Stolen Remains (6 page)

Stephen reached over and took his wife’s hand. “Darling, please. We mustn’t blame Violet.”

Still clutching his wife’s hand like a life preserver, he passed his other hand over his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he dropped that hand to his lap. “I don’t know. I suppose it wouldn’t be any more dreadful than what has already happened. Go ahead. Just . . . be careful.”

“You can trust me to treat your father as if he were my very own. One last thing, though. I’ll need some fresh clothes for him.”

Stephen waved his hand, exhausted from the entire affair. “Talk to Mrs. Peet; she knows more about his wardrobe than I do. Speaking of which, can you recommend a mourning dressmaker? My wife and sisters will want wardrobes made. We also need some black armbands.”

“Of course. Mary Cooke is very reliable. I’ll have her sent to you.”

“Also, can you do something to prevent every family in Mayfair from coming to gawk at my father?”

“I can have a discreet sign made to go beneath the doorbell, and will also have ‘No Visitors’ announced in his obituary.”

“Yes, that’s fine.”

With permission granted for the embalming, Violet retreated downstairs to request more clean cloths and a change of clothes from Mrs. Peet, then went back to the dining room to finish taking care of Lord Raybourn.

“Sir, I am sorry for the indignity, but I’m afraid I must relieve you of these spattered garments and make you look fresh again.” Violet had developed unusual strength in moving dead bodies around, typically by rolling them in one direction or another, instead of trying to lift them with her arms. With some struggle, she relieved Lord Raybourn of his clothing and folded it all into a pile. She covered his private area with a modesty cloth, and once again went through the exercise of examining his limbs and muscles in detail.

Beyond the tragedy that had befallen him, his body was in relatively good shape for his age, for he must be in his seventies by now. He had the usual nicks and scars one might expect from a man who’d had a life well lived on his estate. Many aristocrats had taken spills from their horses or been attacked by game they were pursuing.

There was one particularly nasty gash in Lord Raybourn’s side. Violet traced it with her finger. “What happened here, sir? Something with a long nail had its way with you. A disagreeable falcon not in the mood for hunting, maybe?”

With her physical inspection of his graying skin complete, Violet patted Lord Raybourn’s hand for comfort.

Pulling out another fresh cloth and soaking it with a special alcohol solution from her bag, she carefully but quickly wiped down the man’s arms, legs, and torso as if he were a newborn babe, patting carefully around his neck and face to avoid any further damage there. “Your final toilette, sir. The odor will be gone presently, I promise. It was worth it, though, for now you are sparkling fresh.”

Although a body’s natural decomposition would release smells into the air, the fragrance of any lotions, ointments, or colognes added to the body wouldn’t last. Occasionally, families tried to give Violet their loved one’s favorite toilet water or cologne, which she could only spray on the deceased’s clothing. Once the body no longer had blood flowing in its veins, there was no pulse or warmth to radiate a fragrance. Imbuing a shirt or hat with scent usually satisfied the family without her having to explain the grim reality of things.

Once again Violet withdrew her embalming ingredients and mixed them inside a dark bottle half full of water. A half ounce chloride of zinc, which was a white, granular salt, followed by a quart of alcohol. The resulting solution was highly corrosive and irritating to the lungs, hence why she only made it up in small batches when she needed it. Any leftovers were kept in dark bottles to prevent decomposition in sunlight. She capped her concoction for the moment.

From her box of tools, she removed a scalpel and two nozzles and set them on the table next to the body. She also withdrew two sets of tubing and a clear bottle.

Laying out another cloth on the floor beneath Lord Raybourn’s midsection, she placed the clear bottle on top of it. She attached each nozzle to one end of each tube and laid them both aside.

Picking up the scalpel, she whispered, “This won’t hurt a bit, I promise.”

With a hand around his leg, Violet selected a location and quickly sliced into it with the knife, opening up a vein. In went one of the tubes, with the other end trailing into the basin.

She spoke quietly as she worked. “You know that many important people have been embalmed, don’t you, my lord? Why, even President Lincoln—you probably didn’t know that I live in America now—was embalmed. In fact, he, too, was embalmed in his home, the White House. You are keeping very fine company.”

