The Mourning Bells (20 page)

“And you, Pratt, what is your opinion?”

Hurst immediately spoke up. “Inspector Pratt shares my opinion.”

Henderson ignored Hurst and nodded at Pratt to finish. The second class inspector swallowed and slid a nervous look between Hurst and Henderson, as though not sure which superior to be more fearful of. “Well, sir, she does seem peculiarly . . . attached . . . to her work. I remember when we worked on the Raybourn case with her, she insisted that we make the old Lord Raybourn’s body comfortable on the dining table right away.”

“Comfortable?”

“Yes,” Hurst interjected. “As though the deceased had been lying there thinking about how very cold and hard the tiles were. Mrs. Harper was quite demanding. I expect being designated undertaker by the queen gave her airs.”

“You were saying, Inspector Pratt?”

“Sir, yes, I would say she was, well, she may have been a mite confident, but she has always seemed to know her business.”

Hurst’s disparaging look did not escape Henderson’s notice. The commissioner leaned forward. “Here is my opinion of Mrs. Harper. I say she is a valuable asset to Scotland Yard, and you will cooperate in any flight of fancy the woman might have.”

Hurst’s expression fell. “Why? What is special about her?”

“What is special about her is not for conversation here. Mr. Hurst, you are hereby instructed to assist Mrs. Harper in her concerns. Make sure she believes Scotland Yard is doing everything in its power for her.”

“How so? Am I to hand out mourning cards? Water the lily pots set around the coffin? Sit at Brookwood and wait for corpses to fly out of coffins?”

Henderson bit back a sarcastic retort. Excellent detective or not, Hurst might soon find himself on the wrong side of his superior. Gritting his teeth, he said in a halting voice, “Answer. Whatever. Questions. She. Has.” Returning to his conversational voice, he continued. “I have no idea of what nature they might be. Is that clear?”

Pratt’s head bobbed up and down. Hurst grunted and scratched his side-whiskers.

Henderson sensed that Hurst was being privately rebellious. “By the way, Inspector, I overheard you asking Mrs. Harper about a Mrs. Cooke. Is this Mrs. Cooke a suspect to be investigated?”

Hurst’s eyes opened wide. “What? No, of course not, sir.”

“Then who is she?”

“She is just, er, just . . . a friend of Mrs. Harper’s.”

“So you are asking after someone who is not a suspect but have no interest in those persons that concern Mrs. Harper? I suggest you reverse your priorities.” Henderson glared at Hurst, determined to get his point across.

The commissioner didn’t want anything fouling up his plans, especially not something as laughably ridiculous as one of his detectives being uncooperative in a case, even if it turned out to be no more than a dog chasing his tail. Who knew, Mrs. Harper’s matter could end up another laurel for Henderson. He imagined a headline that read “Scotland Yard Quickly Clears Up Mysterious Case of Living Dead. Queen Victoria Bestows Knighthood on Commissioner Henderson.” It wouldn’t do for the papers to run lurid stories of battles royal between his inspectors and the royally appointed undertaker. Good God, what joy the
Illustrated London News
would take in such a ludicrous story. Scotland Yard would be reduced to complete impotence, and even the savages in the remotest pockets of Australia would be laughing at him.

Hurst would find himself patrolling the streets in St. Giles if that ever happened.

It had been Henderson’s observation that detectives got uppity when permitted to work in plain clothes instead of donning a uniform like regular officers. Once he’d hired all the men he needed, the next pressing issue for Henderson was uniforms. Definitely uniforms.

 

If Violet felt foolish after meeting with Hurst, Sam could only be described as morose the next evening after yet another day with his bankers.

Susanna and Benjamin had left suddenly to visit Violet’s parents down in Brighton, with Susanna cajoling Violet and Sam to go with them. Violet had demurred, though, sensing that Sam had much to say to her and also feeling that Susanna and Benjamin needed to spend more time alone together. After all, they were still honeymooning. A few days away for Benjamin to meet Susanna’s grandparents would be good for them, and Benjamin seemed eager that they get away.

She kissed Susanna good-bye, only to feel the girl stiffen in her arms, although she dutifully kissed Violet back. Whatever was wrong with the girl?

