Stolen Remains (10 page)

Hurst shot Pratt a look Violet didn’t understand, but she felt a chill from it. Pratt must have caught the same cold wind, for he quickly changed subjects. “May I ask, Mrs. Harper, how you came into this trade?”

“My first husband’s family owned an undertaking shop and I learned the trade from him.”

Pratt flipped farther back in his notebook and began a new round of note taking. “What happened to your first husband?”

“He was killed during a crossing of the Atlantic.”

“I see. And now you operate this business by yourself?”

“Yes.”

“How do you come by most of your, er, clients?”

“Mr. Pratt, is this mere curiosity, or are you also interviewing me in conjunction with Lord Raybourn’s death?”

“What? Oh.” Pratt reddened. “Sorry, I was just wondering. We don’t normally have anything to do with a body once it finally goes off to be prepared for burial. You’re the first undertaker I’ve really known, and you’re a woman at that. Makes a man interested, is all. I mean no offense, truly.”

“None taken.”

At that moment, Nelly’s husband finally came downstairs to meet with the detectives. Pratt flipped back in his notebook to where he was previously, and the questioning began anew.

“Thank you for meeting with us, Mr. Bishop. Can you tell me anything about your father-in-law?”

“What would you like to know? Anything I can do to help, Mr. Hurst, anything.” Mr. Bishop’s smile beneath his long and full mustache seemed overly bright to Violet.

“How, for instance, would you characterize Lord Raybourn’s disposition in the months leading up to his death? Did he seem anxious or depressed to you?”

Gordon reached into his jacket and pulled out a cigarette case, offering it to each of the detectives, who declined. He selected one for himself and put the case on the occasional table next to him. “So you believe it was a suicide?”

“We are considering all possibilities. As such, we are interested in Lord Raybourn’s frame of mind. For example, he may have been under duress because he was being threatened by someone.”

“I see what you’re getting at.” Gordon pulled out a silver filigreed match case, struck one of the matches, and put a flame to his cigarette, puffing several times before putting the match case on top of the cigarette case, and placing them next to a large crystal ashtray. The intricately cut pattern covering the receptacle reflected light in many colors, showing it to be much more a work of art than a utilitarian accessory.

Gordon settled back, blowing a cloud toward the ceiling. “Now that you mention it, the old man did seem fixated on something, especially in the weeks leading up to his departure from Willow Tree House to come to London. Once we heard that he’d been invited to go with the prince to Egypt, I assumed his preoccupation was over those plans.”

“So you saw him frequently?”

“Certainly. We were family, and we have a grandson the old man doted on.”

“That’s a handsome case you have,” Hurst said.

Gordon lifted it from next to the thick ashtray and held it up. “Isn’t it? The old man gave it to me Christmas last. It’s probably worth quite a few pence. This ashtray of his is one of my favorites, too. The old man had excellent taste in smoking goods.”

“Was that the last time you saw your father-in-law?”

“Heavens, no. There was Toby’s birthday, a dinner here and there, and Toby and I went on a weekend shoot with him so that Toby could use the new rifle the old man gave him. Bagged quite a few woodcock, indeed. He enjoyed having us around.”

“I see. So you were on good personal terms with Lord Raybourn. What of your wife? How did she get on with her father?”

“Quite well.” Gordon dropped his voice. “You know, between us, I think Nelly was her father’s favorite. Would never let on to Stephen, of course. He’s quite devastated by the old man’s loss.”

“Why do you think she was his favorite?”

“Look at her. She’s a beauty still, isn’t she? And still full of youthful spunk. What father wouldn’t adore her? Even today I can’t imagine why the old man championed me with her. Look at me, a poor solicitor’s son, married to the exquisite daughter of the Viscount Raybourn.”

“Have you a profession, Mr. Bishop?”

“Ahem. Well, I followed my father into law, and since my marriage I’ve taken a stab at a few investments and such, but the old man, you know, wanted his son-in-law to live more like a gentleman and he, er, helped us along a bit.”

Hurst nodded. “I presume that help has disappeared with Lord Raybourn’s death?”

“Hardly.” Gordon tapped his cigarette against the ashtray’s edge and brought it back to his lips for another long draw. “The old man assured me that we were well provided for in his will.”

“So his death was beneficial to you?”

