“I must have scared her. She thought I was . . . someone I’m not.”
Booth’s eyes twinkled as he stroked his wiry beard. “I doubt that, dear lady. Some folks are frightened of a great deal in this world, some of it real and some imagined. I trust she’ll come back one day.”
Initially upset, Violet finally settled back into her routine of handing out cups of water to the destitute residents of Whitechapel, some of whom were grateful, some of whom were tetchy, and some of whom just stared at her vacantly as though “hope” was not a word that had ever been whispered into their ears.
The image of the prostitute stayed with Violet, though. Had she been mistreated at the lock hospital? Was she really a workhouse escapee? What humiliations had she endured?
Perhaps Josephine’s work was as righteous as she claimed it to be.
Violet arrived back at St. James’s Palace to find two important pieces of mail. One was an engraved invitation to attend the queen’s private celebration for her fiftieth birthday, to be held at Cumberland Lodge following the public displays on July 5.
Violet tossed that aside for the far more critical envelope, addressed in Sam’s familiar hand. He wrote to tell her that he would be arriving at the Victoria station within a week. What a blessed relief it would be to have him home.
It also meant she had very little time to finish preparing their new quarters, and it was nearly impossible to think she could resolve the deaths of three women before Sam returned.
Violet met Mary at Morgan Undertaking, and together the two women went upstairs and set to scrubbing, straightening, and cobweb cleaning with fury under Mary’s direction.
With both of them dressed in black mourning, they were soon covered head to toe in a gray film of dust. Mary was especially disheveled, cleaning with great vigor as though she was erasing the memory of her dead husband. She refused to speak of him, instead only making suggestions along the way for furniture (“you definitely need a walnut curio here”), pictures, lamps, and rugs. Violet was certain her home would be ready for display in Mr. Morris’s shop window by the time Mary was done.
“I’ll make you some heavy, fringed draperies that we’ll do in, say, three layers. That should keep the smuts out,” Mary said as she chased a plump, long-legged spider with her booted foot. The spider escaped through a hole in the wall where a heating pipe entered.
Mr. Leech would have fainted dead away to see this place.
“Have you considered hiring day help, Violet? Or that room off the kitchen could be converted from a pantry to a bedchamber for a live-in.”
Violet smiled. “Tactfully stated, my friend.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean—”
“It’s quite all right. I know I’m a terrible chatelaine, but I’m even worse at hiring domestic help. Do you still have day help? Perhaps I can use the same girl.”
“An excellent idea. Now, before we visit Mr. Morris’s for fabric, didn’t you have a dress that needed repair?”
Violet showed her the dress she’d been wearing when she was attacked. Mary examined the rips with her expert eye, testing seams with her thumbnail and pulling the fabric gently to determine its give.
“Well, it will never be quite the same, but I think I can make it serviceable. Here, let me see this on you.” Mary held the dress up against Violet and frowned. “My friend, what have you been eating?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll need a new corset soon. Violet, you don’t think you’re . . .”
“No, there are no symptoms of that condition. I’m afraid it’s from the palace food, which agrees with me too well.”
Violet ran to the cracked mirror over the fireplace, standing a distance away to examine herself. Why, her cheeks were filling out a bit, weren’t they? And her upper arms were straining against the sleeve seams.
What would Sam think when he saw her?
“When did I become a stout, middle-aged woman?” she asked.
Mary smiled. “You’re hardly stout, my dear. Maybe a little plump. Like a sweet little partridge.”
That was it. No more treacle tart or creamed dishes. Violet needed to move out of St. James’s Palace, soon.
Several sharp raps on the door interrupted their discussion over Violet’s wardrobe.
“Inspectors Hurst and Pratt, this is a surprise. How did you know I was here?”
“You weren’t at either palace, so naturally I came to your place of business. It didn’t involve much investigative work,” Hurst said as the two detectives entered, taking in the disheveled appearances of both women and the flat.
“How did you know this was my place of business again?”
“Ah, now that was a bit of detective work, at which I am expert. Who, may I ask, is this lady?”
“Your detection skills have not yet informed you of my friend Mary Cooke?”
“A great pleasure, I’m sure, Mrs. Cooke.” Hurst swept off his hat and bowed over Mary’s hand like a practiced gentleman. Where had that come from? Pratt also removed his hat and shook her hand.
“Mary, this is Chief Inspector Hurst and Inspector Pratt. I worked with them on the Lord Raybourn situation.”
“Yes, I do remember. Didn’t you say that Inspector Hurst saved your life?”
