The Mourning Bells (4 page)

Boyce frowned, and Violet noticed for the first time how dark his eyebrows were compared to his gray hair. “I make them for a fair number of undertakers. Why do you ask?”

“Do you keep a list of which undertakers you make them for?”

“Yes.” Now he was looking at her suspiciously.

“I would like a list of them. Particularly the ones for whom you make bell coffins.”

“For what reason, Mrs. Harper?” Boyce turned to softly tap the keys on a square piano with ornately carved legs. The immense skill in his fingers for exquisitely shaping wood did not extend to musical talent, for the notes were discordant and an inharmonious counterpoint to the resumed sounds of sawing and sanding emitting from the rear of the shop.

Violet hadn’t actually expected him to question her. She was loath to share what had happened, lest Boyce and Sons use it to start promoting safety coffins themselves.

“I . . . I have reason to believe that . . . that . . . they have been renting the coffins for low-cost burials, then reselling them to theaters as brand-new props.”

The cabinetmaker abruptly stopped playing. “Well, now, that wouldn’t be a proper thing to do.”

“No, it wouldn’t.” Violet warmed up to her lie, hoping she wouldn’t be struck dead by the Almighty the moment she left Boyce’s shop. “Actors might be climbing into coffins that have actually been occupied by corpses. But I don’t want to go to the police without being absolutely sure. I wouldn’t want to waste their time on some foolish suspicion.”

“Hmm, I guess they wouldn’t appreciate being asked to take action on a woman’s whim.”

“I’m also concerned that such actions would sully the undertaking profession as a whole, and you know that we already suffer some of the greatest blemishes of any merchants in London.” At least
that
much was the truth.

“I suppose that’s true enough.” There was a shadow of uncertainty in Boyce’s eyes now.

“I just wish to speak with them, Mr. Boyce,” Violet assured him, sensing he was starting to inwardly vacillate. “I have no authority to do anything, nor are they under obligation to tell me anything,” Violet added, remembering Harry’s words at Brookwood. “I respect the confidentiality of your customer list, and would never reveal the source.”

Boyce wavered, clearly searching for a reason not to help her but coming up with nothing. “Very well,” he agreed reluctantly. “Let me get my ledger book and some paper. If this were anyone else but you . . .”

The cabinetmaker pulled an iron ring full of keys from a hook on the wall and searched through them. None were marked with words or letters, yet he managed to cull through them all and select the correct one that opened an elegant secretary in his showroom. Behind the secretary’s upper doors, which were inlaid with a spectacular ancient Greek temple scene and trimmed in a Greek key border, was a multitude of drawers, large and small. He pulled another key from the ring and opened one of the taller drawers in the secretary. Inside was a leather-bound ledger, similar to what Violet used to manage her own shop’s records.

Boyce lowered the writing table portion of the secretary and sat at a chair before it. From another drawer he pulled paper, pen, and ink, then studied his ledger at length. In fact, he took so long that Violet worried he had fallen asleep in front of it, but then he dipped his pen in the inkwell and began writing.

Half an hour later, Violet left with a folded sheet of paper containing a list of undertakers in London who had purchased safety coffins from Boyce and Sons. She didn’t open it until she returned to her own shop, and when she did, she was quite disturbed.

One name on the list jumped out at her from among all the others and filled her with more dread than an open crypt on a cloudless night.

 

Violet finished the rest of her day in the shop without sharing anything with Harry, who didn’t seem curious as to when she might begin her investigation into who was responsible for the previous day’s bell coffin. Without doubt, worries about his expectant wife were keeping his mind largely occupied. He spent his time in the coffin room, preparing space for the samples that Boyce and Sons would be sending soon, while Violet spent the rest of the day taking inventory of their mourning brooch domes, mourning card samples, jet jewelry, black lace fans and collars, and other accoutrements they always kept on display.

That evening, after supper with her family, served by the ever-cheerful Mrs. Wren, Violet asked Sam and Benjamin to retire to the parlor while she and Susanna looked over the list of twenty-three undertakers Violet had. It was a substantial number of London’s hundred or so undertakers serving the city. Mr. Boyce had secured much more than a “fair number” of them.

