Death at the Abbey (21 page)

After several moments of this, Violet interrupted, and soon found herself embroiled in a quarrel with the falconer.

“Mr. Chandler, may I have a moment of your time, please? I am here on important business.”

“Still looking for what Aristotle may have choked on?” he asked, offering her his usual, lazy smile.

Violet had completely forgotten about that in the course of events. “No, I plant myself at your doorstep concerning something more important. Have you sent any telegrams to London recently, Mr. Chandler?” she asked directly, hoping to throw him off guard. Unfortunately, the only sign of discomfort in evidence was that Chandler paused momentarily with a particularly bloody mouse in his hand, causing the peregrine to protest loudly. “
Aah! Aah! Er-er-er-er-er!
” the bird sputtered in frustration.

With just a glance at Violet, Chandler tossed the entrails toward the falcon, which reached its head up and caught the mouse firmly in its beak, then placed the carcass between its talons and the perch, reaching down and ripping off small shreds with its sharp beak and swallowing them whole.

“Telegrams? To whom?” the falconer said, avoiding a direct response.

“Only you can answer that, sir.”

He picked up another mouse from his pile on the table and once more tossed it up to the peregrine, which accepted it greedily.

“What reason would I have to send a telegram, Mrs. Harper? In any case, you haven't told me why someone else's telegram would have you in such a dither.”

“I am not in a dither, sir. I am attempting to discover who—” Violet took a breath. “Never mind. Do you remember that you called me a raven during Burton Spencer's funeral?”

He shrugged with smug nonchalance. “Yes. Were you offended?”

“Of course not.” Violet was growing more irritated by the second by his demeanor. “I am wondering if you have ever referred to me that way to anyone else.”

“You are terribly consumed with yourself, madam. I am sorry to have to inform you that I do not spend my time talking about you. Perhaps you are disappointed to hear that.”

Violet couldn't believe what she was hearing. “Of all the cheek! What arrogance to accuse me of such a thing.”

“
Me
to accuse
you?
Madam, first you come here asking about some ridiculous telegram. It is obvious that you know specifically what telegram you are asking about, but you aren't sharing that with me, in hopes of trapping me into a statement of guilt. Guilt about what, I cannot imagine.”

Chandler threw another mouse haphazardly in the air so that the peregrine was barely able to catch it. However, it went straight to work at mauling its catch. The falconer picked up another couple of carcasses and tossed one to each of two ravens also waiting their turns. “Then you wish to know if I have called you a raven to others, as though it is my secret pet name for you as I worship you from afar. Why should I have any interest in you? You're but an undertaker, barely above my own station. I have high aspirations, many of which will be realized soon, and wasting time yearning for a married rav—undertaker is not in my plans.”

“I would blame your arrogance on your youth,” Violet said quietly, trying to control the heat of embarrassment and rage inflaming her cheeks, “except that you are nearly my own age, are you not? You simply never learned any manners. In fact, that falcon is more polite than you.”

“If you are quite done—” Chandler said, pointing the way out.

“Be assured, sir, that I am not done, and will never be done until I get to the bottom of this matter.”

“
What
matter, Mrs. Harper? You talk in riddles and puzzles and criticisms, but all I know is that you were upset because one of the duke's ravens managed to choke to death on a piece of debris . . . just as probably thousands of ravens have managed to do over the years. You remind me of a harpy—a hungry, filthy winged creature with the face of an ugly old woman—because you torment people and bring stormy clouds with you wherever you go. Please be gone.”

With that, Chandler scooped the remaining mice into the ever-present leather satchel at his waist and stalked off, leaving Violet and the birds completely outraged and unsatisfied. How had she managed to anger the duke's falconer, of all people, to the point of being dismissed from his presence? She reviewed what had happened in her mind. Was she guilty of provoking Chandler, or had he trumped up his own outrage in order to dissemble and obscure whatever it was he might be guilty of? She was so angry it was difficult to think clearly.

