Death at the Abbey (14 page)

Interesting. “Would you be willing to come to Welbeck to report your story to His Grace?”

The widow's eyes widened. “What? Me? No, I could never. It doesn't mean anything, anyway.”

“It might be important, Mrs. Bayes. I believe His Grace might wish to know if one of his staff might have had reason to harm your husband.”

“What difference would it make? Edward lived a fool and died a fool, and the falconer 'ad nothing to do with it. No, I'll not do it. You just told me I 'ave an income, to be mine from now on. I'll not be running tales or do anything to make me look unappreciative before 'Is Grace.”

No matter what Violet said, Mrs. Bayes refused to come with her to Welbeck Abbey.

Resigned that her work with Mrs. Bayes was complete, Violet rose, intending to return to the dining room where Edward Bayes lay. “I might suggest that you have one of your sons visit the Lamb and Chalice right away to find some men to hold vigil over your husband in shifts until the funeral.” The practice had largely gone out of style, but Violet was still nervous that Mrs. Bayes might exact revenge on Edward once she was alone with him.

Mrs. Bayes called out for Charlie, and a thin boy of about ten poked his head into the room. Mrs. Bayes curtly told him that his father had died, and that he was to run quickly to the tavern to find men to hold vigil and to serve as pallbearers. Violet's heart broke over the boy's confused expression at his mother's bland pronouncement, but he rushed off to do as he was bid.

“I'll prepare your husband now,” Violet said, picking up her undertaking bag, which was full of the supplies she would need.

On this, Mrs. Bayes became intractable once more. “No, no one touches 'im.” The woman's lips made a thin, sour line. “ 'E's my husband and I'll wash 'im.”

This was exactly what Violet didn't want, but she had little choice in the matter. The woman was, after all, the widow, and no matter what Portland was expending, the widow had a right to dictate this.

“Very well, then, I'll be on my way.”

After leaving the gloomy cottage, Violet sent a telegram to Harry Blundell to have him ship yet another coffin and other supplies right away. Afterward, she once more visited Worksop establishments to gather the remaining materials and perform necessary tasks, including a visit to the local newspaper to insert a death announcement in the following day's edition. Her final stop was at a draper's for yards of black crape and ribbon, which she took immediately back to the Bayeses' house, ignoring the driver's chagrin over so many starts and stops. The ribbon she used on the door knocker, a symbolic indication that the dread visitor—that mercurial beast called death—had entered the house.

More importantly, she used the crape to cover up the hideous orange door.

 

Back at Welbeck, Violet had one final task to perform to put her mind at rest regarding the holes beneath the birch trees, which was to have someone more experienced in earth matters look at them. She quickly learned that the head gardener was Parris, whom she'd passed in the rear gardens when Miles Hudock had escorted her to meet Portland for the first time. That had only been a few days ago, but it felt as though a lifetime of events had happened since then.

She found Parris inside a garden shed, its exterior built to resemble the estate's other cottages. The interior, however, was a single large room, full of dirt-encrusted tools and baskets full of seeds and bulbs being carried over for the winter. He stood before a tall, rough-hewn table, counting out some kind of tree pods.

“Yes?” he asked, taking in Violet's black gown and tall black hat with tails trailing behind her. Recognition slowly dawned in his eyes. “You're the undertaker who buried Burton Spencer.”

Violet introduced herself and explained her mission, asking if he would accompany her to the birch grove to see if he could identify the holes she'd found.

Parris nodded slowly, as if deeply contemplating her request. “Yes, I believe I can do that.”

Violet could hardly imagine the man's age, so deeply lined were his neck and the skin around his eyes from time spent in the sun. Yet he moved with the spryness of a younger man, despite his leisurely, deliberate speech. He could have been anywhere from thirty to eighty years old.

They walked out to the copse, with Violet hardly able to keep up with Parris's stride. She supposed that the work of managing so many plantings required a man to be nimble on his feet.

She showed him where the holes were, and he squatted down easily before each of them. He spent a few minutes measuring them with his hand and cocking his head to one side to examine them, like the raven that had kept watch over her when she discovered the holes in the first place.

Parris said nothing as he worked, but finally rose and brushed his hands off on his trousers. Violet expected a pronouncement from him, but still he continued in his silence, staring just past Violet as if in deep thought.

Should she wait? Should she prompt him? Did everyone at Welbeck have to be so odd in mannerism?

Finally, she could take it no more. “Mr. Parris, what do you think of the holes?”

He shifted his gaze to her. “Not very deep.”

