Stolen Remains (2 page)

Speaking of unrestrained, Lady Florence was looking rather fetching in her garb, some sort of English interpretation of Egyptian concubine dress. Perhaps she really had spent time in a harem.

Bertie wondered if he could sneak a glance at his pocket watch without being noticed. They would never get to Constantinople if the viceroy’s speech was to last into eternity. Even Alix rustled impatiently next to him, her hand in the crook of his arm as she kept a smile plastered on her face.

“. . . that the idea of a canal, although now to be completed by Monsieur de Lesseps with our help, was originally an Egyptian idea, one rooted in our ancient and glorious culture, an idea of the legendary Pharaoh Sesostris . . .” Isma’il Pasha said, his voice booming so that people crowding around him on shore could hear. The man was in his finest dress, with a red bucket-shaped hat on his head, and his chest covered with bright badges and medals.

Monsieur de Lesseps stood next to the viceroy, his chest puffed in pride over the comparisons between his idea and that of an ancient pharaoh’s.

While Pasha talked, the prince thought forward to the rest of his trip. The Crimean battlefields were not much to Bertie’s taste—how could touring empty expanses of land and hearing about artillery, military tactics, counteroffensives, and casualty totals be of interest to anyone other than Colonel Teesdale?

“. . . but when he found that the sea was higher than the land, he stopped. Later, King Darius also made strides on a waterway passage between the Heroopolite Gulf and the Red Sea. . . .”

But the colonel had been a dedicated servant, so a stop at the battlefields where he’d once risked his life was not too onerous for the prince.

“. . . Ptolemy the Second made a trench as far as the Bitter Lakes. . . .”

Athens should prove to be entertaining. Alix had talked of nothing but the Parthenon the past two days in their room, a sign that she, too, was ready to see sights other than the Nile.

“. . . and even the French conqueror, Napoleon Bonaparte, found remnants of an ancient east–west canal late in the last century. . . .”

Did Bertie detect a note of conclusion in the viceroy’s voice? A whistle sounded in the distance, which he hoped was a signal to clear the waterway for his vessel.

“. . . and so we wish Your Highnesses fair winds in your journey home, with hopes that we will be honored again with your presence at the opening ceremony. . . .”

Bertie nodded regally to the viceroy, while Alix gave a delicate wave to the cheering crowds. Finally, they were off. There was so much more of life to be tasted, sampled, and enjoyed before returning home to England.

London

May 1869

H
arriet Peet lifted the saddle of lamb for an expert sniff. “Mr. Litchfield, you cannot possibly mean to tell me you just got this in. Why, it’s a week old if it’s a day.”

“Ah, Mrs. Peet, I don’t know how that was left in the case. I meant to send it to the workhouse yesterday. Let me show you another cut. How about this one? So fresh it’s practically still bleating, it is.”

Harriet took the proffered chunk of meat cradled loosely in paper. She didn’t need to smell it to know that it was, indeed, a fresh cut. But she wasn’t about to let Mr. Litchfield off that easily.

“You know I’ll not tolerate tainted meat. Lord Raybourn’s table must be perfect.”

“Yes, of course, Mrs. Peet. May I offer His Lordship a discount for your trouble?”

With the wrapped lamb in hand and Lord Raybourn’s account not much lighter for it, Harriet Peet went on her way to visit the grocer for a tin of tea. She’d be sure to inspect that, as well, lest he try to slip her used leaves that had been brewed, dried again, and repackaged.

As if any storekeeper could actually slip something past Harriet Peet, Lord Raybourn’s housekeeper these past fifteen years . . . and hopefully soon to become, well,
something more
. A rare smile dared make an appearance on her face as she waited for the tea to be weighed.

Speaking of something more, she should pick up some butter. “Two pounds of cow’s butter, too, if you please,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am,” said the owner’s boy working behind the counter. “Shall I have everything sent over to Lord Raybourn’s residence?”

“No, don’t bother. I’ll carry it with me.” There was no time to wait for a deliveryman. She needed to return quickly and change into something finer than her regular work dress. Lord Raybourn was returning this afternoon from his diplomatic mission to Egypt with the Prince of Wales, and he had promised to marry her when he returned.

Imagining it again brought a decided warmth to her neck. The Viscountess Raybourn. Lady Raybourn, his children would have to call her. She might expire from pleasure the first time she witnessed his frumpy daughter, Dorothy, spit the title out between her teeth.

“Ma’am, are you feeling well?” the grocer’s boy asked.

Harriet realized she’d been laughing to herself. If she wasn’t careful, people would start thinking she was a bit balmy.

“I’m quite well, thank you. Please charge Lord Raybourn’s account,” she said with a wave of her hand as she departed.

She entered Raybourn House, built in the reign of King George IV of shimmering Bath stone, through the servants’ entrance, just as she always did at Lord Raybourn’s Willow Tree House estate in Sussex. Not for much longer, though. Soon, she’d be something as rare as a silver teapot in a coal miner’s house: a lower-class woman elevated to the peerage. Lord Raybourn—Anthony, as she called him in their private moments—was already buying her new dresses and hats and gloves in preparation for the moment, although they were all stored in trunks for now.