However, in the heat of her fury, a memory flickered to life. When Chandler had called her a raven at Spencer's funeral, hadn't Colonel Mortimer made some odd excuse and left, presumably heading back to Welbeck Abbey? She hadn't given it a second thought at the time, but was there something in Chandler's comment that had struck a nerve with the colonel, or, worse, given him an idea so wicked that he had to walk away from them?

24

V
iolet was already exhausted from the day's events and it was barely noon, yet she decided it was necessary to visit the colonel again, to see what he had to say about his fancy home in London. Back across the estate she went to Colonel Mortimer's cottage, just a short distance away from Reed's.

As she passed through a row of boxwoods on the approach to his cottage, she noticed the colonel exit his front door, a shovel in hand. Instinctively, she stayed inside the line of boxwoods and peered over them to observe his actions. Laying the shovel on the ground, he returned inside and came back out moments later with another digging implement.

Violet felt an unpleasant chill creeping up her spine. It turned into prickles of fear as she contemplated what to do next.
Calm yourself,
she thought.
His actions might be completely innocent. Perhaps he is planting a shrub or something.

In the middle of October?
the suspicious side of her replied.
He is up to no good, and you know it.

He dropped the second tool and returned inside once more. When he came back out, he was muttering to himself as he picked the implements up and walked rapidly to the rear of his cottage.

What part of the estate was back there? The Greendale Oak was in that direction. So were some of the temporary construction buildings, which were scattered across the estate. Were there any tunnels in that direction? Violet wasn't sure.

She patted her reticule to assure herself that her knife was still there. This time, she wouldn't permit herself to be grabbed before she could reach into it.

If it came to that.

Violet emerged from the hedgerow and followed the colonel, who had already disappeared behind the cottage and out of her view. Violet picked up her skirts and walked quickly to catch up to him, all thoughts of her fatigue completely erased within the pounding of her heart. She slowed as she approached the rear corner of his cottage and finally stopped, peeping out cautiously to see if the man was still in view.

The colonel stood about a hundred yards behind his cottage, in an open space that might have been inhabited by another cottage were it not for a dilapidated little building that still stood there instead, tenaciously clinging to life despite the vines that threatened to consume it. The colonel was examining the area surrounding the structure, a tool in each hand. Violet hated to imagine what he might be planning to do.

From nowhere, courage welled up inside of her and she stepped out from the side of the cottage, taking large strides toward him. The colonel immediately noticed the movement and looked up. “Ah, Mrs. Harper, good afternoon,” he said. “I was just, er, just having a bit of a walk, you see.” The colonel made his way to her, except now he was weaving, as though in his cups again. Both digging implements fell to the ground as he approached.

“Any news on LeCato?” he asked, now standing before her unsteadily. “His Grace said he sent you to London.”

“Yes, I just returned. Mr. LeCato appears to be a trusted—”

“Oh yes, I'm sure you found more than one bootlicker willing to vouch for him. Were you able to dig deeper than just getting a few government sycophants to tell you tall tales?”

Was the colonel trying to distract Violet from what he had been doing earlier? “I hardly think Mr. LeCato is of a position to have others fawning before him, sir. Both Mr. Gladstone and Mr. Denison themselves consider his conduct to be unimpeachable.”

“Evelyn Denison? Is he wrapped up in this? Denison is His Grace's brother-in-law, you know.”

Violet bit her lip. She shouldn't have told Colonel Mortimer that. Besides, it was the colonel who had explaining to do, not her. “What are the shovels for, sir?” she said, nodding back to where they lay haphazardly on the ground.

“Those? Oh.” He made a vague attempt at a self-deprecating laugh. “Thought I might take down that old shed. An eyesore, you know.”

“Did His Grace approve its destruction?” Considering how long it had been left there without falling prey to any of the estate's building projects, perhaps it had an actual purpose.

“His Grace?” The colonel was swaying again. “His Grace is my friend and permits me great liberties on the estate.”