Taking into account that Mr. Boyce only served a portion of the city’s undertakers, Violet was also dismayed at the number of undertakers now trading in safety coffins.

She tore the list in half horizontally, and passed the lower half to Susanna, pointing to the name that had disturbed her so much earlier. “This is Julian Crugg. I know him.”

Susanna looked puzzled. “Then why don’t you visit him?”

“He doesn’t particularly care for me. He once accused me of stealing customers from him.”

Susanna’s blue eyes widened. “But you would never do that.”

“Of course not. When I first returned to London, I was called in by the queen to perform undertaking services for a peer, and I displaced the family undertaker, who happened to be Mr. Crugg.”

It was no wonder that Crugg had been angry to lose the Lord Raybourn funeral. The cost of a service for a person of rank or title could vary between five hundred and fifteen hundred pounds. By comparison, the funeral of a gentleman might cost around three hundred pounds, and that of a tradesman of better class might be around sixty pounds. Then there were the members of the laboring class, who, due to their constant financial straits, might only spend around five pounds for a funeral that included a plain pine coffin, no lining or ruffling, no attendants, a flat hearse with no glass walls, and a single horse.

It was certainly in an undertaker’s best interests to attract as lofty a clientele as possible. When Julian Crugg lost the funeral to Violet because of the queen’s command, he risked losing future funerals for the extended family, representing thousands of pounds.

“He was displeased, to say the least,” Violet continued, reviewing her own list. “I think you might have better luck in speaking with him.”

“So, what shall we try to discover?” Susanna asked. She was nearly trembling with excitement. Violet wondered if Susanna wasn’t just a little bored back in Colorado.

“I think we want to find out, first, how often they have used bell coffins and, second, if they’ve recently sent a red-haired man in his thirties to Brookwood.”

“And what reason would we give for wanting to know this information?”

“Hmm.” Violet absently twirled her half of the list around on the table as she conjured up a plausible reason. “Let’s say we are writing an article for
The Times
about a rash of red-headed men being saved by safety coffins? People love stories of the supernatural.”

“Mother, that’s ridiculous.”

“Well, how do you think we should go about it?”

Mother and daughter were silent awhile, each contemplating how they might go about interviewing their fellow undertakers.

Finally, Susanna said, “I know. We will just present ourselves as considering the purchase of bell coffins and looking for advice on the best ones.”

Violet nodded at her daughter’s commonsense approach. “That should work. We can also ask if they use them at Brookwood, and see what sort of interesting information we can glean that way. Be careful, though. This is not the first time I’ve gone round asking questions of other undertakers. They might think we’re attempting to steal trade secrets.”

“This will be fun,” Susanna exclaimed, clapping her hands together like a little girl. “No wonder you like investigative work.”

Violet didn’t consider it fun as much as . . . necessary. Necessary for the reputation of undertaking, and necessary to ensure that the dead were properly and respectfully cared for in their time of farewells to the earth.

And to ensure that they were indeed deceased.

 

Susanna was dressed in a full complement of her mother’s undertaking clothing as she and Benjamin headed out the door. It would hopefully lend credibility to her visits with the undertakers on her list. Benjamin, too, wore somber clothing, although he lacked the telltale hat swathed in black crape that ended in two long tails draping down the back.

Her mother had recommended that Benjamin accompany Susanna for protection. Susanna had acquiesced to the idea but was inwardly dispirited about it, for she had wanted to engage in this endeavor on her own. She had only been married a couple of months now, but things weren’t quite as . . . exciting . . . as she’d anticipated. Their visit from Colorado to London had been to celebrate their marital happiness with her parents, but Susanna had hoped it would also infuse a bit of stimulation into her marriage.

Susanna’s childhood had been traumatic, full of death and a despondent workhouse confinement, until Violet had appeared in her life, bringing stability and love with her. Susanna had largely forgotten the trials of her youth and assumed that marriage, with its resulting routines and patterns, would continue her happiness.

