer, then subsequent events at Worksop Inn, Violet asked, “Have you a lady in mind to take as your wife?”

“Yes, I promised Polly Saunders that once the treasure was found and sold, my half would make me well-off enough to support her and she wouldn't have to work in her father's inn anymore.”

“Your interest is in Polly, not Olive, the housemaid?”

“Olive? That little mouse? Why would I be interested in her?”

Why indeed. Poor Olive would be most disappointed to learn that the object of her adoration had no eyes for her, although Violet suspected Chandler would no longer have his position here at Welbeck, and Olive could find someone else less . . . unsavory . . . to pursue.

“How did you know the treasure would be extensive enough to make you wealthy?”

Chandler waved a hand in the direction of the house. “A place like this? Full of people that have always been rich and powerful? I knew.” He offered another sardonic smile.

“But why would Colonel Mortimer, a man who had an army pension, secure investments, and a comfortable home in London, need to dig up his friend's estate to find a few pieces of silver? Unless . . .”

Chandler nodded. “The colonel wished to remarry, too. His wife died a long time ago, Mrs. Harper. He thought that a larger fortune would make him more appealing. What with that eye of his and his age, I expect society debutantes weren't falling all over themselves for him.”

Violet thought that his fondness for liquor might have more to do with women's reticence toward the colonel, but kept that to herself. Chandler must have taken her silence as belief in his confession, for he finished with, “So you see, I was in partnership with the colonel, but I had nothing to do with his death. I was just as surprised to find him there as you were. There's an actual murderer still on the loose while I'm shut away like a petty thief.”

Violet shook her head at his audacity. It was time to deflate his rubber balloon. “Well, for one thing, you
are
a petty thief, or a potential one, at a minimum. And you've proved nothing to me, as it makes perfect sense that you would wish to kill the colonel so that you wouldn't have to split the treasure with him when it was found.”

Chandler gasped. “That's not true. Mrs. Harper, I've told you everything.”

“Once you knew of the legend, what use was the old man to you?” Violet continued. “He was just an inconvenience. Perhaps you had returned to the copse to move his body, and were surprised by my husband. Isn't it ironic that Mr. Bayes was found in the same location, as well? Almost as if it is your own personal graveyard.”

“What do you mean? Mr. Bayes was found at the skating rink site, killed by your husband's dynamite.”

Ah, a fine jab and twist of the knife Chandler had executed there. “Don't attempt to befuddle me, Mr. Chandler. It won't work.”

The falconer shrugged and Violet stormed off, irritated that she had once again permitted Chandler to annoy her. As she got farther away from the rookery and Chandler's derision, her mind wandered over what he had told her. In reality, his story of having partnered with the colonel for some sort of ephemeral buried treasure might sound like a child's story on the surface, but it explained much. And would Chandler have risked being caught and hanged merely to double the enormous fortune he already thought he would find? Chandler was cocky, but didn't strike Violet as an idiot.

If she accepted Chandler's entire story as true, though, then who killed the colonel, and why? Was it coincidental that he was murdered in the same location where Bayes had been found? Had the colonel and Bayes been privy to something illicit, something that had resulted in their deaths to ensure they never revealed what they had seen?

Had she not dug far enough into Edward Bayes's past? Perhaps it was time to pay his widow another visit.

28

I
n front of Mrs. Bayes's home, several burly men were shoving crates into a van emblazoned with “Whipman-Wood Transport” on the side of it, while her children chased one another through the piles of belongings waiting to be loaded. Since the door stood wide open, Violet rapped several times on the door frame and let herself in. “Mrs. Bayes?” she called out.

“Edward's clothes is outside in the green trunk, Mrs. Meadows,” called out a voice from somewhere inside the home.

“Mrs. Bayes, it's me, Violet Harper.”

“What?” In moments, the widow appeared in the front room, dressed in a garish lime-green-and-red dress, the sleeves of which were too long. “Oh, I thought you was Mrs. Meadows from the Prisoners' Aid Society. I'm giving all of Edward's clothes to 'em. I'm moving into my new cottage today and my income starts next week.” She frowned. “Where's Charlie?”

“I believe he's outside with his brothers.”

Her expression completely distracted, Mrs. Bayes swept past Violet and went outside, giving Charlie an earful about not breaking anything or getting himself hurt. The widow returned, breathless from her lecture. “ 'Ow may I 'elp you, Mrs. 'Arper?” she said.

“My apologies that my timing is so inconvenient. I didn't realize you were moving today. In any case, this couldn't have waited until you were settled onto the estate. I was wondering if you could tell me what your husband's job duties as purser were at Welbeck?” On her way into town, Violet had decided that perhaps she might establish how the man's duties might have caused him to interact with others on the estate. If she could establish links between Bayes, Colonel Mortimer, and Spencer, perhaps she could then figure out who the murderer or perhaps
murderers
were.

