The Mourning Bells (11 page)

“But won’t it make banks more cautious in giving out cred—Ah.” Now Sam fully comprehended why he wasn’t getting a loan. He was an incidental victim of debt dodgers ruining the credit industry.

He would need at least two dishes of ice cream tonight to fully sort this out in his mind and decide what to do next.

 

That evening, Violet and Sam sat inside his favorite ice cream shop, located just outside Regent’s Park. It was run by Carlo Gatti, a Swiss émigré, who, according to rumor, had initially started out with a stall outside Charing Cross station, but his popularity grew, and he soon contracted with the Regent’s Canal Company to keep a brick icehouse in the canal and now imported his ice from Norway.

Samuel Harper was probably responsible for half of Gatti’s business, and it would be a wonder if Norway didn’t completely run out of ice. Violet shook her head with a smile as she watched her husband devour ice cream molded into the shape of a rooster, replete with rose petals added to represent the bird’s comb. She gently set aside her own half-eaten ice cream, which was wrapped inside an almond wafer.

Susanna and Benjamin had gone shopping earlier in the day, and their note said they wouldn’t return until after the dinner hour, so Violet had dismissed Mrs. Wren’s services for the evening, and she and Sam had indulged themselves by substituting supper with ice cream. Violet enjoyed the cold treat, but not nearly so much as Sam did.

While he ate, she told him of what had happened at Brookwood that day, from her nearly harmonious trip with Julian Crugg, to the discovery of the unknown Roger, and ending with her misadventure in the train station’s cellar.

Sam licked the last drops from his spoon, set it carefully in his empty dish, and directed his full attention on her. “Before, you were encountering living bodies in coffins and were suspicious of them. Now you say you’ve discovered a dead body in a coffin, and this, too, is suspicious? Sweetheart, aren’t bodies in coffins
supposed
to be dead? That was what made you so upset about the live ones.”

Violet shook her head in frustration at the seeming contradiction of her speculation. “I know. It’s just the condition in which I found this Roger fellow, whoever he may be. He was so . . . fresh. It was very peculiar.”

“I still don’t see that you have anything to take to Inspector Hurst.” Sam flagged down the shop’s hostess.

Violet sighed. “No, I suppose I don’t.”

The hostess approached. “Yes, sir, can I get you something?”

“I would like to try another, this time something with pistachio ice cream.”

As the hostess went off to fulfill Sam’s order, Violet looked at him in disbelief. “Another one? Aren’t you full?”

“I hate to think there could be untasted flavors going to waste while we sit here.”

The hostess returned shortly with Sam’s second dish. This time his ice cream had been molded into the shape of a cup of chocolate. Brown-tinted sugar crystals decorated the top to enhance the effect.

Violet smiled indulgently at her husband. “I’ll have to ask Mary to let out your trousers soon with all of these sweets you’re eating.” A ridiculous notion, of course, since Sam hadn’t added an ounce of weight anywhere since the day she met him. Violet was the one who needed alterations.

“That reminds me,” Sam said. He pulled a small book from his jacket, flipped through it until he reached the page he wanted, then slid it across the table to Violet.

“What is this?” she asked.

“I found it at Hatchards. It’s a reprint of Mrs. Mary Eales’s recipes. Look at that one.” He tapped the left page. “I thought maybe you could try your hand at it.”

The recipe was titled “To Make Ice Cream” and contained instructions such as breaking ice up into various-sized pieces, layering salt and ice over cream, and covering everything up with straw to freeze together before adding in fruits for flavoring.

Violet looked up at her husband in disbelief. They’d been married four years and he still didn’t realize that her skills as a chatelaine were substandard at best? That although she could easily whip up an embalming fluid brew that would preserve a body into the next century, the simplest pot of coffee was likely to be bitter and half burnt?

“Samuel Harper, you think I would be competent at making this? Besides, there is only a small storage cellar underneath the shop. I’m not sure it’s a good place to keep ice.”

Sam sighed and held up his hands in defeat. “It was worth a try.”

Suddenly Violet felt ashamed of herself. “I’ll give it to Mrs. Wren. I’m sure she’ll make a treat to rival Mr. Gatti’s concoctions.”

