A Virtuous Death

by Christine Trent

  What? How was this possible? Violet’s mind reeled. So the other women also weren’t killed by poison but were anesthetized. How, then, did they die?

  Furthermore, whom did she know who had access to chloroform?

  The bites. The bites must have been poisonous and killed the women once they were already unconscious. More questions rose in Violet’s mind. “May I ask you one more thing? Is there an insect or other small animal that makes a bite mark like this”—she took pen and paper from his desk and drew two tiny circles—“that would have enough poison to kill someone?”

  Mr. Leech spread his hands. “Mrs. Harper, I am a surgeon; I know nothing of entomology. The thought of spiders and wasps and beetles is enough to send me diving into the Thames.”

  “You? A man who cuts off gangrenous feet and probes diseased intestines?”

  “I admit it sounds peculiar, but I’ve never been able to stomach tiny creatures with multiple legs or wings. So . . . unnatural. I’m sorry I cannot help you. Perhaps you should visit the Royal College of Surgeons.”

  Mr. Leech referred her to a surgeon there, but he in turn was of little help, telling Violet that any number of insects and rodents prowled the homes of London and could be responsible for biting an unwary victim and causing death.

  All Violet was left with at the end of these visits was the knowledge that she was looking for a clever killer, one who had access to a sophisticated opiate and who wasn’t afraid of crawling creatures.

  Violet greeted Mary at the train station but was distressed to find an entirely different Mary than she’d known before. The first hint that something was dreadfully wrong was Mary’s letter letting Violet know of her return train and that she would be unaccompanied. The letter had offered no explanation for that.

  The second hint was that the letter had arrived far too quickly to be from a woman enjoying a reunion with her husband.

  Mary was pale and thin, her eyes bleak from either crying or lack of sleep or perhaps both. Violet did not press, and Mary did not offer to say anything until she and Violet had returned to Mary’s lodgings, located over her shop just as Violet’s would soon be.

  With Mary’s luggage back in her bedchamber, which now had pale blue acanthus scroll wallpaper on the walls and vivid green draperies adorning the window and bedcoverings, as well as an unusual spindle-backed bench in one corner, Mary sat heavily on the bed, her brown-and-black-striped dress making her look like a plain little sparrow among the riotous field of flowers that dominated the bedspread.

  Violet quickly assembled the makings for tea and brought the tray back to Mary’s room, encouraging her friend to drink.

  “Now, what happened? Where is George?”

  Mary sniffled and pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve. “He is—he was—” Mary shook her head.

  Violet sat next to her and took her hand. Mary was showing all of the signs of a terrible grief. “Tell me everything, but start from the very beginning. Did your travels to Switzerland go well?”

  Mary nodded.

  “Did you find it to be very beautiful there?”

  Another nod. “There is Lake Geneva to the south, the Alps to the east, and the Jura mountains to the west and north. Breathtaking.”

  “You were able to find your husband without too much difficulty? Where did you find him?”

  Mary dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. “I checked with some clock shops, and discovered he was working at one of them. I didn’t understand. Why would he be employed there, when he was only in Lausanne on a buying trip? Had he run out of money? And then when I found out, oh, Violet, it was too much to bear.”

  Violet squeezed her friend’s hand. “What happened when you confronted him?”

  “I’m sure I picked the worst possible moment to do so. I lurked outside the shop until he left for the day, then stepped into his path. I’d planned it to be very dramatic, so that he would be astounded to see me. I thought his expression would tell me everything.”

  “Did it?”

  Mary nodded her head miserably. “He wasn’t happy at all about my presence. He took me back to his lodgings and we had a terrible row. George told me that he—that he—” She sniffled again. “George said that he had no desire to return home, that he wanted to be free of the burden of marriage. Can you imagine it? George called me a burden.”

  Violet could well imagine George saying that. She put her free arm around her friend’s shoulder. “Then what?”