Which was not exactly a thorough explanation and certainly not anything she hadn't figured out for herself. “Do you think an animal could have made them?”

“No. They were made by human hands.”

“Can you determine what sort of implement was used?”

He pursed his lips. “Not a shovel.”

That much Violet had figured out for herself. This was going to be a torturously long conversation if she couldn't figure out the correct question to ask.

“Have they been recently made?”

He squatted down again, and brushed at some of the dirt built up around the edges of the hole. It was much darker beneath the surface. “No, they've been here awhile. I also found a couple of holes that you missed, that had been loosely covered up.”

It was the most verbose the man had been, and Violet was encouraged. “I thought someone might have attempted to place dynamite here, but that is obviously not the case. Can you see what purpose the holes might serve?”

Parris, though, had already run out of steam from his speaking ordeal. “No.”

She tried one more approach. “Do you think they might serve as markers?”

“For what?”

Violet tried not to let her exasperation show. “I don't know. Buried treasure? A secret grave? An underground lake? The foundation of a building?”

Parris rubbed a grizzled chin as he considered what Violet had said. She could almost see the gears of his mind working behind his eyes as he evaluated each of her suggestions. Finally, he shook his head. “No.”

Was Violet flogging a dead horse by continuing to worry about some random holes in the ground? For all she knew, they had been made by some of the estate workers' children during some sort of invented game. Not that she had seen children playing out and about, but it was the first time she had considered the idea and it made sense to her.

Given that she now had a second funeral—and possible murder—to worry about, she decided that it was time to put the holes out of her mind.

Besides, Mrs. Bayes was to occupy a great deal of her thoughts soon.

14

T
o Violet's surprise, Mr. Bayes's fellow tavern sitters were very well behaved, and the funeral service was executed in a much more dignified fashion than she had anticipated.

Except for one aspect: that of Margaret Bayes.

Mrs. Bayes was dressed as a . . . Well, she was wearing a . . . Violet was nearly speechless by the woman's showy and ostentatious bodice and skirt. The top was green and yellow striped, whereas the mismatched skirt was solid purple hemmed in mauve. Violet had purchased a handkerchief from a tiny dress shop tucked unobtrusively behind a bookseller in town. That black, lace-edged handkerchief was Mrs. Bayes's only nod to mourning, and now it dangled showily from the bottom of one sleeve.

Violet could only imagine where—or from whom—Mrs. Bayes had obtained the clothing.

Mrs. Bayes's neighbors seemed just as appalled as Violet, evidenced by the number of cupped hands around whispering mouths that Violet witnessed.

As Mrs. Bayes moved about, looking like a twirling circus tent, it was obvious how much she enjoyed the attention she was receiving, even if most of it was disapproval and horror. On the one hand, Violet had a good sense that Mrs. Bayes probably felt great relief at being rid of her soused husband, especially since she now had a comfortable home on a grand estate for life.

On the other hand, the flouting of mourning custom was highly offensive to Violet, and Mrs. Bayes's clothing suggested that the undertaker hadn't done her job properly with her customer. Thank heavens the duke was not in attendance to see how his money had not purchased any decorum for the widow.

“Mrs. Bayes,” Violet said as patiently as possible, pulling the woman aside before she entered her mourning carriage, “you told me that you had appropriate mourning clothing for—”

“Oh,” she replied airily, “I decided to skip all of that nonsense. I'll be 'ostess to a feast later, you know.” Mrs. Bayes stepped into her carriage and settled contentedly into her seat. “And anyway, what I wear concerns none but myself.”

Violet imagined slapping the woman across the face with all of her might, but satisfied herself with merely gritting her teeth. “Madam, brightness and merriment make a mockery of grief. Mourning garments are our outward sign of an inward sorrow, and it is our last token of respect and affection that we can pay to the dead.”

Margaret Bayes raised a pointed yet mocking eyebrow. “Exactly,” she said, shutting the door on Violet as the carriage rolled away behind the clergyman's carriage and the hearse. The widow said no more to Violet throughout the rest of the service and the subsequent picnic.

Fortunately—in Violet's mind—most of Welbeck's staff had been spooked by two deaths so close together, and many of them chose not to attend the funeral, pleading either that they didn't know Bayes very well or that they couldn't afford two days off so close together. Most of those in attendance were probably frequenters of the Lamb and Chalice and other pint-pouring establishments, plus their appalled wives.

Even Edward's tavern friends wore dark colors as a matter of respect, though. And if their respect extended to gorging themselves at the picnic, then by all counts they thought very highly of the deceased. Great quantities of ham, cider, ale, pies, and cakes were consumed in rapid order.