There was no smell of liquor emanating from the colonel, nor was he even wearing his bloodshot glass eye, although that wasn't conclusive evidence. “Yes, Colonel, but I wonder if those liberties extend to taking advantage of your friend. For instance, perhaps you are not in great need of assistance, yet you pretend to be a destitute army pensioner. Perhaps, instead, you own—”

“Well, if you'll excuse me, I must be off to bed. A little nap, you see.” The colonel staggered off to the front of his house, leaving Violet in midsentence.

The man had clearly pretended to be intoxicated when she caught him bringing out his digging tools, which had certainly helped him to cut her off when she started to accuse him of manipulating Portland.

Taking the risk that he was watching her from a window and might come storming out at any minute, Violet walked over to the shed and inspected it for herself. As she had seen from a distance, it was old and decrepit, and was covered in a thorny rose vine relentlessly intent on destroying it. Patches of white paint suggested that it had once been a well-cared-for building, perhaps an artist's studio.

She walked completely around the building, but could find no evidence that there had been any recent digging going on here, so whatever the colonel had planned was new. She even picked up the tools. One was merely an average shovel; the other had a much narrower spade-like head. Both had dried dirt on them, which was not incriminating in and of itself, as shovels were meant to be placed into the earth. Neither had bloodstains that she could see, which she counted as a small blessing, and a point in the colonel's favor.

However . . . wouldn't this smaller shovel's head make approximately the same size hole as those that she'd found where she discovered Edward Bayes's body? Violet turned in the direction of the rookery and the copse of trees that would be between here and there. The trees were located in a direct line between the colonel's cottage and the rookery.

What was she to do now? Rapping on the colonel's door to demand answers might be safe, what with a shovel in her hand and a knife in her reticule, but he would undoubtedly respond with loud snores. He also wasn't likely to confess to any grand plot, either. No, Violet had to see Portland.

As she walked back, intent on reporting her encounter with Colonel Mortimer as well as her trip to London, Violet noticed a curtain move inside the cottage.

 

Once more, Violet sat on the other side of the screen in Portland's suite. With a great knot of guilt resting in her rib cage, she omitted telling the duke that Denison had hired LeCato, fearful of his reaction. However, she did relay the real purpose in LeCato's presence at Welbeck.

She saw the outline of Portland's head nodding from behind the carved-out wood. “Yes, I'm not surprised that they would do such a thing. It explains why LeCato was so worked up when Mr. Bayes's body appeared during the dynamiting. Anything to slow down progress. I thought I would never get him out of my presence. Well, Mr. Gladstone is in for quite the surprise when he finds that Mr. LeCato no longer has any influence here. In fact, I shall have the man thrown out.”

Knowing that such a reaction would only serve to notify Gladstone and Denison that she had run back to Welbeck and tattled on them, Violet spoke at length, urging caution and circumspection. “After all, Your Grace, we don't know yet whether Mr. LeCato had anything to do with Spencer's or Bayes's death. Sending him away would spoil any opportunity for determining that.”

Portland grunted, but slowly nodded once more. “I suppose you're right, Mrs. Harper. So no one other than Gladstone has been party to putting this irritating vermin on my estate to chew me to distraction? You have no other information about him other than that he works for the chancellor of the exchequer?”

Fortunately for Violet, Portland continued on without waiting for an answer. “If Gladstone believes he can save his party upon my flea-bitten back, he is sorely mistaken. I need more, though, Mrs. Harper. So you still believe he is connected to Spencer's and Bayes's deaths?”

“I'm not sure, Your Grace. However”—Violet stepped through the opening provided for her—“I am currently concerned with another person on the estate. Someone who is rather close to you.”

“Close to me? Who could that possibly be?”

“Sir, I mean Colonel Mortimer.”

Portland made no verbal response, but Violet felt the reproach and disapproval that permeated the resulting silence. It hung in the air like a cold December morning's mist. She plowed on, telling Portland of the colonel's nice home in London, and of catching him with digging tools near the shed on the grounds behind his cottage and his subsequent pretense of inebriation.

“What shed?” Portland demanded.

Violet described it, and Portland harrumphed. “I know the structure,” he snapped. “George wouldn't do anything to destroy it.”