“I keep forgetting that my wife can only concentrate on burying bodies, not ice. At least you haven’t gotten into any trouble with your living bodies that are supposed to be dead. Or is that your dead bodies that are supposed to be alive? I confess I’m getting confused.”

Violet bit her lip. She should tell Sam about James Vernon and his erratic behavior that had resulted in her being trapped in a coffin. But if she did that, Sam’s protective nature would burst forth like a badger fighting off a pack of dogs.

No, ultimately no harm had been done. It was best to keep it to herself. Mr. Vernon likely needed the confinement of an asylum, not a prison. Which reminded Violet of Mr. Ambrose, the doctor she’d met when the first body had risen from its coffin. Was it fortuitous—or extremely convenient—that he had been on hand that day? Or was Violet now viewing everyone within ten miles of Brookwood as a suspect?

Nevertheless, it might be of interest to interview the doctor to see what he had to say.

 

Violet felt even guiltier about concealing information from Sam when arranging to have coffee with her friend Mary Cooke with the express intent of telling her everything, including how she ended up briefly trapped in a coffin.

The two met at an elegant coffeehouse in Mayfair, across from Hyde Park, where the two friends had once discovered a dead body together while boating in the park’s Serpentine lake. They made no mention of that shocking day, instead musing on Violet’s present situation.

Mary was older than Violet by twenty years. Despite the fact that Mary was old enough to be Violet’s mother, the two shared a love of funereal things, Mary with her mourning dressmaking and Violet with her undertaking. They had also both been married twice. Mary had lost her beloved first husband, Matthew Overfelt, to a malignant brain growth. She’d made an unfortunate second marriage with George Cooke, a ne’er-do-well who eventually ran off to Switzerland and became entangled with another woman there, who unceremoniously coshed him in the head when she discovered that he had a wife back in London.

Mary had been in mourning now for a couple of months. The dark circles were gone from under her eyes, but she looked as fragile as a china cup, ready to crack at the slightest pressure. She wore a gown of the deepest ebony silk bombazine, accompanied by the requisite jet necklace, earrings, and bracelet. Her gray hair, normally worn in an impossibly large cloud on her head, was completely concealed under a bonnet trimmed in more black silk. Mary had sewn her own mourning wear, which Violet had no doubt was a difficult thing to do. It was one thing to assist and console the grieving; it was a different thing entirely to be the one in mourning.

They sat at a table next to the window. On the other side of the glass, hardy souls braved the traffic noise and manure smells while Violet and Mary made themselves comfortable inside.

Violet described the events of the past two weeks, with two bodies arising from coffins and a third wept over hysterically by a fiancée, in addition to her visits with other undertakers.

“Do you know who all of the people in the coffins were?” Mary asked.

“Not a single one of them. I only know that the dead man’s name was Roger.”

“Well, it doesn’t seem as though anything unseemly occurred with these bodies.”

That was what everyone said, so why was Violet the only one who thought otherwise?

They were served cups of chocolate, with assurance that their pastries would be out presently. Their drinks were thick and delectable.

“The only suspicious thing was Mr. Vernon pushing you into a coffin. But he might have just had a spell of madness.” Mary put down her cup and tapped the side of her head. “People get them all the time, dear. I’m sure he is quite mortified over it.”

“Not as mortified as I am.”

Mary laughed unexpectedly, a rare reaction from her these days. It brought color into her wan face. “Oh my, I suppose it
was
quite an indignity for you.” She turned serious again. “A woman’s indignities should not be treated lightly.”

Violet knew Mary was once again thinking of her wayward husband and how humiliated she had been over his romantic liaison conducted openly in Lausanne. Violet and Sam had never been impressed with George Cooke, but Mary had loved him, so they had begrudgingly accepted him. Violet grieved for her friend’s loss.

As if she knew Violet was also dwelling on the subject, Mary said, “Do you know, I think I am mortified, too? As time goes on, I am less bereaved by George’s loss and more embarrassed by my poor decision in agreeing to become his wife. Do you think ill of me for it, Violet?”

