Death at the Abbey (13 page)

Which made Violet shudder once more as she considered Sam's new venture.

The duke wasn't finished, though, and once he was done with her and her husband, he turned the tirade to Ellery Reed, who wasn't nearly as impassive as Sam, and immediately leapt to his own defense.

“Your Grace, I again offer a thousand apologies. I didn't speak to you ahead of time because I did not wish to trouble you with an affair I assumed would not be as . . . astonishing . . . as it proved to be. You must believe that my only goal was to bring efficiency to the digging out of the skating rink.”

Violet felt sympathy for Reed, whose position was in grave jeopardy, and hung on which breeze Portland might follow in the next few moments. However, how daft was Reed to have authorized this without having ever talked to the master of the estate?

Fortune followed Reed, however, as Portland visibly calmed down. “Right. Well. Mind your post and your responsibilities from this point forward.”

Reed accepted his acquittal with a deferentially bowed head.

By this point, Violet was becoming agitated. Portland had given over his spleen regarding the explosives, but no one seemed willing to address what lay behind her. Why hadn't the dead body received attention first? Now it was Violet's turn to enter the fray. “Your Grace, as unsettling as the dynamiting was, it pales in comparison to the discovery of Edward Bayes's body.”

Portland furrowed his brow. “Bayes, you say? Is this one of my workers, Reed? Found where?”

Violet, Sam, Reed, and LeCato all moved aside so that Bayes's body was visible. In his shock, all of the color drained from Portland's face and he instinctively took a step back from the now-battered Mr. Bayes. “M-Mrs. Harper, is this—is this—the body you referred to yesterday evening?”

“Yes, Your Grace. He had certain identifying marks on his body that proved to me he is one and the same. Mr. Reed identified him as one of the workers here.”

Portland's gruff manner had completely disappeared, and he was once more the shy and eccentric peer she had first encountered on the estate. “How—how did this happen?” He took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead, tilting his hat precariously backward.

Reed opened his mouth to speak, but Violet jumped in once more. “We aren't sure, Your Grace. I believe when I discovered him yesterday that he was already dead, but if Mr. Bayes was in his cups, as you suggested, perhaps he woke up, walked away, and once more passed out, this time in the vicinity of the blasting site. But the condition of his body was such that—no, I am quite certain he was dead.”

There was another point to be made, too. “Besides, Sam and his men would have easily come upon him while clearing the blasting site, wouldn't they?”

“Obviously not,” Reed commented drily, but Violet was not deterred.

“Furthermore,” she continued, “if the man were alive a few minutes ago, how could he possibly have been so deeply asleep that he wouldn't have heard the clearing horn?”

Reed laughed without mirth. “You clearly have little experience with estate workers, Mrs. Harper, who are capable of consuming gallons of spirits in their free time. It doesn't strike me as odd whatsoever that Mr. Bayes could have drunk himself into an insensible stupor. Wouldn't you agree, my lord?”

Portland nodded slowly. “Yes, I can see how this would be so. Nevertheless, it is a terrible thing, terrible. How his family will long for him, no matter how reprehensible his behavior might have been. Heavy drink kills a man quickly or kills a man slowly, but it always kills the man.”

They were all silent, waiting for what the duke would say next. Violet wasn't about to offer her opinion that drink had had nothing to do with Bayes's death.

Finally, Portland sighed in resignation. “Mrs. Harper, you will of course take care of things . . . ?”

“Yes, Your Grace. I will visit whatever family he has right away.” Violet was certain that behind his words was an unspoken request for her to look into Bayes's death.

“I will spare no expense on a third-class funeral for him,” Portland added, which was a contradiction, given that a third-class funeral was always a very simple affair for those who could not afford better and were not entitled to the trappings of a first- or second-class service.

“He has a wife, Margaret,” Reed said to her. “She lives in town in a cottage just down from the telegram office and not two blocks from the priory. You cannot miss it, for the front door is painted orange. Sir,” he said, turning his attention back to Portland, “I presume you will . . .”

“Yes, yes.” Portland nodded much more vigorously, and Violet was certain his top-heavy hat would come crashing to the ground. “Mrs. Bayes and her children can be settled into whatever empty cottage is available on the estate. And now, I must return to my rooms. This has all been . . . exhausting . . . to say the least.”

Portland turned away and took just a few halting steps before stopping, tilting his head, and returning. “In all of this distress, I believe I failed to ask: What was the outcome of the dynamite experiment? I see dirt and rock everywhere, but was it effective?”