Benjamin was kind and handsome, and Susanna had had high hopes for him. He’d been so doting and took a special interest in ensuring her safety after Mother and Father returned to London. Besides, he was Father’s law clerk, and Father thought so much of him. It only seemed natural that she should fall in love with Benjamin Tompkins.

What she wanted was a marriage like her parents’, one that was full of life and love and teasing and unabashed kisses. What she seemed to have gotten instead was something much more . . . cloying. Susanna couldn’t point to anything in particular that disturbed her about Benjamin. He was steadfast and kind. He adored her and told her so constantly. Susanna was almost ashamed by her feeling that something was defective.

Perhaps she hadn’t given it enough time.

Perhaps her expectations were too high.

Or perhaps they would never have what Mother and Father did because they had never experienced all of the crises and tumult that her parents had.

She frowned as she pulled on her black gloves and buttoned them. Was a marriage only truly happy when the participants had endured the worst of what life had to offer? How ironic it would be if that were true.

Well, perhaps today they would experience a little of her parents’ tribulations, depending on how things fared with their interviews.

Most of the undertakers whom they visited were friendly but indifferent. One, though, a Mr. Parris, happily showed her his safety coffins. His strangest one involved a tube into which the trapped person would blow, causing a bright yellow flag to shoot out at graveside. Like the others, he insisted that he hadn’t sent anyone to Brookwood lately.

By midafternoon, Susanna was bored and nearly starving to death. After a quick meal and tea at a nearby hotel with Benjamin, she suggested that they finish up at Julian Crugg’s shop. Rejuvenated from eating, she looked forward to meeting the man about whom her mother seemed so apprehensive. He was located in a side alley off Regent Street, making him convenient to the upper-crust residents of Mayfair.

The shop had large, sparkling windows, with no cracks at all in them. The wood surrounding the glass had been recently painted a deep, shiny black, and the gold lettering announced “Undertaking Services, Julian Crugg, Proprietor.” She put her face closer to the glass to peer inside. An undertaker—presumably Mr. Crugg himself—sat on a plush settee facing Susanna’s direction. Across from him sat a couple, their backs rigid and unmoving, a sure sign of terrible grief.

Susanna was overwhelmed with the desire to rush in and comfort them. Instead, she turned to Benjamin. “Perhaps we should visit the perfumery we saw back on Regent Street for a few minutes.”

A half hour later, with a new bottle of patchouli tucked in her reticule, she and her husband returned to Crugg’s shop, where they found him alone.

The door’s bell tinkled prettily as they stepped in, and the man looked up from where he was standing behind his counter, flipping through an urn catalog. He immediately stepped out and bowed with both hands held out. Cupped in his palms was a calling card.

“I am Julian Crugg. How may I be of service to you today, sir? Madam?” He looked curiously at Susanna, obviously recognizing her garb. He was middle-aged, thin, and wiry.

Benjamin took the card as Susanna said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Crugg. I am Susanna Tompkins, and this is my husband, Benjamin. We are undertakers in Queen’s Road.” For the tenth time today, she wished there had been time to create calling cards. How legitimate did she look without one?

The undertaker didn’t seem to notice. “May I be of assistance to you on a funeral?”

“Not exactly.” Susanna rolled out her speech, perfected after so many visits. “We understand that you are a prominent expert in safety coffins. We haven’t used them before, but are considering adding them to our inventory. We hoped you might recommend some models and makers.”

The undertaker smiled, then lifted his left hand and snapped his fingers. Almost instantly, another man, with hair hanging so low on his forehead that it nearly covered his eyes, appeared from the back. “Yes, Mr. Crugg?” He inclined his head toward Susanna and Benjamin in greeting, then swiped a hand across his forehead, pushing his hair aside. His pants were too long, and his jacket sleeves too short. Susanna wondered why Mr. Crugg, the owner of an elegant shop, would keep such an unkempt man in his employ.

“Bird, this is Mr. and Mrs. Tompkins, undertakers over in Paddington. They’re interested in investing in safety coffins. Bring out our new portable chamber, will you?”