Sam found Violet at the feast following the funeral, where she stood aghast at the proceedings. Mrs. Bayes's neighbors and friends had imbibed enough liquor to forget the widow's flamboyant weeds.

“How was it?” Sam asked from behind her, cupping Violet's elbow in his hand as she watched the festivities from a distance.

“Well,” she said, leaning gratefully backward into him, already exhausted from the day's effort, “Mrs. Bayes managed to not throw herself on top of the coffin in her grief, and thus far no one has fallen and split his head open on his tankard, so I suppose all is well.” Sam laughed at the sarcasm dripping lethally from her voice.

“A brutal day, it sounds like,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “I have something that might cheer you up. Portland is no longer angry at me over the explosion. He says he realizes that everyone involved had good intentions, even though a good worker was lost in the process. In fact, His Grace became quite fascinated by what dynamite does and asked several probing questions about it.”

Mr. Bayes was not “lost in the process,”
Violet thought stubbornly, but remained quiet about that. Instead, she said, “I'm glad for you, sweetheart.”

“He mentioned that dynamite might be of use on other tunneling projects of his, even going so far as to say that he might wish to invest in it, should it prove fruitful for him. He suggested that I go shooting with him next week to discuss it further, but I don't believe he was serious.”

Violet wasn't so sure. “The duke isn't a casual man, and is not one for spending time in the company of someone he dislikes. Actually, he can hardly tolerate those that he
does
like. I suspect that if he says he wants to talk more on the matter, that he means it. It could be a remarkable opportunity for you, despite the inauspicious start.”

Sam appeared unconvinced, only saying, “As long as I no longer dread the weight of a displeased peer on my shoulders, all is well. I have enough trouble with the bank's displeasure that the coal mine isn't even remotely close to operational . . . or even fully staffed. The idea that he would actually finance me is as likely as a cat having puppies.”

Sam had struggled with many banks to secure financing for his coal-mining venture, so it was understandable that he was pessimistic about any future endeavors.

At least Violet's current endeavor, that of seeing Mr. Bayes into the ground, had come to a conclusion. It had been memorable only for how disrespectful the widow had been, but Violet supposed she had seen worse behavior before. In any case, Mrs. Bayes was no longer her problem.

As Violet went to bed that night, she couldn't seem to erase the most vivid memory of the funeral from her mind, that of Mrs. Garside—one of few of the household staff who attended—shaking her head and moaning to whoever would listen, “That raven, 'e cursed us. 'E cursed the Abbey, and 'Is Grace, and all of us. There's more to come, I promise you that.”

15

S
ince Portland hadn't actually asked her to leave Welbeck Abbey yet, Violet decided that she had implicit permission to continue her investigation into the deaths of Burton Spencer and Edward Bayes.

Today she was headed back to Colonel Mortimer's cottage, only this time it was not with accusation in her mind but curiosity. Although the colonel thought he had seen the murder of Spencer, Violet was becoming more convinced that he had seen the murder of Bayes, even though everyone believed that Bayes had been killed in the dynamite explosion. Could he possibly provide Violet with any further description of the murder he had seen that night?

The colonel wore a different glass eye. This one was a close match to his natural eye color, with no prominent red streaks or jaundicing, so Violet presumed that meant that the colonel hadn't overindulged the previous night.

What other human being in the world used an ocular prosthetic to display his mood and well-being?

However, true to his glass eye's indication, Colonel Mortimer was in a jolly mood, inviting Violet in and offering to share his plate of sheep's sausage with her, which she politely declined.

“Very well,” he said, sitting back down to his breakfast, the odor of which suggested that it had been smoked overly long. “What has you traipsing about the estate so early this morning, Mrs. Harper? Have you discovered who killed that poor man, Spencer? So many dashedly awful events the past few days, eh? Portland told me about Edward Bayes being found in your husband's dynamiting trick.”

Violet didn't care for Colonel Mortimer's referring to Sam's effort as a “trick,” but the colonel paid no mind to her poorly veiled annoyance as he continued. “I imagine the word has spread to all of Worksop and the Dukeries about our misfortune here. I just hope it doesn't cause His Grace to cease work on any of his projects.”

Violet expressed her hope for the same thing, meanwhile thinking about what it would mean for Sam if Portland really was serious about exploring more dynamite use.

“In the interest of seeing His Grace's plans continue,” Violet said, “I am endeavoring to solve the mystery of who it was you saw attack Burton Spencer.”

“Yes, the poor man. However, as I have stated, it was late at night and I didn't recognize the man.”