“Well, he found me—”
“ ’Twas nothing, Mrs. Cooke. Just the sort of work a man does every day.” For heaven’s sake, was Hurst’s chest swelling up?
“Mary is recently in mourning for her husband,” Violet said. “As a detective, you probably already noticed her black garb.”
“Of course I did, Mrs. Harper.” His voice said he didn’t care.
“How may I help you? As you can see, we are busy with preparing my new quarters before my husband returns from a trip.”
Hurst smiled, but it was directed at Mary. “It is a good friend indeed who will help with such difficult chores.”
“Your duty here today, Inspector?” She had to save Mary from Hurst’s attentions.
“Ahem, yes. We’ve been investigating a man who has written threatening letters to The Times. Perhaps you’ve read about the recent riots in Flintshire?”
“In fact, I have.”
“The man’s half sister was killed during the riots, and this lunatic blames the queen for what happened. We think he may truly be of danger to her. We have reason to believe he may actually be working at Buckingham Palace. His name is—”
“Reese Meredith.”
Hurst stared at her. “How the hell did you know that? Oh, pardon me, Mrs. Cooke, I apologize for my crudeness. Your ears shouldn’t be subjected to such talk. Mrs. Harper, what travels have led you to Meredith?”
“He is a coachman at the Buckingham Palace mews.” She told Hurst of the peculiar things Meredith had said to her, while Mr. Pratt took out his familiar worn notebook from his jacket pocket and began taking notes. She concluded, “But he never said anything specific that seemed to warrant your attention.”
“We are certainly attentive now. I didn’t want to alarm Her Majesty by invading the palace without reason, but now that we know where he is, we’ll arrest him without delay.” He replaced his hat and nodded at Violet. “Good day, Mrs. Harper. Mrs. Cooke, I do hope I will encounter you again.”
Mary nodded but said nothing.
If this was Inspector Hurst as an infatuated puppy, Violet was terrified to know what the man in love might look like. At least Mary was in mourning, so his attentions would probably drift elsewhere before Mary would ever have the chance to be interested in him.
After the detectives left, Violet blew out a great sigh of relief that not only were her instincts about Reese Meredith correct, but also he would soon be in custody and unable to harm anyone.
She and Mary went to Morris, Marshall, and Faulkner to examine more fabrics and wall coverings for Violet’s new lodgings. She was glad she had Mary along to advise her, for the dizzying array of colors and patterns made her numb. By the time they were done Violet wasn�
��t sure what her new place would look like, but Mary assured her it would be spectacular.
It was good to see a shadow of a smile on Mary’s face after what she’d been through. Perhaps she’d ask Mary to supervise the workmen as they installed everything in a few days’ time.
The two friends parted ways and Violet returned to St. James’s Palace to change dresses and freshen up. Another, much more pleasant, surprise awaited her, for Sam was exiting a cab in the courtyard just as Violet was. In salute, he touched his eagle-headed cane to his right eyebrow, the one with a scar cut through it. Unlike many dandies who carried canes as fashionable affectations, Sam relied on his heavily from injuries taken during the American Civil War.
Violet loved him all the more for his imperfections.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes, my love, although you do look a bit dusty,” he said.
“You’re early. I had so much preparation to do before your return. I want to show you—”
“You are beautifully prepared. Let’s go inside.”
Several hours later, the pair emerged from St. James’s Palace in search of a confectionery shop, as ice cream was Sam’s greatest weakness and he’d expressed a need for it to rejuvenate him after—well, Violet still blushed to think upon her pleasant afternoon.
With burnt filbert ice-cream cups before them, they finally settled down to talk. Sam told her of his and Mr. Nobel’s frustrations in Wales. “As I wrote, I was confused as to whether to return to Colorado—and Susanna—or to stay here in Great Britain in hopes that Mr. Nobel and I will eventually convince the authorities in Wales or the North to recognize the wisdom of dynamite. I received your letter stating that you wished to buy back into Morgan Undertaking, so I figured that was God’s way of telling me that a Colorado mine was not to be.”
“Don’t forget that Susanna has already married and we have the opening of the Suez Canal to attend in November.”
“Yes, Wife, I don’t need any further convincing. I took the train as far as Nottinghamshire with Mr. Nobel, with the intent of parting ways there, but we ended up scouting the area there for possible mine locations. We found a colliery there that went bankrupt when the original owner died and his son abandoned any pretense of interest in his father’s business. There are new tunnels to be opened up, we are sure of it, and believe that many of the men who used to work there would be interested in returning. In fact, a reopened mine might rejuvenate the town.”