LeCato spoke for the first time since insulting Violet prior to the duke's arrival. “Your Grace, if I may say so, the experiment was an utter failure. Your entire staff was disrupted for the morning”—he waved a hand to indicate the workers who had started dispersing the minute Portland had shown up—“and the grounds have been irreparably harmed. It seems to me the entire project has been halted as a result of its use, and should perhaps remain halted until we can be sure there have been no other workers harmed. Or killed.” LeCato's voice suggested a man who was practical in the extreme, although Violet would not forget his earlier insult.

An expression passed over Portland's face that Violet couldn't read. “How interesting of you to say so,” he replied coolly. “Mr. Harper, perhaps you can show me what you did. You, as well, Mr. Reed.”

Violet knew that the rest of them were dismissed, which was perfectly fine with her, for she needed to complete the sorrowful task of talking to Mrs. Bayes. First, though, she wanted to inspect the holes under the birches again.

She sought out Mr. Kirby and asked if she might have the use of a wagon and driver for her solemn task of carrying Bayes's body to town. Learning that the equipage would be brought around in about fifteen minutes, Violet returned to the scene where she first had found Mr. Bayes.

She needed no more than a few moments to realize that there was no dynamite planted anywhere. Why, then, were the holes there? Another thought struck her. Were they markers? If so, what did they mark? Violet stood back in an attempt to see some sort of pattern in the holes, a nearly impossible task with all of the leaves on the ground. Weren't holes dug to mark foundation areas for homes? Perhaps the duke planned to build some cottages here.

Yes, perhaps it was that innocent, and Violet was worked up because she had found them near the colonel's glass eye and poor Mr. Bayes's body. It was time to put that concern to rest, and concentrate on the rest of her day, which would no doubt include a grief-stricken widow and dazed, confused children.

Mrs. Bayes, however, was anything but grief-stricken.

13

M
rs. Bayes was shocking, both in her appearance and in her speech. Dressed in glaring bright colors—making her a near perfect match for her orange front door—the new widow's first response upon seeing her husband lying in the wagon was to shake her fist at him and screech a string of obscenities at him.

“You bleeding oaf, you 'ad the wits of a stupid goat and you smelled like one, too” was the most polite phrase Margaret Bayes used. The tirade went on for several minutes in the now-familiar Nottinghamshire dialect, with the scarlet-faced woman not even stopping to take a breath.

Violet directed the driver to help her move Mr. Bayes into the house before the neighbors spilled into the street to see what all of the commotion was. The undertaker was already seriously questioning whether the corpse would be safe in the Bayeses' dining room, a small, crowded affair with nine chairs set around a table meant for six.

The danger being Mrs. Bayes, not the venue.

After Mr. Bayes was situated in the dining room and the driver had gone back to the carriage to wait, the woman continued railing inside her tiny, dark parlor, which contained little more than a threadbare settee and two mismatched chairs under its low, dank ceiling. Several children, all about a year or two apart in age, stood in a doorway leading from the parlor to a corridor beyond, but scattered at the sight of their mother calling down Satan and his minions upon their father.

“Mrs. Bayes, please, let us talk,” Violet said, in the soothing tone she adopted when faced with the wildly grieving. This woman was a bit more turbulent than most, raging and howling like a storm that rushes in from the coast and batters everything around it.

“I am terribly sorry for the loss of your husband and what it means for your family.” Violet kept her voice low and remained still. Soon, Mrs. Bayes also quieted down, having expended her rage and fury, at least for the moment. However, the woman still shed no tears of sorrow. Violet knew that some people would not grieve in public, even if “public” meant before one other person inside the privacy of home.

“I want to assure you,” Violet continued, “that His Grace is devastated by your husband's death, and will pay the entire cost of the funeral.”

Mrs. Bayes nodded stonily. The tempest seemed to have blown itself out and was headed back out to sea.

“Do you want to know . . . what happened?” Violet asked.

The woman shrugged carelessly. “I can guess. 'E was sotted up and fell in front of a 'orse van, or got 'imself into a fight with a brute ten times bigger than 'e was. I always told 'im 'e'd come to no good end.”

Violet was in a quandary. Was it better for the woman to believe that her husband had died in a manner that upheld her obvious belief in his waywardness? Would there be an odd comfort in that for Mrs. Bayes? It wouldn't be a lie to tell her that her husband had been found at the dynamiting site, where it was already believed he had stumbled in drunk. Or should Violet speak truthfully and tell the woman that she had discovered Mr. Bayes with a bloodied head last night and that his body had promptly disappeared, only to resurface at the dynamiting site? What would such a revelation do to this woman's precarious state?