“Please understand, Your Grace, I wasn't suggesting that he was planning to demolish it, but he had shovels and it seemed to me that he was about to—”

“Let me be clear, Mrs. Harper. George Mortimer is no more a criminal than I am a hippopotamus. He was undoubtedly doing some necessary digging. He knows of my concern for the servants, and I've often talked of creating a small ring toss field for them. George might have taken it on as a project, as some small repayment of my providing him with a home. I'm sure that we will soon see the charitable result of his seemingly suspicious behavior, and we will have a good laugh about it.”

Violet couldn't imagine Portland smiling, much less laughing, about anything. “Yes, Your Grace, except that he doesn't seem to need a home.”

“If George says he needs my assistance, then he does. I'll hear no more on it. If there is anything devious going on at Welbeck, I'm certain it can be laid at the feet of Jack LeCato.”

Violet left Portland's presence thoroughly frustrated by how obtuse the man was on the subject of his friend. Why did he refuse to listen to any facts whatsoever about the colonel? Why was he obsessed with LeCato? Not that Violet didn't have her share of suspicions over the man, but there were others acting just as dubiously at Welbeck Abbey, too.

The swirl of speculation made Violet's head hurt. The pain reminded her of the attack in London. Was it related to the deaths, or to the projects at Welbeck Abbey, or to the buyback of the consols?

It all brought her around to Portland again, and a new thought occurred to her. Was it possible that Portland was trying—in his own clumsy way—to lead her silently to some conclusion he'd already made? Worse, was she being led away from the colonel because it also led her away from the duke himself? Maybe, but she couldn't see a reason for it. For that matter, she still couldn't understand why
anyone
at Welbeck would want any of the estate's workers dead.

If only she could figure out a small piece of this puzzle, she was certain the other pieces—no matter how irregularly shaped—would fall quickly into place.

 

That evening, Violet enjoyed supper—her usual fish pie—with Sam at Worksop Inn. Mr. Saunders was particularly jovial this evening, and the fire burned merrily in the fireplace. With her husband across from her and a glass of sherry in her hand, Violet relaxed for the first time in days. Even with having to repeat everything that had happened in London and then back at Welbeck earlier in the day, she felt none of the anxiety that had been plaguing her. Perhaps it was the comfort she felt from witnessing Sam's outrage over the attack on her person, an outrage that far outweighed his elation over his new business prospects with Portland.

“By God, if I ever lay my hand upon whoever did that to you, I will beat him within an inch of his life. He will lie on the ground, begging me to kill him. This will be my battle-ax”—whereupon he picked up his cane from where it leaned against their table—“and my fists will do what it cannot. If anyone ever again tries to . . .”

Sam's tirade went on for several minutes, and included some choice words for the incompetence of Inspector Hurst, with whom he had bickered in the past, as well as a round of cursing for every London street criminal, those currently operating and those to be born in the future.

Violet allowed herself to be cocooned in her husband's fierce defense of her, letting it wrap her like a warm blanket and giving her a sense of safety from the world. She could only wish that every woman had a husband like Sam. Poor Mrs. Bayes had a less than sufficient husband, although the woman herself . . . Violet shuddered and drained her glass. Mr. Saunders's daughter, Polly, was immediately on hand to refill it.

Violet had to be careful. She was still struggling with her weight after an overindulgence in fine food during a recent stay at St. James's Palace. Too much fish pie and sherry while in Nottinghamshire might mean another trip to the dressmaker's before they left for Egypt.

Of course, she had done so much energetic walking across the Welbeck Abbey estate today, so perhaps a little bit of dessert wouldn't hurt....

“How about some plum pudding or Neapolitan cake, Mrs. Harper?” Polly asked, as if reading Violet's mind.

Violet glanced at Sam, who, still beside himself with indignation, could barely sputter, “None for me.” She bit her lip. It was so much easier to indulge when Sam went along with her. “Well . . . perhaps just a tiny slice of the Neapolitan,” she said, promising to herself that she would take a brisk walk through town in the morning. Polly returned with the confection in mere moments.