Working quickly now, she cut into Lord Raybourn’s neck, inserting a nozzle tube into his carotid artery. She reopened the bottle of embalming fluid, holding her breath at the acrid odor, and screwed on a pump mechanism, through which she secured the other end of the tube into the bottle using a special clamp. She worked the pump several times to get fluid flowing through the tube, then held the bottle upside down in her left hand, as far above her head as she could manage.

Her right arm, scarred from an accident, could no longer bear such a position for more than a few moments.

Maintaining this position was one of her most difficult tasks when she didn’t have a pole to which she could attach the bottle. However, she didn’t like carting around hanging poles to her customers’ homes. It was too stressful for grieving families to witness the undertaker’s tools. Therefore, she had purchased the largest leather case she could find that was still manageable for a woman, and only what could be closed up inside it usually went with her.

The embalming solution quickly did its work. As it flowed into Lord Raybourn’s arteries through his neck, it began pushing out his blood, which exited through the vein in his leg. Soon there was a rhythmic spattering of blood into the previously empty bottle below.

Violet typically added a tincture of red dye to the fluid to give the skin a rosy bloom. The amount of dye varied from customer to customer. This time she skipped the dye, for she knew it was impossible for Lord Raybourn to be on display for mourners and visitors.

He was just too damaged.

The best she could do was sew up the worst of it, augment his face with a bit of putty, and liberally apply Kalon Cream—Natural Number Six, perhaps?—over her work. She didn’t think even the family should see him.

Once Lord Raybourn’s blood was completely drained and the embalming fluid had settled in, Violet checked her work by once again probing and gently squeezing his limbs. The solution appeared to have distributed evenly.

With needle and thread, she made several stitches in the two locations she had cut open. The embalming process was now complete.

Mrs. Peet had dropped off an elegant suit on the hall table outside the dining room. The requisite trousers, tailcoat, shirt, collar, cuffs, and cravat were overshadowed by the most elegant double-breasted vest of burgundy satin Violet had ever seen. Violet exchanged it for the soiled clothing she’d removed from Lord Raybourn, as well as all of the dirty rags, then stepped back into the dining room to inspect her embalming one more time and to dress Lord Raybourn.

Embalming was an imperfect technique, since it was not in regular use. Those opposed to the practice pointed to cases where an embalming had resulted in perfectly preserved arms, face, and torso, and completely disintegrated legs.

True enough, yet wasn’t the purpose of embalming to keep the body fresh while it was transported a long distance, or while grieving family members gathered around to mourn? As long as it served that purpose, why make a fuss that it couldn’t preserve indefinitely?

“Indefinitely” was a word that now made Violet nervous. How indefinitely did the queen intend to leave Lord Raybourn lying out? Would Violet have to reembalm him if things dragged on too long? She’d never done that before and wasn’t certain it would even work.

Violet worked quickly to cork the heavy, blood-filled bottle—whose contents she would take to an undertaker’s shop later for disposal—and clean up her instruments so she could re-dress Lord Raybourn.

“My lord, it’s time for me to serve as your valet and dress you. I need you to cooperate,” she said, wrestling to get his arms into his jacket without jostling him too much. Arms were always so much more difficult than legs.

Once he was dressed, Violet laid a cloth on his neck and torso to protect his clothing from her cosmetic work. She cut, filled, and stitched as best she could, despite the ravages caused by the gunshots, finishing off with a liberal application of Natural Number Six and a dusting of talcum powder.

She stood straight to examine his face. No, it wouldn’t do. His cheeks were still . . . uneven. She took another of Mrs. Peet’s cloths and tore it into little strips, rolling each one up and tucking it inside His Lordship’s cheeks. After some adjustments, his face was fuller.

Rather than sewing his mouth shut, or dragging a wire under his chin and sewing it behind each ear to keep his jaw from dropping, she put a block of wood under his chin, raising his shirt collar as high as she could and tying his cravat to hide it. After all, hadn’t he suffered enough indignity over her ministrations without her probing his mouth with a needle?

With his eyes sewn shut, his lips firmly closed, and his torn flesh either sewn or augmented, Lord Raybourn resembled something of his former self.

