Death at the Abbey (11 page)

11

“W
ould you like a tour of the underground?” Ellery Reed asked the next morning, uttering words that made Violet nearly delirious at the prospect, despite her anxiety over the missing body.

“Most certainly,” she replied for her and Sam.

As promised, Sam had returned with James and Philip Ward, as well as several other workers and a wagonload of dynamite and other materials. While the Ward brothers directed the unloading of the wagons, Violet and Sam followed Reed to a tunnel entrance—or, rather, an exit, located near the two rows of dormitory-style buildings, which Reed confirmed were servants' quarters. The tunnel was worked into the landscape in such a way that it almost looked like a natural stone formation rising up and welcoming them to the mystical grotto below. Belowground, though, were no ancient Greek mosaics and spouting dolphin heads, but a remarkably wide space that led into infinity. Violet couldn't see the end of the stonework tunnel, despite the paned-glass ceiling domes above them approximately every six feet, which provided the tunnel with enough daylight that Violet could pick out the stone's marbled pattern.

The gravel crunching beneath their feet as they walked three abreast was unsullied by animal droppings, plant debris, or any other dirt, almost as if it were being swept clean each day.

“This will take us beneath the house, to the grand ballroom, chapel, and guest rooms,” Reed said. “We are in the servants' tunnel, which runs alongside His Grace's private tunnel. The other one has a pavement surface, naturally.”

“Naturally,” Sam said, drily. “Why are there two?” Welbeck held few surprises for Violet anymore, but for Sam it was still new.

“His Grace prefers his own tunnel, which is sizable enough to enable his largest carriage-and-four to pass through, with no danger of a groom on the raised rumble seat being injured. He doesn't like to encounter anyone when he makes his trips to town.”

“Who could he possibly encounter from here to Worksop other than a neighbor or two?” Sam persisted.

“One never knows what may happen,” Reed said. “His Grace used his passageway for Spencer's funeral, which enabled him to avoid the procession.”

“He wanted to avoid his own servants and staff?” Sam was running off with the topic like a fox with a mole in its jaws.

Reed took no offense, though, and instead shrugged. “As I said, His Grace is private in the extreme. Workers are fortunate to have a place here, so no one thinks about it anymore.”

They crunched on to a point where the tunnel actually split into three directions, a marvel of workmanship in Violet's mind. “We'll go this way,” Reed said, heading to the right.

“Where do the other passageways go?” Violet asked.

“The one to the left ends at the stables, and meets up here to deliver equipage when His Grace desires it. The other tunnel leads to the worker dormitories.”

They proceeded on through the tunnel until they came to a set of arched, Gothic double doors set in the wall on their right. “This is the ballroom,” Reed said, opening one of the doors and allowing the Harpers to precede him in.

Violet had no idea what to expect, yet it was positively breathtaking. Unlike in the tunnel, the ceiling here was tall—but flat—and coffered, with rows of squares filled with glass alternating with squares from which dangled sixteen opulent crystal chandeliers.

Had they been walking on a downward incline this entire time, to enter a room with such a high ceiling?

Reed turned a key set into a wall plate, and the chandeliers all hissed with gas, showering the room in a glow befitting Buckingham Palace. What they illuminated shouldn't have surprised Violet but did.

Like in the dining room, this room's walls—which was probably sixty feet by eighty feet, if she had to guess—were covered over in paintings, many of which Violet guessed were priceless. How much money this family must have spent in artwork!

Positioned in a rectangle around the room, approximately ten feet away from each wall, were overstuffed viewing chairs and couches, all in the same floral fabric, atop the glossy wood flooring, which seemed to call out longingly for slippered feet to glide across it.

This time, Violet jumped in with questions before her husband could. “Didn't you say this is the ballroom?”

Reed nodded. “It is accessible from the house only through means of a lift.”

“But . . . it looks like a picture gallery. I feel as though a museum guide might approach me at any moment with a penny guide to the collection.”

Reed smiled thinly, as though he had heard her comment many times before. “His Grace does not have many visitors, so he uses the ballroom in this manner to be more useful to him personally.”

Violet and Sam exchanged glances, and she knew her husband was thinking the same thing she was.
Why build a ballroom if you don't intend to host balls?

Reed led them to a corner of the room that contained a discreetly placed glass case resting on top of an elegant mahogany table. “Here are the prizes of His Grace's entire collection,” he said.

Violet peered into the slanted glass top as Reed described the contents. “These pearl drop earrings and silver gilt chalice belonged to Charles I. He used the chalice prior to execution at Whitehall. You can see the inscription on it.”

Violet knelt to read.

Oh my. What a treasure. She would have been surprised if the British Museum had not attempted to purchase it.

Next to the earrings and chalice was a letter. The writing was faded and difficult to read, but what was obvious was the closing, which read,
Your very good friend, Mary R.

Violet was agog at what lay in the duke's possession.

“He holds many letters from the Stuarts, although this one from the Scottish queen is his most prized one. Ironic, since he is descended from the queen's jailer.”

“He keeps them here in his basement?” Sam asked in amazement.

Reed nodded. “They are quite as safe here as anywhere else, and don't receive much light or dust or fluctuation in temperature.”

Violet couldn't argue with the logic of that.

“When he builds his planned library, His Grace will of course move these items there,” Reed added. “He has many old volumes boxed away.”

Undoubtedly, Reed meant an underground library.

