Stolen Remains (15 page)

“My apologies, Your Highness.” Violet followed Albert as he returned to his place next to Alix. She tried furiously not to think about the mummy but to concentrate on questions.

“So Lord Raybourn was in Egypt to negotiate opening ceremonies, but you think he may have been there for some other reason. Do you have any idea what else he may have been doing?”

“He spent almost all of his time with Isma’il Pasha, the viceroy. It is my belief that they were concocting something having to do with the canal that was outside of the opening festivities.”

“Was Monsieur de Lesseps a part of these discussions?”

“Not that I could tell. Alix, did you ever see de Lesseps join them?”

The princess shook her head. “Never.”

“Other than going behind closed doors with the viceroy, did he exhibit any other peculiar behavior?”

The prince considered this. “He always seemed to have a telegram to dash off to someone. At first I assumed it was a steady stream of reports to my mother about me, but now I’m not so sure.”

Whom could Lord Raybourn have been contacting, and about what? Names flitted through Violet’s mind: Mrs. Peet, Stephen, the queen. He could have had any number of reasons to send messages to any of them. But constantly?

“Did Lord Raybourn have his cook and valet with him?”

“Yes. Madame Brusse was practically a third arm to him. He would eat no local cuisine. He even refused the roasted, stuffed pigeons we were offered at the viceroy’s palace, insisting that only Madame Brusse could prepare his food. The viceroy was offended, but said nothing. Raybourn missed out on a divine dish, not to mention the grilled eggplant and
roz moammar
. Remember, Alix? That divine rice cooked in cream?” The prince patted his stomach at the memory.

He was not yet thirty years old, but already suggesting a future paunch, unlike Alix, who was thin and corseted to the point of rib breakage.

Why would a British diplomat sent to negotiate with an Egyptian diplomat be so offensive as to refuse to eat in the Egyptian’s own residence?

“Is it possible that Lord Raybourn was fearful of being poisoned?”

Albert shrugged. “Why would anyone bother to poison him? He was bound to expire from his own tediousness at some point.”

If the viscount feared being poisoned, he clearly had that fear before leaving London, hence why he took his own private cook with him. Any aristocrat might take a valet along to assist with shaving, dressing, and undressing, but a cook was more unusual.

“Did Lord Raybourn split off from your party once you arrived back at Dover? Or were you on the same train together for part of your return to London?”

Albert looked at her incredulously. “Are you suggesting that I should have kept notes on what any of dozens of people were doing when they debarked the ship?”

“No, no, of course not.” What a muddle Violet was making of this. “So Lord Raybourn came back with you via ship, but you don’t know what happened to him once you docked.”

“I didn’t say that at all. I have no idea whether he was on the ship. We also had port calls in Constantinople, the Crimea, and Athens. He could have debarked at any of these places and not returned. As I said, Mrs. Harper, I was not conducting an inventory of who sailed with us, and spent much of my time in my private cabin with my wife. Isn’t that right, dear?”

Alix nodded in agreement, self-consciously putting a hand to her own stomach.

“I guess all we really know is that Lord Raybourn returned to London, died almost immediately upon his return, and neither his cook nor his valet were with him,” Violet said.

“Unless one of them helped to dispatch him,” Albert replied.

And, as with any of the other members of Lord Raybourn’s household, what reason could they have possibly had for doing so? Why would either of them want to see Mrs. Peet dead?

Every time Violet thought about things, she got more twisted than a knot of black bunting.

When she took her leave of the royal couple, the princess followed her down the hall, both pairs of their shoes clacking along the black-and-white-tiled hallways. “Mrs. Harper, I hope you don’t think too poorly of the prince. He has been suffering from undue pressures.”

“No, Your Highness, I don’t.”

“I do hope you will inform Her Majesty that he was most cooperative with you. You see, I want nothing more than peace in the family, for this and future generations. It is most important to me. Do you understand?” She lightly patted her stomach again.

“Your Highness, I understand you perfectly.”