Putting away the butter and tea in the larder and keeping the mutton out on the worktable to prepare later, she went up the servants’ stairs to her attic room to change into a full emerald skirt with a black jacket edged in the same green, which had spent several months in her trunk. Anthony always said the color showed off her eyes and gave her a feline quality.

A stout feline to be sure, but I still have some appeal left to me.

She hummed contentedly as she transformed herself before her tiny tabletop mirror. As a last measure, she clipped a pair of jade bobs to her ears, turning to one side to admire them against their matching necklace. Anthony would so enjoy setting his eyes on her in this combination after so many weeks away in Egypt.

He wasn’t expecting her to be at the train station, waiting for him. She had a momentary bit of discomfort, for Lord Raybourn had taken Madame Brusse and Larkin, his cook and valet, with him, and seeing her dressed this way would broadcast to them what her relationship with their master was.

Anthony had not yet said they could make their relationship public.

Mrs. Peet shrugged. Anthony said they would announce their engagement upon his return, so what difference did it make that Madame Brusse and Larkin would know sooner? They were the ones who needed to get adjusted to it the fastest, anyway, given her elevation above them in the household.

She arrived early at St. Pancras station, after stepping fastidiously past the construction on the Midland Grand Hotel taking place right outside the station. It was difficult to see yet what it would look like when finished, but by the quantity of brick lying about, she guessed it would be magnificent. Rumor had it the hotel would have gold leaf walls and a fireplace in every room. Imagine that! Not even Lord Raybourn could afford so much finery.

She stopped to examine her skirts inside the station. Satisfied that they hadn’t been sullied by construction dust, she found the platform where Anthony’s train was due to arrive. Many other British subjects had also gathered in the station, which was decorated with flags and bunting to welcome the Prince and Princess of Wales home from their trip.

I am the only one here who doesn’t care about the royal return.

As the prince’s train came steaming into the station, the crowds began cheering their welcome. The members of his entourage disembarked to polite clapping, followed by more wild shouts of approval when Prince Albert Edward stepped out and gallantly offered an arm to his wife. The public loved the beautiful and charming Alexandra of Denmark, and went rapturous with joy at the sight of her.

The crowds dispersed to follow the prince and his entourage. Mrs. Peet was nearly alone on the platform.

What had happened? Why wasn’t Lord Raybourn with the prince? Where was he? She waited through the arrival of several more trains, hoping that perhaps he had been delayed somehow and would be along shortly. But it became evident that Lord Raybourn was not arriving home today.

Or perhaps he’d arrived on an earlier train, and was waiting on her now at Raybourn House. With that encouraging thought, Mrs. Peet returned home by omnibus, again entering by the servants’ entrance. How strange it must seem to anyone watching out a window, to see a woman so finely dressed entering through the rear.

Madame Brusse wasn’t in the kitchens, but Mrs. Peet didn’t stop to consider whether that was meaningful. She went as quickly as she could up the narrow servants’ staircase to see if Anthony was in his study or his bedroom.

Best to stop first on the ground floor to see if the postman had dropped mail through the door slot.

There was mail lying on the floor, but it was what else lay on the floor that sent Harriet Peet, a dedicated housekeeper so full of self-control that her employer’s children had no idea of her relationship with their widowed father, into paroxysms of terrified screaming, punctuated only by ragged gasps for air.

At the bottom of the stairs, sharing space on the black-and-white-tiled floor with the day’s mail, Lord Raybourn lay sprawled in his dark olive smoking jacket, one of his favorite Turkish cigarettes, half-smoked and crushed, lying next to him.

The blood, though. All of the dark, foul-smelling blood emanating from her dear Lord Raybourn’s face. She backed away, not wanting to soil the dark green dress that Lord Raybourn loved so well on her.

Harriet Peet was certain she would continue screaming into the next century. In fact, she was screaming so much that the irony of protecting a dress so as not to disappoint a dead man was completely lost on her.

E
dmund Henderson blotted the words before him and read the document over one more time with satisfaction.

It was an advertisement he planned to submit to the
London Illustrated News,
since they placed their advertisements in far more prominent locations than
The Times
. He was seeking detectives to add to his new, centralized force of elite inspectors. Right now there were only twenty-six detectives and one desk sergeant, not nearly enough for a city of three million. His plan was to increase the force to over two hundred and ensure that he, as commissioner of police, would determine which crimes could be solved by divisional detectives in local police departments, and which were “higher classes” of crimes requiring the investigative abilities of his choice inspectors.

Since taking over the London Metropolitan Police a few months ago, he’d had a free hand in developing what was already known as Scotland Yard, so named for its rear entrance location on Great Scotland Yard. This advertisement was intended to attract men of intelligence and good breeding. Detectives frequently cut their teeth working as police officers in Whitechapel or the East End. But despite the knowledge and experience they had prior to promotion to detective, half those men were practically illiterate, barely able to cobble together reports.

An educated man could learn detection; an ignorant detective could learn little.

There was a rap on his door. “Yes, come in,” he commanded.