Before she could decide what to do, Mrs. Bayes spoke again. “ 'E was gone for a few days, so I didn't think anything of it. Edward was forever wandering off to 'is own purposes and coming back when it suited 'im. I'm not a bad wife, just so you know. I cook for the children, I clean, I go to market. But 'im, no, Edward wasn't reliable at all. It would be just like 'im to get 'imself killed and leave me with everything to do.”

The condition of her home suggested that Margaret Bayes probably put more thought into these activities than actual effort, but Violet wasn't exactly the best mistress of the house the world had ever known. Besides, she didn't herself have a passel of children to care for on top of it all, so what did she know?

As if on cue, a wailing erupted from another room. With a resigned sigh, Mrs. Bayes rose from her chair and disappeared for several minutes, and eventually the crying stopped.

When she returned, Mrs. Bayes seemed to have forgotten the manner of her husband's death and was focused on practical things. “I've 'eard 'Is Grace 'as a widows' and orphans' fund, to pay the family of dead workers a stipend each month. Even if Edward died of 'is own foolishness, will 'Is Grace still make good on the money? I could sure use a few quid each month.”

Violet was surprised by the hint of craftiness in Mrs. Bayes's voice, although given the woman's circumstances, maybe it shouldn't be that much of a shock.

“His Grace assured me personally that you and your children are welcome to a cottage on the estate, to occupy for the rest of your life.”

Mrs. Bayes smiled, while gently shaking her head in disbelief. “Well, ol' Edward, 'e's finally doing in death what 'e's supposed to 'ave been doing in life.”

Perhaps with that bit of good news for the widow, it was time to discuss Edward Bayes's funeral. Violet pulled her funeral service book from her large leather undertaking bag. She had had the driver stop by the inn so she could retrieve the bag on their way to visit the widow, and was now very glad she had brought it with her to Nottinghamshire, along with her professional black clothing.

Violet hovered in the book between the Working Class and Tradesman sections, and finally decided that Portland's instructions meant that the funeral should be working class, as befitting the man's station, but well done. She laid the book open in her lap to that section. Each section of the book, which started at Poor and ran up as far as Society and Titled, contained drawings of coffins, mourning fashions, flowers, and memorial stones appropriate for that class of funeral. Violet always felt a twinge of guilt at having to indirectly remind the grieving of their station in life, even in the face of the great equalizer of death.

“You will have a simple black hearse, containing a small viewing window, with one horse wearing a single black ostrich feather.” Violet pointed to an engraving of the hearse.

“That's better 'n just a cart, isn't it?” Mrs. Bayes asked.

“Yes, madam, much better. You can also be provided with your own mourning coach for transporting you to the church.” Violet expected Mrs. Bayes to demur, given that she was so close to the church and because she presumably had quite a number of children to manage who would not all fit inside the coach.

Instead, the widow seemed struck. “Lawd, me in a coach. I never 'ad such good fortune when Edward was alive.”

Well, if Mrs. Bayes wanted to enjoy the coach, they might as well do the traditional funeral ride through the small town instead of taking the coffin directly from the house to the church. Such a display was typically reserved for only the wealthy or well known, but surely Violet could justify to Portland that Edward Bayes had become instantly famous in a town like Worksop. “Your husband and the entire funeral party will travel from your house through as many streets of Worksop as possible, to give your neighbors an opportunity to offer their blessings.”

“Yes, that would be fine, most fine.” Violet suspected the widow would struggle to refrain from grinning the entire time.

“The coffin will be elm, painted black, with a black velvet pall over it. I will place a spray of flowers over the coffin. You will have a coachman and an attendant wearing black gloves, hat bands, and arm bands. You will need six pallbearers, whom I will also outfit similarly, to carry the coffin from the house to the hearse and from the hearse to the grave. They should be chosen from immediate friends of Mr. Bayes's, and should be near to him in age. Do you know six men who can serve?”

Mrs. Bayes nodded. “I just need to send one of my boys down to the Lamb and Chalice to ask, and no doubt six of the lushingtons will put down their tankards long enough to do it.”

Violet dreaded the carnival performance the funeral would surely be. “Would you like the service held here at home or at the church?”

Mrs. Bayes looked around her tiny parlor and then back at Violet incredulously. “I can't 'ardly fit my young ones in here, much less the gaggle that will come to stare at Edward.”

Violet agreed completely and made a note to see Reverend Appleton again, hoping she could do so without engaging in more theological conundrums.

“Speaking of the clothing to be worn by funeral attendants, I must ask, do you have clothing that will suffice as widow's weeds, or will you need a dressmaker's visit?” Violet doubted this woman owned somber garments and was certain the duke would happily pay for a few dresses to carry her through two years of mourning.