“No, but you may have caught a glimpse of the murderer's clothing, or the outline of his face. Perhaps he had a large nose or a protruding lower lip? Anything that would lead to an identification?”

The colonel pushed his empty plate away and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes and crossing his fingers over his belly. Seconds ticked by.

But a few moments later, he opened his eyes. “No, I remember nothing about Spencer's attacker, except that he was taller—perhaps just overall larger—than Spencer was.”

Violet supposed there was no more help to be had from the colonel. She thanked him for his time, but as she turned to leave, she had another idea.

“Colonel, I know His Grace provides cottages to widows of his workers, such as the unfortunate Mrs. Bayes, and that he also has some . . . permanent guests . . . such as yourself. Can you tell me who else stays on the property in such a capacity?”

Violet's thinking was that another “guest” might have witnessed a strange event on the estate without ever realizing it was odd or criminal. Guests would not be focused on daily work, and might be more aware of their surroundings.

She was probably grasping at straws at this point, but it was worth a question.

The colonel, who had risen to escort Violet out, crossed his fingers over his bulbous midsection and closed his eyes once more. Violet hoped he didn't plan on going to sleep in this position, like a horse in a field. However, the colonel quickly opened his eyes again.

“There are two. Old Mrs. Caldwell was a friend of the duke's mother, who is long dead now. Mrs. Caldwell is infirm, though, and rarely leaves her lodgings for any reason. The other resident may be of interest to you, Mrs. Harper. Jack LeCato has only been here a few months, and seems to make a habit of prowling the estate much like you.”

Ah! She'd nearly forgotten him, but now Violet was reminded of LeCato's outrage over the dynamite and his involvement with Spencer's body.

“Do you know why he is here, Colonel, and how long he plans to stay?”

“I can't say as I know. Whatever he is doing, it seems to be very secret. I'm not sure Portland even understands why he is housing and feeding the man. Talk to His Grace about him. Better yet, go to the seat of government in London to ferret out what you can, since I understand you are surprisingly well connected in high circles, given your trade.”

How was it possible that Portland was permitting a man to reside on his estate without knowing why? In particular, how had this stranger thought it his right to complain about Sam's dynamite to the duke?

Violet regretted not looking into him earlier. She suspected the man would turn out to be far more interesting than she could imagine.

As it turned out, she was right.

Escorted by Mr. Kirby, Violet stepped across the precarious planks once more to reach the duke's quarters. As usual, he was hidden behind his screen, and Violet wondered if he stayed back there even when he was alone.

As near as she could tell, he welcomed her presence, and she was heartened when he asked after Sam, adding that Sam would be returning for a shooting party. Violet looked forward to telling her husband that Portland had indeed been serious about talking to him more about dynamite.

“Your Grace,” she began, seated once more with carved wood separating them. It reminded her of a confessional. “I've been doing my best to look into Mr. Spencer's death, and I believe now that Mr. Bayes died under suspicious circumstances. I have discovered that the porcelain shard lodged in Aristotle's throat was actually a fragment from one of Colonel Mortimer's glass eyes. He recalled that he lost it when he witnessed the murder. It broke, and Aristotle picked up a shiny piece of it.”

“Poor little beast,” Portland said. “He was such an intelligent creature that it sounds unlike him to have been taken in by a shiny scrap of glass. As for Mr. Bayes, are you determined to find mayhem everywhere?”

“No, Your Grace. I'm simply trying to discover the truth. And I believe the truth is that neither Mr. Spencer nor Mr. Bayes died accidentally.”

“I begin to think you persecute me.”

“On the contrary, sir, I wish to bring justice to the victims and, consequently, honor to your name.”

Portland emitted something between a growl and a harrumph, but didn't reply.

Violet cleared her throat noisily. Together, she and the duke sounded like wounded pigs. “I visited the colonel earlier, and he mentioned that Mr. LeCato has been a guest of yours for some time, and that he seems to spend a great deal of time walking about the estate. If I am not being too forward, may I ask what his position here is?” Violet knew she was being entirely too forward, but she asked the question anyway.

“Gladstone sent him” was Portland's curt reply.

What did that mean? William Gladstone was prime minister. Violet had even had the opportunity to meet him during an investigative matter for the queen but didn't know much about the man except that he was wildly popular with the people, and vastly unpopular with Queen Victoria. He was known affectionately as the “G.O.M.,” or “Grand Old Man,” by his supporters; Benjamin Disraeli, a favorite of the queen's who had vacated the prime minister's seat a year ago to make way for Gladstone, called him “God's Only Mistake.” Perhaps it was time to change the subject.

