Death at the Abbey (6 page)

In the distance, she heard the penetrating screech of a barn owl, which reminded her of Aristotle. It was impossible to think now that there would be a funeral for a bird. At first light tomorrow, Violet planned to march into the kitchens, pick up the box containing the raven's remains, and quickly inter him in the burial ground next to the rookery. Undoubtedly the duke's mind would be elsewhere once he realized one of his workers was dead.

Not just dead. Murdered.

5

A
s Violet had expected, Portland was disquieted by Spencer's death. He was even more distressed by Violet's pronouncement that she had had Spencer placed on the table of his newly remodeled dining room, and that she would prepare him there in the morning.

By the time Violet voiced her suspicion that Colonel Mortimer had not engaged in complete truth telling, she could sense Portland's agitation behind the screen.

“Why would you say such a thing?” he asked.

“Because, although I do believe Spencer was murdered, it most certainly was not by strangulation. His head was bloodied by a rock, which I believe he was struck with before he fell to the ground.”

“How do you ascertain this?” She could hear that the duke was now breathing heavily behind the screen.

“Because it was lying two feet away instead of directly under his head or close by. I think someone struck him—in anger or in a planned way—then panicked, dropped the rock, and ran.”

“I see.” He wheezed several more times, then said, “So you are suggesting that George was not just having an episode, and that he didn't merely witness an accidental death?”

“I don't suggest it, sir. I am convinced of it.” Violet hoped he wouldn't go apoplectic at her assertion.

“Good Lord, what do I do?”

“Well, sir, you should probably send someone for the police.”

At that, Portland was aghast. “I couldn't possibly do so. Have men traipsing about the property, poking their noses wherever they want, questioning my servants? Questioning
me?
Unthinkable. No, this must be handled another way.” He paused and said slowly, “You, Mrs. Harper. You have already discovered that Spencer did not die of a fall. I'm sure I can rely on you to discover the perpetrator. Discreetly, of course. After all, you will at least be staying long enough to manage Spencer's funeral, will you not?”

Violet saw that all of her plans to visit the nearby Creswell Crags to view their Ice Age cave art, and to travel down to Edwinstowe to walk through the ancient Church of St. Mary, were not going to materialize anytime soon. Her holiday was quickly turning into work, but Sam was so busy with his colliery that he probably wouldn't mind. She hoped.

After all, there was a corpse that needed her, and that tug on Violet's heart was nearly a maternal instinct. Taking care of Spencer and seeing justice for him was far more rewarding than a church's pamphlet for her scrapbook.

“Yes, of course, Your Grace, I will see to Mr. Spencer's funeral and will discover who committed this crime against him.”

“Very good. I am certain that the colonel had nothing to do with it.”

The duke's defense of his friend was admirable, though probably misplaced. Her first concern, though, was Spencer's funeral. “Shall we hold Mr. Spencer's service inside Welbeck Abbey's chapel?”

Violet heard the sharp intake of breath from behind the screen. “Indeed not! I am shocked that you would advocate such a thing, and now you have suggested it twice in one day. No one is permitted to use the chapel. Go see the vicar at Worksop Priory and have him buried in the churchyard there. Tell Reverend Appleton I'll give him whatever donation he wants.”

After that outburst from the duke, her next suggestion—that, under the circumstances, it was best to just bury Aristotle quietly—was surprisingly met with a simple “Yes. Quite right.”

Violet left the duke's presence, already wondering if she'd made the right decision to become further involved at Welbeck Abbey. Why was no one allowed to use the chapel? And why did everyone behave as though it were perfectly normal that the Duke of Portland could not interact with other people in a normal fashion but rather must do so behind a screen?

 

After a check on Spencer to be sure his body was not splayed out at odd angles on the dining room table, which had a tablecloth hastily thrown between it and the corpse, Violet allowed herself to be escorted to her rooms by Mrs. Neale. The door plaque read, “Old English Black Room,” and although it was located on an upper story with Portland, his suite overlooked the rear gardens and lake, whereas she was at the front of the home, overlooking the long drive and the ongoing tunnel construction.

“Am I in this room because it is complete, or because the name is a play on my profession and dark clothing?” Violet asked.

“Neither, madam,” Mrs. Neale said as she shook out one of her dozens of keys and inserted it into the lock. “His Grace is a well-known horseman and has named the guest rooms after extinct breeds. We all get lessons in them. Let me see, William the Conqueror was responsible for the Old English Black breed by crossing some of the brutes he brought over the Channel with some English mares, if I recall correctly. The other rooms on this floor are the Norfolk Trotter, the Irish Hobby, and the Cheval Navarrin.”

“Are those rooms also finished?” Violet said as she followed the housekeeper into the darkened room.