But Violet was once more taken aback when Mrs. Bayes said, “There's no worries there. I 'ave just the right thing to wear,” and refused to discuss additional accoutrements, such as jet earrings or necklaces, mourning brooches, bonnets, tortoiseshell-handled fans, or any other items that would identify her as a new widow.

Violet gently suggested that she accept a gift of a black-edged handkerchief from the duke, for which, once more, Violet was certain he would happily pay. Sensing that the woman needed more social guidance than most, she also dispensed advice that she would not normally presume to do with any grieving widow.

“It is, of course, essential that you do not receive or pay visits for at least six months,” Violet said, hating her words, for she remembered how much she had detested that much mourning over her unlamented first husband. “Also, you must not attend the theater or other public places of amusement, unless it is a sedate musical performance.”

Fortunately, Mrs. Bayes took no offense and shrugged her way through that and the rest of Violet's suggestions, only finally becoming animated at the idea of an outdoor repast with her friends and neighbors following Mr. Bayes's interment at Worksop Priory. Violet's next question, though, sent the widow back to indifferent shrugging.

“Is there anything the vicar should know about your husband as he prepares the service?” Violet asked.

“Besides 'is love of Star Brewery porter? What else is there to know?”

Violet had to tread carefully here, for she didn't want to send Mrs. Bayes back to howling. “Is there anything about Mr. Bayes's life—where he was born if not in Worksop, how he came to be employed at Welbeck Abbey—that the vicar could mention to those in attendance at the funeral? I noticed that your husband has a very peculiar tattoo on his right shoulder, and thought you might know—”

“Oh, that? It's One Tree 'Ill.”

It sounded like an address. “What do you mean?”

“It's one of them dead volcanoes—the kind that once blew fire—all the way over in New Zealand. It 'ad a single tree in the center of it until some dobbie cut it down in the '50s.”

Violet was still confused. “And your husband saw a drawing of it in a picture book?”

“Of course not. 'E was there. Edward joined 'Er Majesty's navy to have an adventure, but grew sore tired of it while fighting in the Maori Wars, since all 'e did was sit inside a ship for gobs of time during a blockade at the mouth of the Waikato River.”

This was interesting, although Violet wasn't sure it was relevant to anything. “Was your husband born in Worksop, then?”

Mrs. Bayes shook her head. “No. 'E was from Liverpool. After 'is stint in the navy, 'e wandered about from county to county and job to job, finding me along the way. I traveled with 'im, and we brought our young ones into the world. 'E always thought the next town would be the place where 'e would find 'is fortune. By the time we reached our fourth one, I told 'im it was time for 'im to quit 'is roaming and settle somewhere. 'E learned about Welbeck Abbey and 'ow the duke never turned away work seekers, so we ended up 'ere. Edward thought this might be the place to finally make 'is riches, though I don't know 'ow the fool expected to do that as a purser.”

So Edward Bayes distributed the pay for the estate's workers. Did that mean anything? He must have hidden his love for drink to maintain such a responsible position. How could it possibly be relevant to his death? It probably wasn't. And yet . . . someone had moved the man's body, Violet was sure of it. Despite Mrs. Bayes's insistence that he was an incurable drunkard, it didn't seem possible that Violet had mistaken him for a corpse, and that he had stumbled off to the dynamiting site.

“Did your husband have any experience with dynamite?” she asked.

“With what?” Mrs. Bayes looked genuinely confused.

“Your husband was found near one of the duke's tunneling sites, which was being dug for a skating rink for the staff.”

“Yes, I 'eard about the skating rink. 'Is Grace is always planning up exercises for 'is workers. Edward didn't think much of it, though. Thought it was an insult to make 'im go rowing and batting cricket balls around.”

“So your husband had no part in the building of the skating rink?”

Mrs. Bayes's expression was wary. “Not so I would know of it, but I didn't follow the man about every second, Mrs. 'Arper. Wasn't any of my business what 'e did for 'Is Grace and Mr. Reed.”

“I see. Do you know of any particular friends or enemies he may have had at Welbeck?”

“Edward?” Mrs. Bayes laughed. “ 'E could easily be best mates with anyone who could fill his tankard.”

Violet persisted. “But was there anyone in particular with whom he was especially close? Or with whom he had had a recent argument?”

The woman shrugged. “'E had his occasional row with the falconer. Said the birds was always stealing coins from 'is money box. Falconer called Edward a nitwitted fool. Can't say as I disagreed with the bird 'andler. Once they even got to fisticuffs over some missing paper scrap of Edward's. The falconer promised to poison Edward in 'is sleep.”