W
ill and Harry delivered Mrs. Peet’s coffin the next morning through the servants’ entrance, helped Violet transfer the woman into the coffin, then placed the coffin back onto the table. Violet directed that the coffin remain down in the relative ignominy of the kitchens, as it would never be appropriate for a servant’s corpse to share space with her aristocratic employer’s.

Violet propped the coffin lid open and picked out some dying stems from Rebecca’s posy, ensuring it still looked fresh.

Will and Harry headed back out, but a few moments later, a rapping at the door revealed that Will had returned.

“Did you forget something?” Violet asked.

“No,” he said, removing his tall hat and tapping it against his thigh. “I was just, ah, wondering if you might—might possibly . . .”

“Will, what’s wrong?”

“It’s my Lydia, you see. She’s threatening to move back with her parents if I don’t do something.”

“About your profession, you mean?”

“Yes. She says she wants me to do something more respectable.”

“A common grievance about our business. But she knew you were an undertaker when she met you.”

Will cast his eyes down and brushed away invisible lint from his trousers. “Yes, but I think she always had designs on fixing that problem.”

“I see.” Violet shuddered to think of Sam preventing her from doing her life’s calling. “What is it you want me to do?”

“I was just wondering if . . .” The man looked pained.

“Speak plainly, Will.”

“I thought perhaps you might like to buy me back out of Morgan Undertaking.”

“What? I’ll be leaving London for Colorado as soon as these two burials are finished. What use do I have for an undertaking shop here?”

“Do you really think the queen will let you leave? There’s no real reason for her to keep you here to attend to Lord Raybourn’s funeral. Any number of competent undertakers could have been dispatched—including the royal one if she was so concerned—yet she pulls you from your mother’s deathbed for it. Imagine how many dozens of funerals will be lined up for you outside Windsor as soon as you’re done here, each one an opportunity for the queen to discuss her darling Albert’s own service with you.”

“Will! We shouldn’t talk about the queen that way.”

“Yet you don’t deny it.”

“I merely haven’t thought about it. It’s a silly notion.”

“Is it?” Will put his hat back on his head and a hand on the door latch. “Promise to consider it, Mrs. Harper? I’ll give you very favorable terms.”

“But I won’t be staying—”

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Violet alone with Mrs. Peet once more.

She decided to check on Lord Raybourn’s flowers and the ice chest before leaving. The chest would need draining and refilling with ice soon. Except for Toby, the entire family was gathered in the drawing room talking, and Violet was obviously interrupting.

“My apologies, I just wanted to remove any wilted stems . . .”

“Go ahead,” Stephen said. “We were just noticing the undertaking wagon driving away. I presume Mrs. Peet is taken care of?”

“Yes, her coffin is open downstairs if you’d like to see her.”

The look of distaste that passed across everyone’s face provided a stark answer. Violet plucked a drooping lily from one of the pots surrounding the coffin. The room was utterly silent except for what she was doing and she felt all eyes upon her as if she were an intruder.

Turning back to the group, she said, “The queen has approved Mrs. Peet’s burial, so I recommend that we plan to inter her tomorrow at Highgate Cemetery.”

“Right charitable of Her Majesty to let us bury our own servant,” Dorothy said.

Violet ignored her. “Was she Anglican or Nonconformist?”

“Anglican, I’m sure. But wait, I thought we were going to bury her back in Sussex,” Stephen said.

“The queen wishes that everyone stay in London while the investigation of Lord Raybourn’s death proceeds.”

The room erupted in protest, with Dorothy leading the charge of disparaging comments toward Queen Victoria.

This was familiar territory for Violet, who was used to families squabbling over funereal details. She moved to a section of floor not covered by carpet and sharply rapped her leather-covered heel on it twice.