“ 'Is duties?” Mrs. Bayes said, her expression bewildered. “ 'Ow would I know? 'E just scribbled in 'is book all the time when 'e was 'ome. I don't know what 'e did when 'e was at Welbeck.”

“His book? Was he writing a novel? A memoir of his time in the navy?”

Mrs. Bayes shrugged. “Can't say as I much paid 'im attention.”

Of course not. The widow Bayes would not be one for being interested in her husband's work, although Violet suspected that Edward Bayes wasn't the type of man that women could be that interested in generally.

“Do you have this book? I would like to see it.”

Mrs. Bayes sighed and offered Violet an exasperated look. “Now 'ow am I supposed to know where it's packed away?”

No, she wasn't likely to remember where she had tossed her late, but not lamented, husband's personal belongings. “Perhaps you might allow me to search for it? It might be important to my investigation of your husband's death.”

The widow's gaze narrowed. “What investigation? Is this about all them questions you were asking about before? I'm still to get my cottage, aren't I?”

“Mrs. Bayes, this has nothing to do with your cottage. I just want to ensure your husband gets the justice he deserves.”

Margaret Bayes paused, as if weighing the truth—and, more importantly, the value—of Violet's claim, then shrugged. “If you can find it, you can gawp over it.”

It didn't take long for Violet to find a shabby trunk with Edward Bayes's personal items hastily thrown inside it. Among the items tossed on top of a nicely tooled leather volume were smoking pipes, tobacco, a ship's compass with a cracked dome, and an old leather collar, making her wonder if he had been in charge of the care of a ship's cat when he was off in New Zealand.

Kneeling next to the trunk, Violet pulled out the book that she assumed had to be Bayes's mysterious work, and was surprised at how fine the gold-embossed burgundy leather was. Such a volume must have cost someone like Bayes a great deal, an indicator of how valuable the contents were to him.

With the book propped up against the lip of the trunk, Violet opened it to the middle and flipped backward through the creamy pages filled with sepia-brown ink. This definitely wasn't a novel. Nor was it a memoir.

She then flipped through the pages from the middle to the end. The book was only about two-thirds full of scribbling. As Violet continued studying it, understanding finally dawned. Her vision blurred, and she felt sick to her stomach at the realization of what had really happened to Edward Bayes, and how Colonel Mortimer and Burton Spencer played into it all. What made her even queasier was the realization that she had been right about one thing: there was more than one murderer involved.

What was she to do now, with Bayes's widow in the next room, waiting for Violet to leave so she could resume her journey to her new cottage at Welbeck? Violet couldn't leave this in Mrs. Bayes's possession, as there was no telling what the woman would do with it if she realized what Violet now understood. With her heart hammering, she returned to the outer room.

“Mrs. Bayes, I was wondering if I might borrow this for a short time, to study it further.”

As Violet had feared, the widow became suspicious. “For what? Did 'e write something stupid? Are you planning to show it to 'Is Grace? I won't be denied my—”

“No, Mrs. Bayes,” Violet said patiently. “This won't impact your move to Welbeck today. In fact, I can return the book to your new cottage once I am finished with it.”

“Oh. Well, that's all right then, I suppose.” The widow still eyed Violet suspiciously, as though Violet somehow had the power of denial over Portland's generosity toward his worker's wife.

Violet carried the book back to Worksop Inn to share it with Sam, holding it as though it were precious cargo, like a newborn infant. In fact, the book
did
carry the power of life and death for someone at Welbeck Abbey.

Sam agreed that she now held the answer in her hands, even if there were a few missing pieces. However, he urged caution. “Don't run back to Welbeck with your gun half out of its holster,” Sam cautioned. “You have to show this to His Grace first.”

“But what if he doesn't grant me the ability to accuse the right parties of their crimes? You know how peculiar the man is about any whisper of scandal.” Had Violet raised her voice at her husband? She was becoming jittery over her newfound knowledge.

Sam smiled at her. “My love, the one charge we can confidently level at the Duke of Portland is that he cares about what happens to his workers. He entrusted you with finding the answer to these deaths, and you have found it. He will comply with your desire to call out the enemies of his estate.”

Violet nodded. Sam was right; she was bordering on hysteria for no reason.

“However, what
I
will not comply with is the idea that you will make any accusations outside of my presence.” Sam tapped the ground with his cane for emphasis. “Is that understood?” He cupped a hand around the back of her neck and kissed her forehead.

“Well then, you should plan on a very busy day tomorrow,” she replied, hoping she herself would be able to achieve at least ten minutes of sleep during the night.