  “I told him that he must come home, that I would be a better wife and he would learn to love me again. He refused. We argued for what seemed like hours. I made a terrible fool of myself. It was what happened next, though. . . .” Mary stared off in the distance. Violet stepped away to pour more tea and pressed the warm cup into her friend’s hand. Mary took a few sips and handed the cup back, shaking her head. Violet returned the cup to the tray.

  “I heard a key in the lock, and in walked this woman. She was dark haired and frumpy and there were wisps of hair on her upper lip. She was from Italy, working in Lausanne as a maid in the hotel where George stayed when he first arrived. They took up together and moved into rented lodgings. I had been too blind to notice the marks of a woman living there as we were arguing.”

  “What did you do?”

  “The first thing that popped into my head. I ran. I ran out of his rooms, out of the building, and back to the safety of my own hotel room. I lay on the bed all night with a cold compress on my head, but it was of no help whatsoever to my aching mind and heart.”

  “So you started for home the next day?”

  “No. I’m afraid I’m a terrible glutton for punishment, devouring it like it’s hazelnut cake. I went back to the clock shop, imagining we could have a calm discussion and that I could talk reason to him. After all, he was my husband, and this woman—Vanozza was her name—was merely some harlot that had put a veil of lust over his eyes.”

  “Did he speak to you?”

  “He wasn’t there. The owner said he hadn’t shown up that morning. Concerned that I had made such a scene that he took ill, I recklessly went back to his lodgings, not caring whether Vanozza was there.”

  “Was she?”

  “No. The door was open and I found George, found him—” Mary sobbed into her handkerchief while Violet wrapped her arms around her, murmuring words of comfort until Mary was ready to continue.

  “I found him on the floor, his head bleeding. Oh, the blood, it was everywhere. And he was quite dead. I don’t know how you do undertaking work, Violet, dealing with the dead and talking to them in the way that you do. Anyway, I ran back to the clock shop, and the owner summoned the Polizei. In short order, Vanozza was arrested. She readily admitted to it, too. She seemed almost proud of it.”

  “How terrible for you, my friend.”

  “Yes, I am utterly, irrevocably heartbroken. Twice a widow and I’m only fifty-six. This was the end for me, Violet. I’ll take no other man into my life.”

  “Don’t say that. Someone else will appear who will love you dearly, who will recognize your fine qualities just as your friends do.”

  Mary sniffed again. “I don’t think it’s possible. And this dreadful wallpaper will have to come down.”

  That gave Violet an idea. “Before you get to work on destroying your bedchamber, why don’t you help me with my new lodgings? I haven’t had a chance to tell you that I’ve bought back into Morgan Undertaking, so I’ll be around the corner from you again, and Sam and I will be living above the shop.”

  Mary’s eyes opened wide. “Truly? Why, that’s wonderful. Of course I will help you with decorating.”

  “I’m afraid it will require more than mere decorating, and I’d like to have it finished before Sam returns.”

  As she diverted Mary with talk of renovations and a promise to bring her to see it the next day, Violet’s mind wandered, as it was wont to do these days. There was something Mary had said, about Vanozza almost seeming proud of what she’d done. It made
Violet wonder: Was the killer she was seeking cowering in the corner over his actions, or was he proud of them and Violet was ignoring the signs of that open pride?

  Violet took a deep breath inside Sir Charles Mordaunt’s drawing room. His home was a shadow of Lord Marcheford’s, yet the man’s insufferable ego was equal to any earl’s. She wasn’t sure whether to snap at him or cringe in fear. Was he one of Parliament’s greatest bags of wind or a dangerous murderer?

  “I suppose you are another of my wife’s friends, dressed in black to show mourning for Harriet’s imminent demise as my wife? Your cut of cloth is not that fine, though.”

  “I come on behalf of the Princess Louise.”

  “Does she plead my wife’s case? I’ll not be swayed in this, even by royal begging.”

  “The princess made no mention of supplication to you, sir. I am here on an entirely separate matter.”

  “It wouldn’t have mattered. It’s the prince who owes me satisfaction.”

  “Do you propose challenging the Prince of Wales to a duel?”