That evening, their only company was Mrs. Softpaws and Mrs. Wren, who made an occasional appearance to drop dishes on them from above, as though releasing an unwanted mouse from the air. Mrs. Softpaws sat in Susanna’s chair, watching the dinner proceedings with an air of disdain for the veal cakes, fried rabbit, and stewed cucumbers, which were entirely unpalatable to her gourmet feline sensibilities. Mrs. Wren eventually coaxed her out of the room with a piece of leftover chicken in béchamel sauce, for which the cat happily left their company.

Dinner was finished off with an almond cake, of which Violet ate only a half slice and then sorrowfully put down her fork. It was only after Mrs. Wren left that Sam spoke in earnest about the day’s events.

“I have been hesitant to tell you that I know why these banks are reluctant to finance me, aside from my unforgivable sin of being an American without social position. It’s all about that dad-blamed Debtors Act.”

Violet listened while Sam explained what Cyril Hayes, from London East Bank, had told him regarding debt dodgers. “So credit is riskier now that debtors can avoid prison?” she asked.

He nodded. “They can sue a man civilly, but how does that compare with the threat of prison for failing to satisfy a debt? Not only that, why would a bank issue a loan to someone as ‘risky’ as I am, when I can’t be counted on not to run back to Colorado at the first sign of trouble?”

Sam looked as though he could break the dining room table in half in his frustration. “Even worse, today Mr. Hayes shared a confidence with me that would be a complete scandal if the newspapers found out about it.”

Now Violet’s interest was piqued. “What would be a scandal?”

“Remember I said that the law abolishes imprisonment for all debt, except in a few cases? One instance is the owing of money to the Crown. Apparently, the queen and Parliament are a bit crabby about that. More importantly, from my perspective, is that the crime of defrauding creditors is now merely a misdemeanor, not a criminal offense.”

Sam was still not sharing any inflammatory information. “So banks are hesitant to give out loans. This is public record,” she said. “What is so scandalous about it?”

He dropped his voice as though someone—Mrs. Softpaws?—might be listening to their conversation. “Some of these debtors, most of them once very wealthy, or at least very titled, are disappearing. Mr. Hayes says they have had reports of people seeing them on trains, escaping to places north, like Northumberland or Durham.”

Violet was still confused. “Then how has a scandal not broken already if people are gossiping about these men abandoning their debt and fleeing London?”

“Because the gossips don’t know what they are saying. In other words, the newspaper might report that Lord So-and-So was recently seen on excursion to the north, where said newspaper knows the family has a country house, or where his Aunt Daisy lives. Or that he has a friend he might be visiting until the next London Season can occupy his mind. It’s all just society chatter because neither the papers nor the busybodies know that these men are in troubling debt.”

Sam sighed as if that explained everything, but Violet still wasn’t satisfied.

“Why don’t the banks report the matter to the police?”

“Report what? Escaping the debt is a misdemeanor crime. We can hardly get Inspector Hurst to acknowledge an actual murder, much less something as trifling as a debt dodger. With all of the prostitution, street murders, and gin-related crimes in London, what would Scotland Yard or the police care about a man running away from home?”

What Sam described reminded her of her own troubles: Something seemed very wrong, yet there seemed to be no one to whom responsibility could be attached. There was no actual serious crime being committed.

They continued their discussion in their bedchamber, where Violet sat at her dressing table in her nightgown and wrapper, brushing her hair as Sam took his usual position propped on the bed.

“The bankers believe they are fleeing to points north inside England, but I wonder if they aren’t going to Scotland. The Scots have no love for your queen and country, and aren’t likely to extradite them.”

Violet stopped brushing and turned to look directly at her husband instead of talking to his reflection in the mirror. Had that been sixty or sixty-two strokes on her right side? No matter.

“Are you proposing to assist the bank with rounding these dodgers up?” she asked. “To snatch them off trains and haul them to the bank to remit payment?”

