Stolen Remains (16 page)

“I need to speak with him, but without anyone around. Tell him James is staying at the Tavistock Hotel.”

“Leave me be,” Violet said, running the last few steps to the omnibus, which had just drawn up and was ejecting passengers.

She had planned on returning to her lodgings at the palace, but perhaps it might be wise to stop at Scotland Yard first to talk to the detectives about recent events.

Irritated that Hurst dismissed her encounter in the street as the work of a random drunkard, Violet returned to St. James’s Palace to rest. An envelope covered in Sam’s familiar scrawl awaited her. How had he managed to get a letter to her so quickly? She tore it open with eager hands.

How well Violet remembered that ship, whose captain had intercepted her first husband’s ship during the Northern blockade of the Southern states.

How dangerous was this substance, then? Was Sam considering investing in something that might kill him? Violet couldn’t bear the thought of losing him.

Violet rubbed her forehead. What was Sam getting into? It was no use worrying about him, for there was nothing she could do except get Lord Raybourn into the ground as soon as possible. She wrote back to Sam, giving sketchy details about the ongoing investigation into the viscount’s death and the new tragedy of the housekeeper. She omitted any mention of the man in the street, to keep Sam from worrying.

Violet was worried enough for them both.

To occupy herself with something else, she firmly affixed a bonnet to her head and walked six blocks to a bookshop. She wandered pleasantly about the shop for nearly an hour, before finally settling on a book of memoirs by Mr. Barnum, the American circus man.

This should relieve her mind of her troubles, for a short while, anyway.

“Your Majesty.” The servant bowed as he offered the queen a silver salver with a folded note on it.

Queen Victoria took the note and nodded, the signal for the man to depart, before opening it.

The queen tossed the note into the fireplace grate, where it would be incinerated when the evening’s fire was lit. The situation was just as she thought it was.

No notifications would be made. This was information Victoria would keep to herself for the moment.

T
he following morning, Violet returned to Park Street to tell Stephen of her encounter with the man outside his home. She was greeted again by an ashen-faced Louisa, whose eye was roving back and forth frantically, and found the family already in a major uproar in the drawing room. Toby sat in a chair, studiously examining his nails, while his parents, Dorothy, Stephen, and Katherine stood in a loosely formed circle, like bare-knuckle fighters each waiting for a chance to hit an opponent.

“. . . did this deliberately, knowing the shame it would bring upon us. How dare you revel in such tripe?” Stephen threw a newspaper to the ground.

“I say, that’s no way to talk to my wife,” Gordon said, reaching for Nelly’s hand. Nelly disengaged from his fingers and fussed with the sleeve at her other wrist, arranging a black handkerchief that was peeking past the end of her sleeve.

“I did nothing deliberately. In fact, I did nothing at all,” she said.

“Isn’t it just like you to present yourself as the perfect princess?” Dorothy said. “You forget that I saw you escort that reporter upstairs to your room to give him a private interview. His lurid ‘facts’ in this story could have only come from you. Ah, here is Mrs. Harper. She witnessed your wantonness, too.”

Violet wondered if she looked as pale as Gordon Bishop did at the moment. Toby looked up from where he was seated and gave her a lopsided, see-what-I’m-enduring grin before returning to his fingernail analysis.

“Good morning, Lord and Lady Raybourn, Mr. and Mrs. Bishop, Miss Fairmont, Toby. I’ve come to see Lord Raybourn, but can see that I am interrupting—”

“Not at all. You can testify to what I just said. Tell them you saw Nelly take that reporter, that Mr. Catesby, upstairs to dazzle him with concocted stories.” Dorothy was nearly cackling over the joy of her revelation.

Violet picked up the newspaper.

Violet looked up at Stephen. “What note?”

“Pure literary license by the reporter. Or by my dear sister.”

Nelly stamped a foot in anger. “I said only the most innocuous things to Ellis. He would never betray me.”

“You shouldn’t have said anything worth betraying,” he replied. “I didn’t. He is . . . embellishing the facts.”

Violet continued reading.

“I see,” she said, carefully folding the newspaper so that the headline was hidden inside before handing it to Stephen. “Journalists need to sell newspapers, of course. I’ve read many a distorted account of funerals I’ve managed. When my first husband died as the result of very bad judgment on his part, the papers went wild accusing me of all sorts of improprieties and conspiracies on his behalf. Assuredly, they will eventually tire of it and move on to other more sensational topics.”