“I see that you have many tunnels crossing your estate. Why, I hear that one can take a tunnel nearly half the distance to the train station in Worksop.”

At that observation from Violet, Portland opened up. “Yes, my tunnels have proved useful for many reasons. I can get to many locations on my property without encountering a soul, although I had to walk overland to reach the skating rink site, as you are well aware.”

“It is more comfortable to walk underground.” Violet hoped she had said it as a statement, and not as an inquiring question.

“It keeps me out of the sun. And the dark. And the rain and wind. I walk outside only occasionally. Besides, I can use my tunnel system to emerge unnoticed anywhere on the estate, and thus track what my men are doing. They never know when I might turn a corner.”

“Doesn't Mr. Reed manage your men well enough?” Violet asked, immediately regretting what could be perceived as insulting to either Reed's capabilities or Portland's trust in the man.

Fortunately, Portland didn't seem to notice. “Yes, he is most competent, but I like to have my own eye on things.”

Which made Violet pause. Who else at Welbeck Abbey could be using the tunnels to keep his eye on things . . . or for his own nefarious purposes? LeCato? Reed? One of Portland's other workers? Perhaps even a household staff member? Even the colonel hadn't quite cleared himself in her mind, although his guilt didn't seem quite as likely now.

“Well, Mr. LeCato seems to have some very definite opinions about what goes on here, sir.”

“No surprise, is it? Meddling busybody.” Another harrumph from behind the screen indicated Portland's displeasure at even discussing the man. “He's damnably expensive, and expects things to be . . . just so.” Portland was still being cryptic. Was he protecting LeCato, whom he obviously despised? If so, why? Unfortunately, Violet's gentle probing was not enough to make Portland give her any detail, and it would be thoroughly improper of her to ask outright. She tried again.

“In fact, it was he who suggested that Mr. Bayes had been murdered by my husband, using what he called an ‘experimental explosive. ' ”

“I see.”

“Additionally, he also said he would recommend to you that all work on the skating rink be halted right away. I assumed Mr. LeCato holds a special position here to make such suggestions to Your Grace.”

Portland's only response was to make some sort of nervous tapping noise from behind the screen. It sounded like thick nails drumming on a table. Violet plowed on.

“However, I also know Your Grace to be exceedingly particular about his confidants, which made me wonder if Mr. LeCato was not overstepping his bounds.”

The tapping stopped. “ ‘Overstepping' puts it well, Mrs. Harper. I've no choice in the matter, though. Gladstone sent him here.”

Again Portland was deferential to the prime minister. Yes, Gladstone might be powerful, but he certainly did not have authority to lodge his own agents at Welbeck for his own secret purposes. Yet Portland seemed powerless to stop Gladstone. It seemed ludicrous that Mr. LeCato could have anything to do with Spencer's or Bayes's death, but wouldn't it be even more ludicrous not to track down every lead, no matter how foolish it might seem?

“As such, sir, I thought I might be of some use to you, in that I flatter myself as having a few connections in London, and may be able to secure an audience with Mr. Gladstone, to discover Mr. LeCato's purposes.” Now it was Violet stepping way beyond her bounds, but searching for the truth sometimes meant ignoring social proprieties.

Portland chuckled behind the screen, his voice low and deep. Violet had never actually witnessed the man being amused. “I was once the member for King's Lynn, Mrs. Harper, until I gave the seat over to my brother George. I have been well acquainted with every prime minister since my grandfather, the 3rd Duke, served as prime minister at the beginning of the century. However . . .”

He went silent for several moments, as if deep in thought. “However, yes, I think having you visit Gladstone would be of great use, great use indeed, despite the fact that I find him to be a scoundrel of the first order. He never responded to any of my letters vigorously recommending against the disestablishment of the Anglican church in Ireland. Imagine allowing the Catholics to run amok over there.”

Reverend Appleton had been right when he told Violet that Portland was a staunch defender of the church. But this was of no concern to her now.

Portland stood behind the screen, and Violet automatically rose in response. He seemed suddenly resolved to a course of action. “In fact, you shall leave straightaway. You may have use of a carriage, and I'll instruct Kirby to have you sent through my personal tunnel to Worksop station.”

Violet was stunned, and completely unprepared to make a journey to London this very moment. She needed to pack and she needed to see Sam; for that matter, she had to figure out where to go and whom to interview in the event that she would be unable to see Gladstone. “Your Grace, I—I—I'm not quite ready. I'll have to telegram ahead to my day help—”