The Mourning Bells (3 page)

She softened her tone. “Harry, we must think this through. Whatever medical condition that man experienced was not typical. We have both seen enough bodies in our lives to know when they are dead. The ashy skin, the vacant eyes, the odors. Don’t you think it more likely that the undertaker who put him in a coffin was incompetent?”

Harry considered this. “Yes, perhaps, but—”

“If we want to maintain our reputation, we have a responsibility to keep quiet about this until we know for sure who put that man in a coffin before he was ready.”

“How would we do that? We have no authority, and no undertaker is under obligation to talk to us.”

Violet had encountered more difficult situations than this before, and even uncovered killers in the process. This was no murder, just a simple case of bad undertaking. How challenging could it possibly be to ferret out the inept funeral man in their midst?

“I’ll take care of it, Harry. Meanwhile, we have a funeral to perform, to make sure Mr. Harland is sent off well. We must stop such talk, at least until we know for certain what happened.”

Harry shrugged. “As you say, Mrs. Harper. I’ll keep quiet. But after what we just witnessed, I have to say I’m convinced.”

Mr. Harland’s funeral went off well enough except for a problem with a relative who availed himself of a little too much gin inside the reception room and almost stumbled into the grave before Mr. Harland himself was laid in it.

It was with tired relief that Violet and Harry made the hour-long train ride back to London in silence. Violet’s peaceful walk through Brookwood was now but a distant memory as she was consumed with the bell coffin experience.

The stationmaster had stated that no crime had been committed. Perhaps in the eyes of the law, no. But in Violet’s mind, a careless undertaker had perpetrated an inexcusable act on an innocent person.

Whatever undertaker had put that man in his coffin no more deserved to wear his hat and tails than a Newgate Prison inmate did.

T
hat evening, as she and Sam prepared for dinner with their daughter, Susanna, and her own husband, Benjamin, Violet told Sam about the bizarre incident at the train station.

“It baffles me that some undertaker mistakenly took the man to be dead,” Violet declared, sitting before the mirrored dressing table of their bedchamber and repinning her hair, which had come loose during the day’s events.

Her husband sat on the bed, propped up against Violet’s pillows with his legs stretched out and his ankles crossed, rubbing his chin in contemplation of what she’d said. Her bedclothes would smell of him later, which was a pleasant extra to simply having him next to her. She had nearly lost her Sam twice, once to war and once to an explosion. Every day she worried about losing him again, although he said the same of her.

“But, as Harry said, you saw it with your own eyes.”

Violet brushed furiously at a lock of hair that refused to stay confined and began to jam several more hairpins in it. “I know, I know. But you’ve seen a dead body before, Sam. Even the most amateur undertaker should know whether someone is deceased or not.”

“Maybe the family didn’t employ an undertaker’s services and simply purchased a coffin on their own.”

Violet paused in midmotion, meeting his eyes in the mirror. She hadn’t considered that possibility before. Perhaps Sam was right. If the man had suffered a long-term illness and the family assumed he had died, they might have skipped an undertaker’s services and arranged with Brookwood themselves. Still . . .

She picked up her final hairpin, which was topped with a carved red rose, and conceded, “That may be true. I think I’ll go ahead and look into it anyway, just to be sure,” she said, turning away from the mirror to face him.

“At least this will be a placid endeavor, with no additional bodies trailing behind you, as usually seems to be the case,” he said, his dark eyes sparkling in amusement.

She threw the hairpin at Sam, and it landed on his chest. Laughing, he picked up the tortoiseshell pin, swung his legs to the floor, and came to Violet. He gently inserted the pronged piece in her hair before leaning down and placing a gentle kiss on her neck.

“Enough of this serious talk. Let’s go see our daughter and son-in-law. I have news of my own to share.”

They joined Susanna and Benjamin in the sitting room, and then together went to the dining room to await the evening’s meal offering from Mrs. Wren, their day cook. The Harpers had quarters above the Morgan Undertaking shop, which Violet now co-owned with Harry. While Harry lived nearby with his wife, Violet and Sam had renovated the modest flat above the shop so that she could be as close to the shop as possible. Their lodgings contained a sitting room, a study, a dining room, a bedroom, a kitchen with a new coal stove, and a washroom with a flushing toilet, a convenience Violet had quickly become accustomed to when they were first gaining popularity in London a few years ago.

The quarters were fine for just Violet and Sam, but with Susanna visiting from Colorado, things had become a bit . . . disarrayed. Susanna and her new husband were making do with sleeping on the settees in the sitting room, but their belongings were piled up everywhere. The fireplace mantel in that room was covered in Susanna’s face creams and hair combs, since she used the mantel and the mirror above it as her makeshift dressing table, and the two of them simply used their open traveling trunks as clothespresses. Newspapers, books, teacups, and bedcoverings were scattered across every square inch of available space. On top of all that, Mrs. Softpaws, Susanna’s fluffy black-and-white cat, whom Susanna had insisted come along for the visit to London, was unhappy with her strange surroundings. So she had taken to scratching at the furniture when no one was looking—and when they were looking, she was usually atop a walnut-and-glass display cabinet, glaring down at those responsible for her circumstances.