Violet stepped back to view her work from a few feet away. She was kidding herself. Poor Lord Raybourn looked like the monster from Mary Shelley’s novel.

And I am Dr. Frankenstein.

“Well, my lord,” she said as she finished cleaning up. “I trust you won’t arise and terrorize Londoners while I go out to find a coffin befitting your station. Pardon my jest, sir. Rest easy, I won’t be gone long.” She covered Lord Raybourn with a length of black crape, turned off the gas lamps, and left him in dark solitude.

Only later did she realize she’d completely forgotten the tea tray Mrs. Peet had brought up for her.

“It must be peculiar,” Katherine said, putting aside her cup and picking up a shortbread bar, nibbling distractedly at it, “to be a lady undertaker. And to then be called to do service for a family who once employed yours. How well did she know your father?”

“Not that well. She might have seen him out riding, or, more likely, striding to the pond in a fury to find me as Violet and I muddied up our clothes capturing toads.”

“What delightful fun, I’m sure. Will she take good care of the body?”

“I believe so. She was just the estate manager’s daughter, but I suspect she still retains enough memory and respect of our family to be gentle with him.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“You refer to Her Majesty?”

“Of course.”

Stephen picked up a smoked brown trout sandwich. “We can hardly expect the undertaker to have enough influence with the queen to persuade her to let us get on with a burial, despite Violet’s association with the prince’s funeral.”

“So this . . . awkwardness . . . might go on for days or weeks? Oh, Stephen, I’m not sure I can endure it.”

“Sweetheart, be of good cheer. It will be done soon, I’m sure. If you prefer, I can send you back to Willow Tree while this is all sorted out. We’ll bring him back there for burial, anyway.”

“I don’t know. It would be so cowardly of me. And what of Dorothy and Nelly? I can’t simply run off before they’ve even arrived.” Katherine cast her eyes down. “I’m already enough of a disappointment in the family.”

“Never say that; you know it’s not true.” He swallowed the last of his sandwich and reached across the table to squeeze his wife’s hand. “This nasty business will be over with shortly and then we can get on with life. Remember, you are Lady Raybourn now, wife to, well, to
me
. Is that not some consolation for your troubles?”

Katherine offered a wan smile. “It is a bit of solace, I suppose. Mrs. Peet doesn’t seem to care much for it, though, does she? I wonder why she finds the thought so distasteful?”

Having discussed with the new Lord and Lady Raybourn the errand she wished to run, Violet set out to visit two old friends, Harry Blundell and William Swift. The two young men had taken over Morgan Undertaking from her when she left to go to America. Presumably they were still in her Paddington location, despite her having been gone these four years.

She was pleased to see that not only was the location still intact, but Harry and Will had retained the Morgan Undertaking name. The sign even had a fresh coat of paint on it.

“Mrs. Morgan, I mean, Mrs. Harper, how well you look,” Harry said. He put out his bear paw of a hand in greeting. Violet remembered hiring him because of his great strength. Harry could practically carry a coffin alone on his shoulders.

At the sound of their voices, Will came out from the storage room. “Mrs. Harper, what a delight. What brings you back to London?” Will was very slight as compared to Harry, but had a more congenial manner with customers; therefore he tended to do all the interactions with the grieving while Harry managed behind the scenes.

Violet shook his hand. “A funeral, naturally. You both look well. I confess I am gratified to see that you’ve made few changes here.”

Harry grinned. “No sense in mucking about with what is already perfect, is there? I guess the only change is that Will and I are married men now. Married my Emily two years ago and Will entered the matrimonial state not six months ago.”

“How wonderful for you both. I should like to meet your wives while I’m in the city.”

“Hah! D’you think Lydia will want to meet another undertaker, Will?”

Will’s ears turned pink. “I’m sure she would be most accommodating.”

“Not likely. You see, Mrs. Harper, Lydia doesn’t much like Will’s profession. Constantly at him to join her father’s floral business and leave this ‘foul and ghastly’ business behind. She thinks our trade as worthwhile as that of a clairvoyant. I told him she’d be no end of trouble.”