“Of course not.” Sam laughed at her proposal. “Can you imagine me, a bumbling American from the West, collaring important British citizens, roping them like steers, and delivering them to bank presidents? Besides the fact that I would soon find myself locked behind iron bars with naught to eat but gruel, I would be the source of all newspaper gossip for the next year. The queen would most certainly rescind our invitation to the opening of the Suez Canal.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Wait, it might be worth it just for that.”

“Oh, Sam, stop,” she said, trying not to smile. Samuel Harper didn’t enjoy the public eye, and dreaded the idea of parading about in Egypt with a delegation sure to include members of Parliament and the royal family.

He clasped his fingers on his chest. “I s’pose I’ll hold that idea in reserve.”

“What will you do then about your financing?”

“What can I do? Now that I know that these debt dodgers are ruining credit for everyone, I reckon I’ll have to convince a banker that I’m not a likely candidate for shirking my debt. Maybe I’ll ask them to come see your shop so they understand my permanence here. Although they may find an undertaking business off-putting, as well. Such stuffed turkeys these bankers are. I can hardly believe that it is no longer that I have to convince them of the value of dynamite but of the value of my character.”

Finally finished with hair brushing and surreptitiously pulling out two gray hairs that had mysteriously appeared without warning, Violet coiled herself against Sam, who lay there tense and frozen, like one of his beloved ice cream cups. What could she say to soothe and comfort him? Especially since she wasn’t sure how comfortable she was herself with the idea of her husband setting explosives off in a coal mine, despite how safe he said it was.

She could think of nothing that wouldn’t make her sound insincere, and her mind wandered back to Julian Crugg and the events of the past few weeks.

Who had killed the undertaker? Was Inspector Hurst correct in thinking that Crugg had committed some bizarre form of suicide? No, Violet was certain that wasn’t true. The man had definitely been murdered.

Why would someone want to kill him? Violet could think of no reason, and yet she could think of a hundred. Those who mourned could be wholly irrational in their logic. Mourners who thought their undertaker had cheated them, had not carried out their loved one’s wishes, or had not produced a funeral reflecting their lofty status might channel all of their anger, sorrow, and pain onto the undertaker.

She remembered the ledger tucked under the desk leg in Crugg’s shop. Had the detectives found it? She wished now that she had studied it more closely, or perhaps copied out a few names. She could have visited the families, or at least investigated them to determine whether Crugg had somehow enraged a family member or two, someone with a known bad temper.

Too late now. She made a mental note to ask Hurst about the ledger.

Violet rolled away from Sam, who was finally snoring softly. She curled up on her side, her mind still awhirl with reflections on Julian Crugg’s death, Roger Blount’s unprepared body and his family’s near unconcern for him, and Margery Latham’s sudden death on the heels of her fiancé’s untimely demise. She also couldn’t forget the two men who had popped out of their coffins at Brookwood.

They were all dissimilar events, she reminded herself. They couldn’t possibly be related. But what
was
related? What was completely innocent and irrelevant?

There was no solace for her, either.

 

Violet and Harry took inventory of a shipment of mourning jewelry from T. & J. Bragg the following morning, with Harry unloading wrapped items from the crate, and Violet carefully cataloging each piece in a ledger before setting it in its appropriate place either on top of the long L-shaped counter or under the counter’s glass.

“Look, another cracked dome, Mrs. Harper.” Harry held up a mourning brooch whose brass backing and pin were flawless but whose glass covering for the hair design to be placed beneath it was practically shattered. She wondered how many more damaged brooches were in the crate.

“What’s this, the third one in this shipment?” Violet said, making a special note in the ledger and setting the piece aside. Harry continued digging through the crate, now unwrapping earrings, necklaces, bracelets, rings, hair combs, hairpins, and fans fashioned from jet, a material that was popular with anyone who could afford it.

Jet was a hard, coal-like material formed when driftwood sank to the ocean floor and became embedded in the mud. A combination of heat, pressure, and chemical action that Violet didn’t understand transformed the wood into a fragile, black substance that was lightweight and easily carved. It could be obtained all over the world from places like Spain, Germany, Canada, France, and the United States, but Morgan Undertaking only purchased jet from suppliers who bought it from Whitby, England, where the finest jet in the world was to be found.