“Of course not! How could you think such a thing? Your love for him was innocent and pure. I’ve made plenty of my own decisions—while assuming that others were acting in good faith—that turned out poorly and sometimes nearly fatally. We don’t always know what sort of evil lurks in the hearts of others, my friend.”

Mary’s eyes welled up, and she took another sip from her cup in order to close her eyes and blink back the tears. “Thank you,” she whispered, as the cup clattered back down on its saucer.

Violet sought for something, anything, to cheer Mary up. A thought occurred to her. “Remember when you were planning to go to Switzerland and I said we would visit Madame Tussauds upon your return to celebrate your happiness? Well, why don’t we go anyway, to, to . . . celebrate our friendship? I understand they are preparing a Suez Canal exhibit in anticipation of November’s opening ceremonies.”

“Didn’t the queen invite you and Sam to attend?”

“Yes. We are deeply honored.” Violet just hoped Queen Victoria wouldn’t require her services during the trip to Egypt. She’d had quite enough royal duty over the past few months.

For now, though, Violet had something else to discuss.

“I’ve been thinking about Morgan Undertaking,” she said. “Now that I’m staying, I’d like to make some improvements. Poor Will and Harry, they did an admirable job in growing the business, but I think the shop’s interior could use some updating. Would you consider making some new draperies for the windows and to separate off the back rooms? I know that I’m once again imposing on you.”

Although Mary’s true expertise was in fashionable mourning clothing, she also had decorating talent. Mary had redecorated her own quarters above her dressmaking shop, then helped Violet with décor for her rooms above the undertaking shop.

“Of course I will help you,” Mary said, her eyes glowing with anticipation. “What fun. We’ll go back to Morris, Marshall, and Faulkner this instant to find you some nice fabrics, and then make some measurements in your shop. I’m sure I can have it done for you in the next two weeks.”

“Shall we agree to go to Madame Tussauds as soon as the draperies are installed?”

They sealed their plan by raising their cups of chocolate to one another.

Changing subjects, Mary asked, “How goes your visit with Susanna?”

This was an uncomfortable topic because of Violet’s conflicted feelings on it. Fortunately, their sweets arrived just then, giving Violet an opportunity to choose her words carefully. “Sam and Benjamin spend a lot of time together, and Susanna has volunteered to work in the shop with me. She has been a big help.”

“That doesn’t sound like much of a honeymoon for the two of them.”

There was that feeling of discomfort again, poking at her innards. “No, but Susanna has always been a natural undertaker. She probably misses the shop back in Colorado already.”

“Hmm,” Mary said. “Haven’t they been here a few weeks already? How long are they planning to visit?”

“I don’t know. Susanna seems reluctant to leave. I like to think it’s because she missed us so much, but maybe she missed London?”

Mary raised a pale-brown eyebrow. “Weren’t most of her memories of London those of living in a workhouse and watching her birth family die? I’m sure it’s because she misses you, dear.”

“I’ve missed her, too, but our flat has become a bit overwhelmed. Mrs. Softpaws glares at me every time she sees me, and although I appreciate that she is keeping the place free of spiders and mice, I’m not particularly happy to find her day’s catch on my pillow. Ruth is a sweet girl and says nothing about the extra cleaning work, but Mrs. Wren is grumpy.”

“More so than usual?” Mary asked, cutting into her toasted tea cakes. Butter oozed out from between the layers.

“Hard to believe, isn’t it? You know, I love having my girl with me, but perhaps she and Benjamin need their own quarters if they plan to stay much lon—” Violet stopped abruptly, staring out the window in surprise. A shiver of apprehension crawled up her spine.

A man stared back in at her.

“Violet? What’s wrong, dear?” Mary asked.

Without answering, Violet jumped up from the table and dashed outside, running in the direction that she guessed the man was going. The streets were as crowded as they always were, and within moments she realized she couldn’t make any progress in the throng of people. She was also too short to see much of what was ahead of her. Deflated, she returned to the coffeehouse, where Mary still sat over her tea cakes with an expression of confusion.

“What’s wrong?” Violet’s friend asked.

“I thought I saw Mr. Crugg looking in on us.”