Gordon shrugged. “I’ll forgive you for your understandable insensitivity. His death is irrelevant. From a financial perspective, I mean. We are quite distraught as a family. But Nelly and I were to be comfortable whether her father lived or died.” He crushed the cigarette in the tray, which was so large it appeared to swallow the stub whole. “How else can I help you?”

Hurst changed course. “You don’t seem the least bit worried for your son.”

“Worried? For what?”

“Doesn’t he stand to inherit if the new Lord and Lady Raybourn don’t have children, which I imagine is quite unlikely at this point?”

“A peer’s inheritance is through the male line, so Nelly would have to pull off some remarkable intrigues to make that happen.”

“Your wife told us that she is desperately frightened that whoever killed Lord Raybourn might also be after his heirs, specifically Tobias.”

“She said that?”

Hurst nodded.

“But that doesn’t . . . he couldn’t have . . . when would . . . well, then.” Gordon smiled. His teeth were remarkably white for someone who enjoyed tobacco. Perhaps it was a recent habit. “I must be mistaken then. Whatever my Nelly says is correct, I’m sure, and if she’s worried, so am I.”

“I see,” Hurst said. “You should also know that your wife intends to stay here while we seek out what happened to your father-in-law, so that she is available to assist us.”

“Nelly said she
wanted
to stay here? With the rest of the family?”

“Yes.”

Gordon blinked a few times but his friendly smile returned as he picked up his match and cigarette cases. “Very well, whatever Nelly wants is what I want, too. You can count on the Bishops to be on hand for whatever is necessary.”

He stood, shook hands with the detectives, nodded his head in Violet’s direction, and bounded back up the stairs like a hunted stag.

“You lied to Mr. Bishop,” Violet said to Hurst.

“Yes, I did. You also lied to his wife.”

“But yours was an outright falsehood. I was merely attempting to . . . soften her.”

“You do not have a hold on cleverness, Mrs. Harper. I decided to use your own bit of trickery to unsettle Mrs. Bishop’s husband. Those two are playing to some script, I’m sure of it, although whether it has to do with Lord Raybourn’s death or some other aristocratic melodrama, I don’t know. Assuredly, they are right now having a spat, and eventually something will come out that will be helpful. First, though, I’m going to nudge them into getting that boy of theirs over here so we can talk to him and be done with this for now.” Hurst stood, ready to leave.

“Wait.” Violet reached into the ashtray and held up the stub of Gordon’s cigarette. “Look familiar?”

Hurst nodded. “The same type that was next to Lord Raybourn’s body. What of it? It’s probably a popular local brand. And Mr. Bishop said he was on very familiar terms with his father-in-law, who probably gave them to him.”

“But what Mr. Bishop says directly conflicts with what his wife says, doesn’t it? So if the wife is correct and they rarely saw Lord Raybourn, then it is a great coincidence that he smokes the same cigarette, isn’t it?”

Hurst rolled his eyes, but snatched the stub from Violet and handed it to Pratt. “Match this up to one in Lord Raybourn’s tobacco box, then go to a tobacconist to see whether it is a rare or expensive brand.”

Pratt tucked the cigarette remnant into one of his pockets.

“As for you, Mrs. Harper, it is best you realize that detection is a tricky business and not something that can be engaged in on a whim.”

“Did I suggest any such thing?”

“I suppose not. I think we’re done here until we can do our last interview with the boy. Come, Mr. Pratt, the ancient lands await us.”

The two detectives left, and Violet went downstairs to see to the lilies.

Mrs. Peet sat on a bench before a well-worn table stained with years of cut vegetables and meat juices. Pots of lilies dotted the floor, overwhelming the kitchen with their cloying fragrance. Mrs. Peet held a plucked bloom in her hand and was twisting it back and forth. Violet wasn’t sure if the woman was praying or merely muttering to herself.

“Mrs. Peet?” she said. “I’m here for the flowers.”

The housekeeper refocused, as if just seeing Violet for the first time. “Yes, Mrs. Harper. Are the detectives still here?”

“No, they’re gone. Could you help me carry these pots upstairs? In fact, I could use your help in deciding exactly where they should go to complement Lord Raybourn’s coffin.”

Mrs. Peet brightened considerably at the suggestion, and the two women worked quickly to get the flowers upstairs. Except for insisting that a pot go on either end of the coffin—more insurance against any objectionable smells wafting from out of the coffin—she allowed Mrs. Peet to dictate where each plant went.