“Yes, this wing of the house is complete.” Mrs. Neale bent over a table and turned up a lamp. It illuminated a chilly room with tall windows framed in thick, fringed floral draperies in deep reds and blues, a canopied bed, an oversized walnut armoire, and a Turkish carpet that covered much of the herringboned floor. Spectacular landscapes covered the walls. A doorway at one end led to another room, which Violet supposed was a sitting room, as she could see a writing desk and several chairs in it. As with the other art-filled but otherwise empty rooms that she had traveled through earlier, there was an elaborate commode in one corner.

“His Grace provides magnificent quarters for his guests,” Violet said. “Does he entertain often?”

“Never,” Mrs. Neale replied tersely, pulling aside the fire screen from the fireplace and using a poker to turn over the dying embers of a fire that must have been laid hours ago. “Where is that Olive? I told her to start this fire and keep it going.”

“I suppose that's my fault, Mrs. Neale, since she was helping me look through the dishes.” It seemed like a lifetime ago that Violet had thought the shard Aristotle had choked on was of any importance.

“That's no excuse for the girl. She should have been able to manage both. I'll have her bring up a carafe of water, unless you prefer sherry?” When Violet shook her head no, the housekeeper went to the doorway. “Will that be all, Mrs. Harper?”

“Yes, thank you.” With Mrs. Neale gone, Violet arranged her clothing in the room's armoire. Sam had done an admirable job of selecting things for her. She set her undertaking bag near the door to the hallway since she would need it first thing in the morning.

Olive knocked at the door, carrying a tray with not only water but also a pot of tea and some buttery scones. The girl looked as though she had been well chastised as she added more coal to the fireplace from a bucket on the hearth. Soon it was blazing again.

“Have a pleasant evening, madam,” Olive said aloofly, having lost any vestige of her earlier friendliness.

Finally alone, Violet went into the sitting room and looked through the writing desk's drawers. As she'd hoped, it was well stocked with paper, pens, and ink jars. She set to work, outlining what had to be done for Spencer's burial.

Presuming that his fellow estate workers would wish to pay their respects to him, Violet knew she had to plan on a fairly large entourage. Let's see, the duke wanted it to be held at Worksop Priory, which must be at least five miles away if it was in the center of town. Should it be a walking procession, or should she ask the duke for carriages to transport mourners back and forth?

Normally, this would be a third-class funeral, but the duke was paying for it, so it should be something more. Perhaps when she went into Worksop tomorrow to visit Reverend Appleton, she could find some black plumes to attach to the horses pulling the hearse wagon, which would have to be fashioned from equipage already in the duke's mews.

Ah yes, she needed a coffin. She would also telegram Boyce and Sons tomorrow from town and ask them to put a stained pine box, with interior and exterior velvet trimmings, on the next train to Nottinghamshire.

There was so much to be done, and Violet was at a great disadvantage to be working so far away from her shop. Speaking of her shop . . . she then made a list of various items she needed from Morgan Undertaking. That would go into another telegram to Harry Blundell, her business partner.

Once she was satisfied that she had Mr. Spencer's funeral in hand, she undressed—always blissfully happy to be rid of her corset—put on her nightgown, and climbed into the bed. The bed was extraordinarily plush and comfortable. The duke hadn't spared a dime in renovating this room, just as he had surely spent a king's ransom on the dining room.

As she snuggled down, she wondered briefly how it was that men like the duke managed to hold so much wealth. Portland was spending fantastic sums to maintain and renovate his estate, with workers buzzing about like bees in a hive, and there seemed no end in sight to what he was doing. It was almost as if he had access to the Crown's treasury and its seemingly endless supply of the nation's wealth.

6

T
he following morning, having dispensed with Aristotle in a quickly dug little square of ground under a tree near the rookery—a fitting location, she thought—Violet returned to the dining room to attend to her more important work, tending to Burton Spencer.

Despite his size, he looked like a tiny doll on the enormous table. The portraits on the wall looked like mourners gathered around to grieve his loss, an image Violet rather liked.

She pulled away several chairs so that she could stand directly against the table as she worked. One of the parlor maids had left a full washbasin and several cloths on the floor in anticipation of Violet's work, which the undertaker appreciated.

“Now, Mr. Spencer,” she began, placing her hand over one of his as she smoothed out the tablecloth with her other hand, “I know that you have suffered great indignities over the past day or so, and I am quite sorry for it. I want you to know that today I plan to make you look most presentable. You should also know that His Grace is paying for your funeral and that everyone at Welbeck Abbey will be in attendance, I'm sure, to pay their respects to you. You are not forgotten in your death.”

Violet patted his knuckles and said, “I hope you will not be offended, but I must undress you in order to clean you. I will be discreet, I promise.”