“Ah, Chief Inspector Hurst, and Inspector Pratt, please sit.” The two detectives took seats in chairs whose leather coverings had seen better days. Pratt winced as he sat, a reminder to Henderson that the chair’s springs had developed a mind of their own and tended to attack unsuspecting occupants. An updating of Scotland Yard’s furnishings was definitely in order.

“What news have you of the baby farmers?” Henderson asked.

“Another little body found, this time along with his mother, Miss Alice Dalrymple of Belgravia.”

“Belgravia! Was she the daughter of someone important?”

“Her father has some railway and shipping investments. Mrs. Flood, our key suspect, keeps changing her name, making her difficult to find. She may have left London. We still need to talk to two young women we believe used this so-called midwife. It’s hard to catch London’s finest at home now that all their parties and goings-on are starting up for the Season, although I expect they’ll be accommodating enough once word gets around that one of their own was messily dispatched to the hereafter. The lords and ladies won’t be able to resist the opportunity for gossip.”

Hurst was one of Scotland Yard’s best detectives, but suffered from a colicky case of Harsh Opinion. Henderson scratched at his wide side-whiskers as he contemplated this, noting that Hurst was growing his own set of identical whiskers.

Perhaps Chief Inspector Hurst required a uniform. It was Henderson’s observation that detectives got uppity when permitted to work in plain clothes instead of donning a uniform like regular officers.

Hurst wasn’t done complaining. “If we could keep the newspapers from inserting their wasplike stingers into this case, we’d be much farther along. It seems as though they are constantly one step ahead of us. You’d think
The Times
was having tea with Mrs. Flood each day and probing her for information, with as much as they seem to figure out.”

“I’m sure you are more than capable of besting a simple newspaper reporter, Inspector.”

Henderson turned to the meek Langley Pratt, one of those police-officers-turned-detective that Henderson generally frowned upon. Pratt, though, showed great promise. Very intelligent, just not forceful enough, despite having worked two years in the slums of the East End. He was a second-class inspector assigned to work with—and learn from—Hurst.

“And you, Pratt, have you written it all up yet?”

“Mostly, sir. I’ll have it by morning.”

“Very good. Once that’s done, pass this work on to Inspector Richardson. I have something else for the both of you.”

Hurst began to protest, but the commissioner held up a hand. “What I have for you is more important. It’s of national interest, actually. We’ve been contacted by Ferdinand de Lesseps. Do you know who he is?”

Hurst shook his head. “The name sounds familiar, but I can’t place it.”

“He’s a Frenchman, the frog behind the Suez Canal project, which is scheduled to open in November. You are familiar with the canal?”

“Of course, sir.”

“De Lesseps is being blackmailed by someone who has been involved in corvée labor on the project, and this man is threatening to expose recent use of these workers to the British public, even though Great Britain had an agreement with de Lesseps that this practice of exploiting the Egyptians will not be tolerated.”

“Slave labor? The public will be outraged.”

Henderson nodded. “Indeed. Despite Parliament’s deep concerns over the French gaining more influence in the Mediterranean, the Suez Canal will be of great benefit to the British Navy and merchants, and even a false perception of the use of corvée labor will result in a public hue and cry that will cripple our ability to leverage what the French have championed. The political and economic consequences are far-reaching. Have to give de Lesseps credit. He telegraphed us about the problem instead of making a big stink in the press or contacting some lowly member of Parliament, which would have caused a stench worse than that of any sewer.

“So that you are aware of the sensitivity of this matter, I have made this blackmail circumstance known to the ear of the Crown and the prime minister.”

“What can Scotland Yard do?” Hurst said.

“You will investigate the matter and try to discover who this blackmailer is, so we can arrest him before he follows through with his threat of tainting public opinion, whether real or perceived.”

Hurst frowned. “What do we have to go on?”

“De Lesseps says he thinks the blackmailer might move in society, mostly because of how educated-sounding the notes are. It’s not much, but there you are. Also, the man may or may not be in London. De Lesseps is a powerful man in Egypt and has expended a great deal in time and men to find the blackmailer, but the cretin uses some complicated system of messaging with boats and lantern signals to get his notes delivered to de Lesseps. He has thus far escaped detection.

“On another matter, I have just learned of a death in Park Street, another of ‘London’s finest.’ The dead man is Anthony Fairmont, the Viscount Raybourn. Coincidentally, he was a member of the prince’s entourage in Egypt, and it appears that something may have occurred on the trip that caused him to shoot himself upon his return. I can’t imagine that there is any connection to the blackmailing scheme, but best to make sure. Talk to the coroner to verify that it is a suicide, and then report back immediately, as I must keep the Crown informed. Thereafter, investigate the blackmail scheme.”

Hurst scratched at his own whiskers. “This is going to be difficult, with so little to go on.”

“That’s why I’m putting my best inspectors on it.”

Inspector Hurst brightened considerably. “You can rely on us, sir.”

Henderson hoped so. The queen and Prime Minister Gladstone would be furious to learn that some imbecile was about to ruin such a high-profile diplomatic event as the opening of the Suez Canal.