The only bright spots in the room were the two dolls Violet had given Susanna as a wedding gift upon her arrival in London. Made to look like the Prince and Princess of Wales at the time of their wedding, they were exacting in their detail, even down to the princess’s trailing, lace-and-flower-embellished veil. The royal couple were posed together on a table, but were near to being buried in an avalanche of belongings.

The condition of the sitting room was such that it made even Violet blanch, and she was hardly a good household chatelaine, usually paying no attention to tarnishing silver or corner cobwebs. At least they had Ruth, their day help, but even poor Ruth couldn’t keep up with what resulted from such cramped quarters.

Ruth had come to Violet by way of Mary Cooke, Violet’s dearest friend and a dressmaker, who had also seen to the decoration of Violet’s new quarters in the latest fabrics from Morris, Marshall, and Faulkner. Ruth was a little dim, but her devotion to the Harpers and to Mary was unquestionable.

Violet could not say the same for the unfortunately named Mrs. Wren, who entered the dining room bearing a steaming tureen of Chantilly soup. Unlike her merry avian namesake, which was tiny, flitting, and chirping, Mrs. Wren mostly resembled a hawk, replete with sharp eyes that missed nothing and a set of thick fingernails that looked as though they could easily rip the flesh completely off an unsuspecting leg of mutton.

Violet had to admit, though, that the woman could have given the much-touted Mrs. Beeton lessons in household cookery.

“Soup,” Mrs. Wren said sullenly, placing the tureen on the table for Sam to ladle, while she went back to the kitchen for another dish. Sam began to serve the delectable soup, its bright-green color from the peas accented appetizingly well by the heavenly scent of parsley and onion wafting up from it.

After Sam said grace, they all partook from their bowls, and in between spoonfuls, Violet once more brought up the odd incident at the train station. Susanna, who had served as an assistant undertaker with Violet back in Colorado, shared her mother’s reaction.

“These are strange doings, Mother,” she mused, putting down her spoon. Susanna already sounded as though she’d been raised in the American West. Was Violet to be the only one in the family who sounded English?

They were interrupted by Mrs. Wren’s return, this time with a platter of salmon in caper sauce. “Fish,” the woman said as she put the platter in front of Sam again, and critically eyed any soup bowl that was not completely empty as she picked them up from around the table.

Violet adored the briny taste of the capers and anchovies combined with the sweet fleshiness of the salmon. She put a hand to her waist, which had thickened slightly during a recent stay at St. James’s Palace, with all of its abundant cuisine. Perhaps she should only take one fillet. She sighed as she dug into her lone piece of fish that perhaps had a bit too much sauce accompanying it.

“Yes, it is odd, and I’m going to look into it, with your help, of course,” Violet said.

“How?” her daughter asked, her expression suggesting she was not as fond of the salty tang of this dish as her mother was.

“Tomorrow I plan to visit Mr. Boyce to ask him what undertakers have ordered safety coffins from him. Then, I’d like to split the list with you, and we’ll each go interview these undertakers.”

“What fun! Yes, of course I’ll help you.”

Benjamin, who had managed Sam’s law practice in Colorado and had taken it over when Sam and Violet had announced their plans to remain in London, raised a good-natured eyebrow. “So you are asking my bride to involve herself in intrigue and investigation? I shall join you. After all, you need protection.”

Susanna laughed. “Protection? From what? Sharp mourning brooch pins?”

Benjamin smiled fondly. “Darling, perhaps you’ve forgotten your mother’s penchant for attracting trouble. You’ll innocently walk into an undertaker’s shop, and all of a sudden have a chandelier fall on your head or a rabid dog crash through the window and bite you.”

Sam looked pointedly at Violet. “Perhaps I was wrong in my assessment of this. I hadn’t considered loosely hung light fixtures and rabid animals.”

Violet rolled her eyes. “This just amounts to a few interviews. I hardly think it will be a Shakespearean tragedy.”

Susanna held up a finger. “Ah, speaking of plays, I am reminded that I didn’t bring any of my undertaking garb from Colorado, so may I borrow a couple of outfits from you, Mother? I should dress the part.”

“Of course,” Violet said as Mrs. Wren reentered with a platter of summer salad overflowing with lettuce, mustard and cress, radishes, and cucumbers, and decorated with sliced eggs.