His shirt was a loosely constructed piece of yellow nankeen, and she was able to remove it over his head relatively easily, despite his stiff weight. Although Spencer had the height of an older man, his chest and stomach gave the impression of a more immature one, with no sprouted hairs nor any of the roughened skin or scars that most working-class men had developed by their twenties. What Violet did see on Spencer horrified her.

In the middle of his chest was fierce bruising, as though he had been slammed in the torso several times. She gently laid her hand on his chest, which didn't even cover the spread of purple.

This had happened before he fell, but she would estimate not long before. The bright coloring told her it had not had time to fade into the greenish-brown hues that accompanied a bruise's healing. It couldn't have happened after death, or the bruise would have never formed.

More importantly, it wasn't possible that this was the result of his backward fall against the rock. The only conclusion Violet could make was that Spencer had been struck—perhaps repeatedly?—shortly before he died.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Hudock announcing Ellery Reed into the room. Violet was immediately on edge, but in a sign of humility, Reed swept his dusty, brimmed cap from his head as Hudock departed, a sign of humility. All of his hubris and disdain from the previous evening were gone.

“Mrs. Harper,” Mr. Reed began awkwardly, “I've come to apologize. I—” His glance darted to where Spencer lay, shirtless. “I was unspeakably rude last night. I don't know what came over me. I was—May I see him?”

Violet nodded and stepped aside as Reed approached the table. Reed stood gazing down at Spencer for several minutes, lost in either thought or prayer. Finally, he stepped away from Spencer and looked up, his eyes moist.

“As I was saying, ma'am, I wasn't myself last night. When they came to fetch me, I thought they were either playing a prank on me or that Spencer here had just gotten himself into trouble. When they're older you just have to contend with them drinking, but the younger ones get into all sorts of mischief. It's a constant chore to keep your workers in line. When I saw that it really was one of my men, dead like that, I'm afraid I didn't react very well.” Reed gazed at Violet. His eyes were a pale brown, almost as if their color were fading away from so much strenuous outdoor work. A tear gathered in the corner of one eye, and Violet turned away so that the estate manager was not unmanned in her presence.

“Think nothing of it, Mr. Reed,” she assured him, picking up one of the cloths the maid had left and covering Spencer's bruising with it.

Reed continued, “I've not lost a worker in two years, you know. In fact, I've only lost three since coming to Welbeck Abbey five years ago, and those just to illness or an overabundance of liquor, never an accident. What happened to Spencer is . . . impossible.” He sniffed, and Violet knew he was still restraining tears behind her.

“Accidents are an unfortunate part of life,” she said to console him, not ready to share her suspicions with anyone yet, particularly a man who was already distraught over the loss of a worker in his charge. “I don't believe he suffered much.” A small lie, if Spencer had been attacked the way she believed he had, but it was an offer of comfort.

Reed nodded. “Will there be a funeral here?”

Violet turned back to face him. “Tomorrow the procession will go from here to Worksop Priory.”

“I'll make sure the men are ready.”

“You said that he has no family nearby,” she added.

“No, none.”

“I could use something, Mr. Reed,” she said. “Another suit of clothes for Mr. Spencer. Is that something you can find for me?”

Reed seemed happy to have a role to play, and his grizzled face broke into a smile. “Yes, I can send along something.” With that, Reed left and Violet returned her attentions to caring for Spencer. By the time she was done washing him, Hudock was once again tapping on the door, with a freshly laundered shirt and homespun trousers. “From Mr. Reed,” he said, avoiding any glance over at the dining room table.

Violet redressed Spencer and tied a string around his left ear, brought it under his chin, and tied the other end around his right ear to keep his jaw shut. After a couple of drops of adhesive along his eyelids to keep his eyes shut, she pulled out her case of cosmetic massages.

“You are well weathered from the sun for someone so young, Mr. Spencer,” she said, examining her various color pots. “I think that Earth Number Two—no, Number Three—is the right one for you.”

She applied the cream to his face and forehead, then combed his freshly washed and dried hair. “Sir, I believe you are ready for your ceremony, and you may rely upon me to get you to Worksop safely.”

As Violet cleared up her supplies, set the used washbasin and cloths outside the dining room door for pickup by whichever maid wandered past, and headed back to her room, she considered what had transpired over the last day. It was baffling, from the duke's oddities to Colonel Mortimer's confusing claim of a murder, to her realization that someone had indeed been killed.

Had it been an accident, or had someone maliciously attacked Spencer? If it was just an accident resulting from an argument, why hadn't the other party immediately run for help?

Violet shook her head. She'd spent too much time investigating suspicious deaths, and now she assumed that everyone had dark histories and motives.

And yet it was obvious that Spencer had been abandoned after he fell, although no one had taken pains to try and hide his body. Did the killer want Spencer to be found? If so, why? Was there something of importance about Spencer that was not obvious at a cursory glance? He certainly carried nothing of value upon him. In fact, he carried nothing at all. After all, he was merely an estate worker.