“Thank you for the encouragement, Violet, but you must understand that my father was a peer. Such stories can ruin a family’s good name permanently. It is no one’s business what sordid past he may have had. My sister exercised very poor judgment with that reporter.”

“Stephen! I did not—”

“Oh, Nelly, of course you did,” Dorothy said. “You’ve always sought to be at the center of the universe, haven’t you? You even found a way to use Father’s death to your advantage.”

“Now, Dorothy, you needn’t be jealous of my wife.” Gordon tried unsuccessfully again to reach for his wife, who deftly stepped aside and yanked the newspaper away from Stephen.

“Of course she should,” Nelly said, her voice dripping with hatred. “Hasn’t she always resented me as the more successful of us two? After all, I am married and have a son, not to mention that I don’t look as though I have drunk too much sour milk.”

This familial clash had to stop lest they destroy themselves before the newspapers had a chance to do it.

“Pardon me, Stephen, but I came by to tell you about a disturbing incident that happened to me when I left yesterday,” Violet said.

This got everyone’s attention.

“A man grabbed me in the street and wanted to know if the new Lord Raybourn was home. I confirmed nothing. He said to tell you that James is staying at the Tavistock Hotel.”

“James?” Stephen said. “Did he leave a last name?”

“No.”

“Do any of you know this James?” Stephen’s family responded to him with looks of puzzlement.

“Toby, is this one of your friends playing a prank?”

“Why would one of my friends wish to accost an undertaker? Seems like awfully bad luck to do such a thing. She might smother you in a winding sheet while you sleep or nail you shut in a coffin.”

“Toby, darling, please. Not everyone is able to understand your clever wit,” Nelly said.

Toby shrugged and went back to his nails.

“Did he say anything else, Violet?” Stephen asked.

“No, although I didn’t quite stay around to have him abuse me further.”

“No, of course not. I suppose we should have Inspector Hurst call around so you can tell him about it.” Before Violet could protest, Stephen rang a bell and Louisa appeared. He asked her to make tea for the assembled group and then fetch the detective from Scotland Yard.

Once again, Toby found an opportunity to slip out without stating where he was going.

Violet had little time to ponder Toby’s whereabouts or the Fairmont family discord, for soon there was a commotion outside that demanded everyone’s attention. They all crowded at the window to see a large carriage, emblazoned with the royal coat of arms and pulled by four horses wearing red plumes, clattering to a stop in front of Raybourn House and people out in the street gathering around to see who would emerge from it. The liveried driver sat stoically up front, atop a gold-fringed red cloth covering his seat.

Violet was unsurprised to see Albert Edward step onto the red velvet steps the footman extended out from under the carriage. The prince’s bored expression was obvious.

”I can hardly believe my eyes,” Stephen said.

As the prince leisurely made his way to the front door with his walking stick, acknowledging the accolades of people in the street, the family members hastily arranged themselves, while the maid furiously plumped pillows and straightened pictures before fleeing to the entry door to await His Highness.

Violet was certain the girl was trembling at the thought of encountering the heir to the throne of England.

Violet quickly inspected Lord Raybourn’s flowers and blew across the top of his coffin to eliminate what few dust particles were there. “I’ll go upstairs, then,” she told Stephen.

“No need. The prince knows you now, doesn’t he? Might as well stay.”

The prince entered grandly, as princes do. He didn’t carry the air of authority that his father had, but then, Albert Edward did not share any royal duties with Queen Victoria.

Violet, Katherine, Nelly, and Dorothy all swept into curtsies, while the men bowed. Once introductions were made, Albert Edward stated the intent of his visit.

“I wish to extend my sympathies to the family over your father’s death.” He nodded toward the coffin. “May he rest in peace and may you all be succored and strengthened.”

“We are grateful for your visit, Your Highness,” Stephen said. “May we offer you some spirits? Perhaps a glass of brandy?”

“Ah, no, I cannot stay. Important meetings to attend, you see.”

“Of course, Your Highness. Very understandable.”

Gordon brought forth his cigarette case, and Nelly whispered harshly under her breath at him. Chastened, he started to put the case back in his jacket, but the prince stopped him. “Are those from Fribourg and Treyer?”

“Quite right, sir. Would you like one?”