“Since Mrs. Peet doesn’t seem to have any relatives beyond who sits in this room, I see no need to delay. I’ll visit the cemetery director this afternoon and arrange to have space made for her in the Anglican section. He need not know she was under suspicion of suicide, which would complicate her ability to be buried there. A modest gray obelisk gravestone would be appropriate, I think. May I assume you wish a direct routing to Highgate?”

Her command of the situation had the desired effect. Everyone’s head turned to her as the authority on the matter. Mrs. Peet was, after all, just a servant, and not a popular one at that.

“Yes,” Stephen said. “We’ve already got embarrassment enough, what with Father staged here indefinitely and two detectives wandering about at all hours. Too bad we can’t bury the woman in the dead of night. Pardon the pun.”

In fact, might it not show Mrs. Peet a modicum of respect
not
to be dragged through the streets like a show animal on parade for curiosity seekers to gawp at?

Violet pursed her lips. “We could perhaps do this discreetly.”

With the family’s approval, Violet coordinated a midnight burial, even enlisting Hurst and Pratt to assist, along with Will and Harry, in stealthily removing Mrs. Peet’s coffin under cover of night, carrying her out the door feetfirst—an old custom intended to ensure the deceased’s spirit did not look back into the house and beckon another family member—loading her onto a hearse, and paying the cemetery director and a minister extra to do their part via the light of lanterns in a consecrated section of the cemetery. Soon Mrs. Peet disappeared into one of many two-foot-by-six-foot openings in the ground, with Stephen, Gordon, and Toby the only mourners present. None of the family shed tears at her departure.

That left just Lord Raybourn in earthly purgatory.

The next morning, Violet stopped by Mary Cooke’s dress shop to pick up the Fairmont women’s black dresses, gloves, fans, and hats. How would she ever manage to carry it all back to Park Street? She stopped worrying about it as she took a closer look at her friend’s face. Mary’s eyes were swollen, and she unsuccessfully blinked back tears.

“What has happened?” Violet asked, taking her friend’s hand.

“It’s George. I am such an old fool,” Mary said.

“Is he gone again?”

“Yes, he said he was off to Switzerland to buy watch parts, but I’m not so sure. Couldn’t he just order them, as I do fabric? Why must he leave the country?”

An excellent question.

“Did he say when he would return?”

“A few weeks. Does it take so very long to buy gears and springs?”

“Perhaps there is a special supplier there that he wants to meet with. We need to get your mind off of this. Why don’t we go to Hyde Park tomorrow? We can stroll or maybe row out on the lake. After all, I won’t be in London much longer.”

Mary’s face cleared. “What a lovely idea; let’s do it.”

With a plan to meet at the park the next day, Violet took the clothing, carefully laid flat in muslin bags, to the Fairmont home. She noticed a piece of bunting dangling loosely from one of the windows and made a mental note to ask Harry to come by and reattach it to the sill.

She was greeted at the door by a nervous, garishly red-haired young woman in a maid’s uniform. Her left eye wandered back and forth as she spoke.

“Louisa, from Mrs. Hill’s agency,” the maid said in response to Violet’s inquiry as she took the bags from Violet’s hands. Her tone implied she was not happy with her assignment with the Fairmont family.

Violet waited in the drawing room with Lord Raybourn while Louisa notified the family of her presence. Dorothy came down to meet her. Taking in the stack of mourning clothing and accoutrements, Stephen’s sister said, “I doubt our mourning will be all that serious.”

Before Violet could respond, the maid admitted another visitor up to the drawing room. Violet and Dorothy stood together, blocking the view of the coffin.

“Miss Fairmont, ’tis Ellis Catesby to see you, from
The Times
.” Louisa bobbed and disappeared down the hall.

Standing before them was a middle-aged man in a rumpled suit, with bloodshot eyes. His fingers were even more ink-stained than Mr. Pratt’s. Violet’s initial thought was the man was a drunkard, but she quickly realized he was someone who probably never slept. Mr. Catesby looked pointedly around them at the coffin.

Dorothy’s eyes narrowed. “What may I do for you, Mr. Catesby?”