Moreover, what about the ostensible witness to Spencer's death, Colonel Mortimer? Was he merely mistaken about exactly what he had witnessed in the dark shadows, or had he intentionally misled the duke?

Violet tucked her undertaking bag back inside her bedchamber's armoire before heading out to visit the vicar. At least inside a church there would be calm and peace for a few minutes. Maybe Reverend Appleton could offer her a blessing, or a few words of comfort.

Violet stopped to send her telegrams to Harry and to Boyce and Sons, then shopped for black ostrich feather plumes at a milliner's shop before walking to Worksop Priory. The church was located in the center of town as so many were since towns frequently centered around the fairs, festivals, and other activities sponsored by a local chapel or cathedral. It had a magnificent nave and appeared to have been recently restored, although it was obvious that many parts of the church and its outbuildings still required repair, even three hundred years after Henry VIII's rampage. Violet supposed that sacred spaces were not candidates for hasty rebuilding projects. That, or most of the local men were busy at Welbeck Abbey.

The Reverend James Appleton was probably as old as the duke, but had a head full of snowy white hair and a step full of vigor. Had it not been for his lined face, Violet would have thought he was half his age.

“Yes, I've had word about the tragic accident at Welbeck,” he said, inviting Violet to sit down in his cramped study, which was heaped with Bibles, yellowed parchment manuscripts, translations of classical ancient works, and sacramental supplies: chalices, candles, and linens. It was as if the Almighty had blown a mighty breath through the door, leaving His marks behind in a jumble.

Violet sat in an old leather chair and immediately jumped up at the feeling of something sharp poking her. She lifted the cushion to find a gold-plated crucifix beneath it. The shape of the Christ was very realistically portrayed on it.

“Ah, a thousand apologies, Mrs. Harper. I wondered where that went.” Appleton took it from her and inserted the base of it inside a staff and then placed the staff on the wall behind him, with the horizontal bar of the cross resting upon two nails. “So you wish to have Mr. Spencer's funeral tomorrow?”

Appleton pulled a ledger from the bottom of a tottering pile of books. He was obviously experienced at doing so because the stack wobbled precariously for several moments but did not collapse. “My curate is away, so I've been handling details large and small. Let me see . . .” The vicar patted himself until he found his gold, wire-rimmed glasses on top of his head. Putting them on, he flipped through his ledger until he found the page he wanted.

“Hmm, yes, the ladies' benevolence group was planning to have a meeting here tomorrow, but we shall put them off for a few days, shan't we?” He drew a line through an entry in the ledger and scribbled something else. “His Grace should not be kept waiting. He is a great benefactor to our parish, you know.”

Most peers were. In fact, in previous centuries, parishes owed their entire existence to whichever lord held sway in their locality.

Violet nodded at the vicar. “This would normally be a mere third-class funeral, but since the duke is bearing the expense for it, and it will be well attended by all of Welbeck's workers, it is my plan to make it a bit more . . . elaborate.”

Appleton raised an attentive eyebrow. “His Grace is covering the service? Yes, that is very interesting. Do you know whether Mr. Spencer is Anglican or one of these nonconformist types?”

Nonconformists were those of any sect—typically Baptists, Presbyterians, and Methodists—who dissented from the Church of England's governance.

“Actually, I do not know,” she replied. “No one seems to know much about him.”

Appleton pursed his lips. “Hmm. Well then. Yes.” He scribbled down something else in his ledger. “I believe it wise to assume Mr. Spencer was a faithful adherent to the Church of England. His Grace despises nonconformists.”

“Really?” Violet asked. Here was a new fact about Portland to add to a growing list of his curious qualities.

Appleton smiled appreciatively at her interest. “His Grace has a great affection for the Anglican church and its special place in the history of the Lord's blessing upon His people. The duke doesn't care much for how the sheep are being led astray by those who practice outside orthodoxy. Entirely too radical, His Grace says, and one cannot help but be in complete agreement with so pious a man. In fact, last August he gave two thousand pounds to the National Protestant Union, which is trying to prevent the horrid disestablishment of the Irish branch of our church.” As he spoke, Appleton began waving his hands to emphasize his points. Violet watched helplessly as his left hand bumped into a pile of books, from which the top one fell to the floor.

Violet jumped up and retrieved the volume for him, reading the title aloud as she handed it back to the vicar. “
High Church, Low Church, and Broad Church: An Examination of the Merits and Shifting Attitudes Toward Ceremonial Worship
. I had no idea there was such great debate,” she said politely, not realizing what she was about to unleash.

“Oh yes.” Appleton was warming to his own theological discourse. “As you probably know, the church appeals to three sources for authority: scripture, reason, and tradition.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “Low churchmen tend to put more emphasis on scripture in their services, the Broad churchmen on reason, and the High churchmen on tradition.”