They then followed Reed across the length of the room to another set of double doors, these with a glass transom over them. They passed into another tunnel, which had a series of doors leading off of it. Reed opened each one briefly for them to stick their heads in for a glance. Each room was approximately twenty feet square with a large dome light in the center of the ceiling. But that was where the similarity ended, for each of these bedchambers was decorated in vastly different fabrics and furniture, each one themed to its own color palette or design pattern. One room had delicate Sheraton-style furniture and was done in pale blue; the next had a heavy walnut poster bed and was swathed in burgundy and gold. By the time Violet had seen ten of these rooms, she was overwhelmed and exhausted.

The other similarity she realized was that all the rooms appeared as though they had never been slept in. Or even had their carpets trod upon.

Already anticipating her next question, Reed said, “His Grace is a private man. He doesn't entertain.”

Sam shook his head in disbelief. “Never in all my dad-blamed days . . .” He kept the rest of his thought to himself.

They proceeded farther down this tunnel, the floor of which was done in alternating black and white marble tiles so that it felt like they were inside a grand country home, until they reached its end, which stopped at yet another pair of rounded, Gothic double doors. Wooden crosses hanging upon the doors announced where they were.

Unlike the ballroom or guest rooms, the chapel was almost stark in its simplicity, with a dozen rows of oak pews and a preacher's box. Overhead—the only nod to ostentation—the dome skylights were done in stained glass and a magnificent, if oddly placed, crystal chandelier. The ornate fixture had at least a dozen branches radiating out and reflecting light in an ornate mirror at the head of the nave where a crucifix might hang.

“Does His Grace have private services for himself here on Sundays and holy days?” Sam asked.

“Dear me, no,” Reed said. “He attends chapel at Worksop Priory.”

Sam muttered something unintelligible.

Violet, though, was distracted again. Why, was that the odor of roasting chicken, discernible even down here? She sniffed the air as unobtrusively as she could. Yes, it was. In fact, she realized that the wonderful odor had followed them here from the ballroom. No wonder Mrs. Garside had so many chickens cooking at once all the time, if she was wafting the smell to all parts of the house. The estate must have a very productive hen house to keep this going twenty-four hours a day.

“I imagine the dynamite has been unloaded by now,” Reed said, escorting them out of the chapel and back the way they had come. “I'm eager to see it in action. Combined with the advanced steam machinery we have on the estate, it has the potential to help us get twice as much land moved in half the time as is being done at places like Thoresby Hall or Clumber Park.”

“Where are they?”

“Both estates neighbor Welbeck Abbey and, along with Worksop Manor and Welbeck Abbey, make up what are called the Dukeries, straddling Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire. None of them have the extensive building projects of His Grace.” Violet heard the pride in Reed's voice.

Little did she realize that, a short while later, all of Reed's pride would evaporate, leaving him with only anger and bitterness.

 

Once they were aboveground, Sam went to direct his workers on where the shot-firing would take place to blast the holes for the skating rink. Shot-firing was his recently learned method for clearing rock and earth. As Sam showed James and Philip where to dig the holes to place the dynamite sticks—which had long wires that attached to a detonator a long distance away—Violet allowed Reed to escort her to a safe viewing place atop a grassy hill.

She sat down and spread her skirts around her, noticing that many estate workers were finding their way to the hill for observation. Word must have spread quickly about what was to take place.

Knowing that Reed would wish to join Sam and observe how he chose where to dig holes and insert the dynamite, Violet decided she had just a few moments in which to conduct her business with him. “Mr. Reed,” she said, “I was wondering if any of your other workers have gone missing in the past few days?”

Reed had been about to leave to join the dynamiters, but spun back around on his heel at Violet's inquiry. “Another worker? What do you mean?”

She countered with another question. “Do you have a worker with a tattoo of a hill or volcano on his shoulder?”

“Yes, that sounds like Edward Bayes. He spent time in the navy before—Wait a moment.” Reed's expression was confused. “Mrs. Harper, what are you suggesting? Is Bayes . . . ?” He made a choking sound as if he could hardly get out his next words. “Has Bayes died, too?”

“I believe so, sir, but I'm not sure.” Violet rose to stand next to him. “I found his body late yesterday.”

“Where is he? If he's one of my men, I can identify him.”

“Yes, well, I went to go get help, and when I returned with Colonel Mortimer, the body was gone.”

Reed's expression was even more baffled. “You sought the colonel's help instead of mine or His Grace's?”

How Violet wished she could erase the way she had handled the situation. “Unfortunately, yes. But His Grace is aware of the situation, and now I plan to resume searching for the body—Mr. Bayes's, I now presume—just as soon as the estate is cleared from the dynamiting.”

The estate manager nodded, too stunned to even respond to the news that he might have a second death on his hands. Instead, he said, “I believe I will join your husband at the blasting machine.” Sam and his workers were congregated near the small piece of equipment that would create the grand explosion people were gathering to see as if they were here to witness a circus performance.

On impulse, Violet rose and said, “I will join you, as well.”

“Mrs. Harper, it is safer here on the hill.” Reed put out a hand as if to stop her.

“Nevertheless, I will go with you.”

He shrugged, and she followed him to where Sam and the Ward brothers stood, now interestingly joined by Jack LeCato, talking behind a temporary metal wall with an observation glass in it. Sam nodded to acknowledge her presence, but was too tense for conversation as he constantly stepped out to issue instructions to his workers, who were digging last-minute holes and shoving in dynamite sticks.

The long trails of wires leading back to the blasting machine looked like an invasion of adders, which reminded Violet of the holes she had seen under the birch trees. But there weren't dynamite sticks in those holes . . . were there? Who even had access to the explosive materials besides Sam and his workers? Besides, why would someone want to annihilate a grove of trees? Unless . . . unless there was evidence of some sort to be destroyed? If only she could fathom what.

She made a mental note to go back and check the holes she had found.