  He had enough grace to lower his eyes. “Of course not. Are you sure you’re not a messenger from the prince himself? No? So if this has nothing to do with my wife, why, exactly, are you here, Mrs. Harper?”

  From her reticule Violet brought out a folded sheet, torn from a newspaper. “This is from a recent edition of The Times. It details your performance inside the Commons.”

  “So you are here about my wife.”

  “No, I am here about your antipathy for repeal of the Contagious Diseases Acts.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Are you one of those moralists?”

  “I am an undertaker who has been involved in the deaths of Lady Maud Winter, Lady Marcheford, and Miss Lillian Cortland.”

  “Lady Maud and Lady Marcheford, yes, I know of their deaths. Sickly creatures, I understand.”

  “Did you also know Miss Cortland?”

  “Doesn’t strike a memory. Was she also ill?”

  “No, she was one of the moralists working with Mrs. Butler.”

  “What has she to do with Lady Maud or Lady Marcheford?”

  “A question I thought you might be able to answer, Sir Charles.”

  “I? Why should I be on speaking terms with one of those wretched moralist women?”

  “You seemed to be very passionate in your disavowal of their work.”

  Mordaunt grunted in disgust. “Because they are wretched women, as I said. Worried about things that have nothing to do with them.” He eyed her suspiciously. “Who did you say you are?”

  “Violet Harper. I am an undertaker who—”

  “I am expected to permit an interrogation by a coffin hauler? What joke is this?” Mordaunt laughed, but the sound rang hollow against the wood-paneled walls.

  “You are welcome to inquire about me at Buckingham Palace. Meanwhile, I must ask you: Who among your colleagues who despise the moralists might be so angry about them that he would seek to murder one of them?”

  “Murder! You said she was ill.”

  “Actually, I didn’t. I’m investigating her death as well as Lady Maud’s and Lady Marcheford’s.”

  “Why you and not Scotland Yard?”

  “I am cooperating with Scotland Yard.” Was that too much stress on the truth?

  Mordaunt’s lips went flat as he appraised her. Violet was glad he hadn’t invited her to sit down, so that she could flee if necessary.

  “So both the princess and Scotland Yard endorse your presence here. What is it you truly want, Mrs. Harper?”

  Violet realized she was going to have to learn more finesse and diplomacy if she was going to be successful at puzzling out these sorts of situations. Neither trait was an especial talent of hers outside of undertaking. She decided to confront Mordaunt like a matador with a cape, to see if he would charge.

  “Lady Maud and Lady Marcheford were secret moralists. I am wondering if you are passionate enough about the Contagious Diseases Acts that you would do away with those who want to repeal them.”

  “Preposterous!” He was pawing at the ground.

  She lowered her voice. “And might these murders just be a rehearsal for the prime target, Lady Mordaunt? Your blustering about a divorce might just be a cover, an excuse for when her body will be found, attacked by some exotic insect that just happened to fly into her dressing room. And there will be Sir Charles, claiming that he had intended to divorce her—the lowliest of chimney sweeps knows of your intentions by now—but he never, ever wanted his wife’s death. What do you think of my theory?”

  She slowly bunched her skirts in both hands, ready to bolt if he put his head down to attack the scarlet cape she’d just waved before him.

  To her surprise, though, Sir Charles sank to his knees in front of her, covering his face with his hands and sobbing wretched, deep guttural sobs, such as only a man can do.

  Was this a trick? “Sir Charles?” she said, still holding her skirts and taking an imperceptible step backward. What if he reached out and grabbed her and—

  “No one understands my grief, Mrs. Harper, but you’re an undertaker, so you must be familiar with all forms of it.”

  “Yes.”

  “My marriage has died from humiliation. Cuckolding me as she has, with all sorts of men, has been my death. At least all of them are highborn, thank God, but my devastation is complete.”

  “Can you not reconcile with her, if she is not totally unrepentant?”