“I’ll only take a moment of your time, Miss Fairmont. And your name, Miss—?”

Violet looked to Dorothy, who replied, “This is Mrs. Harper, our undertaker.”

“Ah, indeed, indeed.” Catesby took a worn notebook from his jacket and scribbled away in it. “Important to have the family bonemaster about in times like these, eh?”

Dorothy drew herself to full aristocratic imperiousness. “Times like what, exactly, Mr. Catesby?”

“Times of grief and sorrow. Made worse with all of the gossip.”

“What sort of gossip?”

“About Lord Raybourn’s . . . misfortune, of course. I have it on good authority that he was murdered by his housekeeper.” Catesby tapped the side of his nose.

“Who, exactly, told you such a thing?” Dorothy looked like a volcano spewing ash in anticipation of a full-blown eruption.

“Can’t reveal my sources, now, can I, Miss Fairmont?”

“What tangle of foolishness is this, Mr. Catesby?”

“We’re preparing a special story on Lord Raybourn. It’s going to outsell any story we’ve done thus far this year. A peer attacked by his servant—imagine the sensation it will be! I’m surprised the story has stayed so quiet, what with all the black crape on the house practically announcing it. This will make me famous.”

“I hardly think that it is our responsibility to feed the newspaper’s scandal furnace, much less to make you famous. What do you want with us? I’ve a mind to call the police.”

“Apologies, apologies. It’s in the family’s best interest that I’m here, to make sure I tell your side of the story.”

“Our side?” Molten lava was making its way to the surface. Perhaps it was best if Violet intervened.

“Mr. Catesby, the family is under a great deal of duress, as I’m sure you realize. I suggest you wait until after—”

“Ellis!” Nelly Bishop glided down the stairs in a dark blue gown, a stark contrast to the animated expression she wore. Her leathery face was magically transformed into something almost resembling joy. “I thought I heard a familiar voice. I’ve not seen you since . . . since a long time ago.”

“But you—”

“So sorry you are seeing us in such a state of unhappiness. What brings you here?” Nelly smoothed her skirts before offering Catesby her hand. What was turning this Fairmont sister into such a coquette?

The reporter bent over Nelly’s hand, then held up his notebook. “I’ve been assigned to report on your father’s death, may God rest his soul. The tittle-tattle is that he was cheating at faro and was murdered by the injured party in the card game—scandalously, his servant. I thought it might be best to hear the family’s side of things.”

“Pure nonsense, you can be sure, Mr. Catesby. My father was a pillar of society, a regular Greek column—you can quote me on that—and would never stoop to such a thing.”

“Of course, of course. After all, look at his lovely daughter. Only a man of impeccable standards would have raised such a vision of perfection.”

“The years have not tempered your gift of flattery, have they? Very well, you should know the truth of things. I’ll spare my sister the inconvenience and grant you an interview myself. Won’t you join me upstairs?”

The reporter eagerly followed Nelly out of the room. Dorothy’s face was so mottled that Violet feared she would soon be preparing another body. With only a muttered, “My sister will ruin us all,” Dorothy thanked Violet for delivering the mourning clothing and showed her out.

As Violet stepped into the street, she was accosted by a tall, lanky man of indeterminate age who looked malnourished, as if he’d been living in the streets or in a workhouse for some time.

“You a member of that family?” he asked as he grabbed her elbow, nodding his head at the Fairmont home. His breath reeked of liquor.

Violet wrenched out of his grasp. “How dare you touch me and inquire about my business?”

“Miss, if you belong to that family, your business is my business. Who are you? One of the sisters?”

“Who are
you,
may I ask? Other than a complete stranger to me.” She saw his dark eyes for the first time, which gazed at her with an intensity that may have been hatred or desire, it was impossible to fathom.

“I’m a friend of the family. I need to know if the new Lord Raybourn is home.”

“He is not, although I don’t see how it is a concern of yours.” Violet marched off toward the omnibus stop, but the man pursued her.