The woman seemed much cheered by the task, and, as Violet prepared to leave—would she ever be able to get anything to eat?—Mrs. Peet cleared her throat. “Er, Mrs. Harper, might I have a word? Downstairs?”

“Certainly.”

Back in the kitchens, Mrs. Peet spoke in hushed tones. “I can’t talk for long, as I expect the family will be wanting supper soon. Would you care for a buttered scone?”

“Heavens, yes.” Violet fell on it, once again almost embarrassed by her appetite, but not discomfited enough to refuse the tangy lemon curd the housekeeper spooned out for her. She finished the treat in mere seconds.

“You wanted to talk to me?” she asked, blotting her lips with a napkin.

“Yes. It’s about Lord Raybourn.” Mrs. Peet sniffed and wiped away a tear as she picked up Violet’s crumb-littered plate and put it in a sink.

When she sat back down across from Violet, Violet reached out and took the woman’s hand. “You were very devoted to your employer, I can see that.”

“More than you know, ma’am. But it’s all for naught now.” Mrs. Peet exhaled a great sigh and removed her hand from Violet’s, lifted an edge of her apron, and daubed at her eyes. “There’s something I must tell you about his death.”

“Are you sure this isn’t something you should tell the detectives?”

“No, I don’t trust them. You’re taking care of His Lordship—and quite considerate you are about it—so you’re the only one I trust. Plus, I don’t think the family would take too kindly to me running about talking to the police.”

“Very well. What do you want to tell me?”

“It’s about what happened before Lord Raybourn died. With the cook, Madame Brusse, and Lord Raybourn’s valet, Mr. Larkin. You see, we all came to London with him in February, prior to the start of the Season. When His Lordship said he was going to Egypt, he decided to take Madame Brusse and Mr. Larkin with him, to take care of him while he was away.”

“But he didn’t take you along?”

“No, but I have no complaints. I had my duties here and I knew he’d come back to me—I mean, to London. Besides, why would he need a housekeeper in a hotel?”

“For that matter, why would he need a cook?” Violet asked.

“Lord Raybourn was very discerning about his food. He sent over to Burgundy just to hire Madame Brusse away from some fancy place there. I expect taking her with him meant he would always have the dishes he liked. His Lordship loved Beef Bourguignon and said Madame Brusse made the best in the world. Succulent so as to melt in your mouth, he always said.”

Where was Mrs. Peet wandering off to in this conversation?

“So Lord Raybourn took along his cook and valet . . .” Violet said.

“Yes, and that’s just what’s wrong.” Mrs. Peet dropped her voice one more level. “Where are they? Lord Raybourn came home unexpectedly early, but didn’t bring Madame Brusse and Mr. Larkin with him?”

“Perhaps he gave them leave to stay behind for a longer visit? Or maybe Madame Brusse stopped along the return to visit relatives in France?”

Mrs. Peet shook her head in frustration. “Lord Raybourn wouldn’t have allowed it. As I said, he’s particular about his food. My cooking is acceptable, but it’s not . . . French. And why would Mr. Larkin stay behind?”

“Mrs. Peet, are you suggesting that Lord Raybourn’s trusted cook and valet had something to do with his death and have now disappeared?”

Violet heard a rustling noise at the top of the servants’ staircase. Mrs. Peet must have heard it, too, because she looked up that way, her eyes round as biscuits. “Oh dear,” she said, now speaking in nearly a whisper. “Someone must have heard me. I can stay but a moment longer. May I ask a very special favor? Might I see His Lordship one last time?”

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea. He’s not up to visitors.”

“Mrs. Harper, I know you think I’m just a housekeeper and therefore probably without feelings, but I tell you I loved that man more than anyone else in this family. I should like to clip a lock of his hair before he’s buried.”

“No!”

“Please, I know that he’s not what he was when he was alive, but I must see him one more time. I have this”—she pulled an empty, glass-domed brooch from her apron pocket—“and I plan to curl his hair in the shape of a fleur-de-lis inside it. I thought I might even edge the inside with some blue ribbon, and if I can cut enough from his head, I’ll braid the rest into a bracelet. . . .” Mrs. Peet’s voice trailed off.

Violet was torn. Under normal circumstances, the housekeeper’s request was perfectly benign. But Lord Raybourn’s circumstance was anything but normal, and Mrs. Peet was not a family member.