  He shook his head sadly. “No one knows this truth yet, but Harriet is expecting a child. That she-devil doesn’t even know whose it is. I was never cruel to her. I let her buy whatever she wanted. She was the wife of a prominent citizen. How could she do this to me? I’ll not have some bastard foisted upon me. No, my wife must be put aside. My God, I’ve even been cuckolded by the Prince of Wales.”

  Sir Charles rose, passing a hand over his reddened eyes. “And avenging yourself on the Prince of Wales is no easy feat, as you can imagine.”

  “Which reminds me of my last question, sir. Are you acquainted with Reese Meredith?”

  “No. Another moralist?”

  “In his own mind, perhaps.” Violet unclenched her fists and smoothed down her skirts. “Thank you, Sir Charles. This has been an enlightening visit.”

  “I trust you will not share my confidences.”

  “You need not worry, sir. I’m not interested in divorces, only in murders.”

  Violet felt talons of fear clawing at her back as the cab pulled up near the Christian Revival Society’s tent in Whitechapel. Even the horse was fearful, shaking his head back and forth until the driver commanded him to move on.

  Somehow, the vacant, hollow expression on a dead person wasn’t nearly as frightening as seeing it repeated on all of these barely living creatures.

  Catherine Booth, wife of the Society’s founder, William Booth, was assisting her husband in handing out loaves of hard-crust bread when Violet arrived at their tent in Whitechapel. They hugged her like a family member, with William booming out his gratitude for her presence.

  “My dear lady, this is the time of our most critical need. Everyone in London shows up to help on Christmas Day, then forgets the Lord’s work the other three hundred and sixty-four days of the year.”

  Violet looked down to hide her embarrassment. She’d given no thought to time of year. In fact, the only thing that had nudged her to come was seeing the baker’s calling card, a reminder that she’d promised to return to help soon and never had.

  She had no more time to think about it, for Catherine tossed her an apron and set her to work ladling out cups of clean water to those who had gathered there.

  The baker, Mr. Merrill, and his wife were also working on the opposite side of the tent, distributing clothing and shoes. Mr. Merrill acknowledged Violet with a wave.

  Violet’s stomach was all butterflies as the first group of people gathered around her, holding out battered tin cups in hands so filthy they might have belonged to coal m
iners. Of what was she fearful? She’d done this once before and survived.

  Yes, but that was when her mind was on pursuit of someone working at the Society, someone she thought might be a murderer.

  Today she was here purely for charitable purposes, and somehow that was different. Her entire focus was on the destitute people clamoring in front of her. Would someone paw at her? Demand money? Shout an obscenity at her? The dead never did that.

  She splashed water into the first cup presented to her, belonging to a young man whose face had the line traces of someone who’d been on the losing end of a knife fight. He accepted the cup, shrugged, and walked away.

  That wasn’t so terrible. The man wasn’t necessarily grateful, but he hadn’t fulfilled Violet’s fears, either. Her stomach quelled and she went to work with vigor. She had been scooping out generous servings of water for about a half hour, with varying degrees of reaction by the recipients, when a painfully thin woman, dressed in the garish colors of a prostitute, gulped down three cups before lunging for a loaf of bread. She had open, oozing sores around her mouth. Violet had seen these sores before, at the lock hospital.

  She was drawn to the woman. Taking a fourth cup of water to her at the bread table, Violet said, “Miss, are you in trouble? Are you ill?”

  The woman’s eyes were fearful. “No. Not anymore. I’m as clean as they come. I won’t go back.”

  “Back where?”

  “To the lock hospital. You aren’t one of their nurses, are you? I’ll not let you take me.”

  Violet held out a hand. “Please, miss, be calm. I’m not—”

  The woman flung her cup at Violet, splashing its contents down the front of her apron, and, picking up her shabby skirts, ran erratically out of the tent, pushing aside a mother and her crying infant in her haste.

  Violet was stunned into numbness by the woman’s reaction to her question, nearly forgetting that others clamored around for a cool drink of water.

  William Booth appeared at Violet’s side in an instant. “Cheer up, Mrs. Harper. Not everyone can be reached. We just try talking to one soul at a time and let the good Lord do the rest.”