The prince’s bored expression was replaced with desire. “Don’t mind if I do. Perhaps a drop of brandy
is
in order, Raybourn.”

Stephen nodded to the women. “Ladies, if you don’t mind . . .”

It was their cue to exit and leave the menfolk alone. Violet was surprised when Nelly invited her to join the others in her room to visit. However, they were in the room mere seconds before Nelly suggested creeping back down the stairs to listen to the conversation.

“That would be eavesdropping,” Dorothy said.

Nelly rolled her eyes. “Of course it would. I have to make sure Gordon doesn’t say something ridiculous. Besides, we have the Prince of Wales in our home and I am not about to stay in my room and miss anything.”

The women moved slowly down the stairs, going as far as they could without being seen. Each sat on her own stair, with Nelly leaning forward eagerly to listen and Dorothy frowning in disapproval.

“This just isn’t done,” she whispered to her sister.

“Hush, I can’t hear,” Nelly replied, waving Dorothy away. Katherine shot Violet a worried look. Violet shared her apprehension over what they were doing.

As they settled down, male conversation drifted up to them. Violet imagined the men were seated by now, with the prince facing away from the coffin.

“. . . honor you have done to this family. We have avoided society condolence visits as much as possible, but we happily welcome Your Highness’s visit.”

“Yes, well, your father was naturally an esteemed member of our expedition. Quite helpful with the local government. Tragic about his death. The Princess of Wales is quite devastated, too, and asked me to send along her regards. I’ve hardly slept since finding out.”

“So very kind of you, Your Highness.”

“Yes, a true diplomat. Many a time did I seek his advice.”

Now it was Violet’s turn to roll her eyes. The men lowered their voices and it was difficult to hear anything until Gordon asked a question.

“Scotland Yard thinks my father-in-law’s death was at his own hand, but that doesn’t seem quite right, does it? Yet, it’s quite puzzling to us as to who may have wanted him dead.”

“Idiot,” Nelly hissed. “Speaking to the prince of such things.”

“Perhaps an Egyptian followed him back to London, Mr.—Bishop, is it? Yes, I’ll have another.” There was rustling and the sound of a match flaring. “He ruffled more than a few feathers while he was there.”

“How so, Your Highness?” Stephen asked.

The prince exhaled loudly. “Not intentionally, mind you. But he was a very . . . curious man. Always questioning what others were doing and seeming suspicious about it all. Was forever scribbling in a journal. The Egyptians wondered if he was spying on them.”

That was some information the prince had forgotten—neglected? —to tell Violet.

“I must say, these are excellent. Turkish?”

“Yes,” Gordon said. “Pure. No American blending.”

“No wonder they’re so smooth. I’m used to cigars, you know. These small sticks are fascinating. I must pick some up for myself.”

“Lord Raybourn enjoyed them, too. Very few tobacconists carry them. Did he smoke them while in Egypt?”

“Not that I can recall. Of course, the Egyptians were generous with the hookah, and we had no need to supply our own tobacco.”

The conversation moved from there to a discussion of the merits of Andalusian brandy versus that from the Armagnac region of France. How quickly they had forgotten the serious topic of Lord Raybourn’s untimely demise and possible murder, with his earthly remains within arm’s reach.

Violet shook her head in disgust. There was no more information to be gleaned here. She took her leave of the other women to head down the rear servants’ staircase into the kitchens, where she spent an hour attempting to puzzle out whether the prince had accidentally or purposefully omitted the information about Lord Raybourn not getting on well with the Egyptians. Or perhaps he was merely inventing the story in front of Gordon and Stephen. But if he was, why? How was telling Lord Raybourn’s heirs that the family patriarch was a busybody of any benefit?

She had many more questions to add to her ever-expanding list.

The detectives arrived late the following morning as the family was finishing breakfast. Stephen welcomed them.

“Lord Raybourn, thank you for sending a note to us regarding your strange visitor,” Hurst said.

Was he referring to “James” or the Prince of Wales?

He turned his penetrating stare to Violet, who had also arrived early to check on the elder Lord Raybourn’s body. “Why didn’t you come to us straightaway about this, Mrs. Harper?”

“I tried to tell you—”

“Surely you realized that Inspector Pratt and I are vastly more qualified to find your assailant than the Fairmont family, who are still managing their grief.” Hurst was at his pompous best in front of a big audience.