“Salad,” Mrs. Wren said in her usual chatty manner, clearing out the salmon plates with her folding talons. Fortunately, Mrs. Wren, like Ruth, was only day help.

“Now it’s my turn for news,” Sam said as he served the greens to everyone. “You all know that since my consultations with Mr. Nobel, I’ve decided to buy into a coal mine. Blamed if I didn’t end up with a cocked hat over how expensive they are, but I’ve found one up in Nottinghamshire, so I’ve been going round to some well-regarded investors to secure financing, and I believe I will have it in hand rather soon.”

“Papa, that’s wonderful!” Susanna cried.

“Yes, congratulations, old man,” Benjamin added in hearty approval. “I guess this means I’ll never convince you to move back to Colorado.”

Only Violet was reserved. At the sight of excitement and pride playing across Sam’s face, she desperately wanted to be happy about his endeavors, but she knew that the coal mine purchase was merely a backdrop to further his interest in Mr. Nobel’s dynamite invention. Sam was convinced that dynamite was the future for mine shaft tunneling, and he was determined to make his mark at the leading edge of it.

She finally summoned a smile. “I’m sure one of the investors will be happy to place his confidence in you.”

Their final dish arrived. “Pudding,” Mrs. Wren said, placing before them a molded sponge cake soaked with lemon rind and brandy. Sam cut slices of the moist dessert and offered them round. Violet sighed once more and refused to take a piece. Mrs. Wren, noticing everything, gave Violet a sharp look of disapproval.

Well, perhaps a tiny slice wouldn’t hurt. After all, she would be briskly walking all over London the next few days.

Mrs. Wren nodded in satisfaction when Violet changed her mind and accepted a slice. The brandy-and-lemon-infused confection was exquisite.

If her quest for the truth didn’t kill Violet, her new cook might.

 

Violet started out early the next day, with the intention of returning before any potential customers might visit. Not that Harry couldn’t handle things; she just liked to be on hand.

Boyce and Sons Cabinetmakers was located in Curtain Road inside Shoreditch, just north of the old City of London. It was owned by Putnam Boyce, a spry, elderly man who had lost his wife in a cholera epidemic many years ago and today ran the shop with his two sons. His shop’s showroom was full of striking samples of his handiwork. A collection of well-crafted clocks, chairs, and musical instruments lined the walls, and the shop was filled with the comforting smell of sawn wood.

Mr. Boyce was moving a little more slowly than the last time Violet had seen him. He held a hand to his hip, as though it bothered him. But he smiled warmly upon seeing Violet and spoke over the clamorous sounds of sawing and scraping issuing from his workshop. “Mrs. Morgan, an honor. I heard you had gone off to the United States to marry an American fellow.”

Violet smiled cordially in return. “I did. My name is Harper now, and my husband and I have returned to London to live.”

He nodded knowingly. “The lure of the old city was too much to keep you away, eh?”

“The city has indeed beckoned me back, leaving me little choice but to return,” she said, reflecting on Queen Victoria’s past insistence for her discreet services.

“I must say I am happy to have you back, as well. I’ve missed your custom, Mrs. Mor—Harper. Your successors went elsewhere for their coffins, although I’ve picked up other box-building work here and there.”

“I would like to engage you again for coffins.”

“I’d be delighted.” He turned toward the workshop. “Jonathan! Christopher! Come here.”

The scraping and sawing ceased, and two men in their early forties emerged from the rear. These must be the sons of Boyce and Sons. Both had their father’s sprightliness, although one had a thinning, sandy-brown pate and the other a full head of chestnut hair. Given their father’s silvery mane, she wondered which of the men took after his mother.

Boyce introduced the balding one as Christopher and the other as Jonathan.

“This is Mrs. Harper, a local undertaker,” Boyce said to his sons. “We’ll need to work up some coffins for her.”

Violet shook hands with each of them, noticing their rough, calloused hands, no doubt the result of years of toiling with wood.

“What would you like, Mrs. Harper?” Jonathan asked. “Elm burl? Oak? Mahogany?”

“How about one of each, all adult-sized?” she suggested. “I’d also like one in pine, and another painted white in a child’s size.”

“Anything special?” Jonathan rattled off an obviously memorized list of coffin features. “Vertical boxes? Bells? Feeding tubes? Air tubes? Escape ha—”

Violet held up a hand to stop the flow of words. “No! Nothing like that. Just sturdy, well-varnished coffins that I can add padding and mattresses to.”

Jonathan nodded. “We’ll have them to you in a few days.”

The brothers returned to the workroom. Boyce’s pride in them was evident in his gaze that followed their backs.

Violet coughed discreetly, diverting his attention back to her. “Mr. Boyce, I’m here for another reason, as well,” she said. “Your son mentioned safety features that could be added to your coffins. Do you make many of such boxes?”