Violet blinked. “But—are you saying you want me to move from London all the way to practically Scotland so you can run a mine? I’ve already agreed to buy back into—”
“No, although I’d like you to visit there at least once. I’ll need to be on hand on occasion to open it, as will Mr. Nobel, but we’d planned to bring on some of the previous foremen who know the mine best to hire the best workers and get everything reestablished. If we can prove the value of dynamite to this mine, it will serve as proof to mines around the country that it is the safest way to open their tunnels. My goal is not to be a mine owner, but a seller of dynamite. Mr. Nobel, though, intends to also have a mine in Wales someday.”
“So you’ll leave again.”
“Only for a few days at a time, and only a few times, I promise. I must confess, I have another thought in mind with regard to the mines.” Sam pushed aside his finished dish, clean except for a few drops at the bottom. “In the mine in Mold, they use children as laborers.”
Violet nodded. “Don’t most poor families send everyone to work?”
“Yes, but these children were in terrible condition. There was one girl . . . I actually thought she was a boy, she was so . . .” Sam stared off, unable to finish. “I tried to imagine Susanna working there. She might not be alive today if she had. These mines aren’t safe, especially for children. I want to build up a colliery that protects its workers. I think it can be done, and it will be an example to other mine owners.”
“I’m sure you will do what’s best.”
“Enough of me—tell me what skullduggery you’ve been involved in with the queen.”
Violet relayed all of her adventures, ignoring his outrage over the two attacks on her and ending with the tale of Reese Meredith. “Inspector Hurst believes Meredith intended to harm the queen, and I think he may have been responsible for the deaths of Lady Maud, Lady Marcheford, and Miss Cortland.”
“What was his motive?”
“His anger at the queen spilled over into hatred for all aristocrats, so he began killing friends of Princess Louise.”
“But what of Miss Cortland? You said she was one of Mrs. Butler’s moralists?”
“Yes, but she was the daughter of Lord Sadler, a baron. She was an aristocrat turned out by her family, but an aristocrat nonetheless, and Louise knew her.”
Sam shook his head. “It seems as though Miss Cortland wasn’t quite as prominent as Lady Maud and Lady Marcheford. Perhaps someone else killed her and you’ve erroneously linked the three together.”
“I suppose the three also link together not only because they were aristocrats, but because they were moralists. But Meredith wouldn’t have killed them for that, would he? At some level, their work was as revolutionary as his. Unless he viewed them as competition against his own work? I don’t know; it sounds too fantastic.”
Sam reached his spoon into her dish to take the last melting morsel of ice cream from it. Setting it aside, he said, “Nevertheless, I think you’ll need to interview him in his prison cell to learn his true motives before calling a conclusion to your work.”
Had she been too hasty in thinking this was finished? Meredith was on her list of suspects, but hadn’t she suspected Lord Marcheford and Sir Charles far more than him? Was her duty really over? Besides, she hadn’t even figured out what the bites on the women’s bodies were from.
She changed the subject. “I have an invitation to the queen’s private celebration for her fiftieth birthday tomorrow.”
Sam grimaced. “Another royal entertainment. Wouldn’t you rather stay at St. James’s alone together for our own private celebration? I’m sure we can find a moment to hail Her Majesty.”
“Sam! You wicked man.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I’m full of cream and sugar. You have no idea my powers of evil right now.”
Violet blushed at her husband’s brazenness in the middle of a public place. “You’re incorrigible,” she mumbled.
“A man who has been too long away from his wife might be excused for releasing his uncivilized side for a while, eh? I’m like a parched man in the desert, and you are my oasis.”
Violet was both horrified and delighted by her husband’s manner. He said he didn’t want her out of his sight again. Indeed, she had no desire to be anywhere else.
“Well, there is another oasis you need to visit. I’ve started to renovate our new lodgings over Morgan Undertaking, but I warn you, they are far from habitable yet.”
“As long as the rain can’t get in and you’re there, it’s habitable enough for me. Let’s go see it now.”
In the joy of having Sam home again, Violet chose to forget about murder for the rest of the day.
Hurst knew he was ruffling the feathers of the man before him, but that was no concern of his. This was why he detested dealing with palace staff. They had an opinion of themselves so elevated as to think they were royal family members themselves.
Which they were, in a way, since many of them could trace service to the reigning King or Queen of England back five or more generations.
The sight of Hurst and Pratt undoubtedly made Mr. Norton nervous, for the arrival of Scotland Yard detectives implied that he had somehow failed in his duties.
Such a failure used to be cause for execution, Hurst thought, but you needn’t worry about that anymore.
“This is the second time I’ve been asked about my staff this week. Previously it was a lady undertaker Her Majesty favors.”
Hurst rolled his eyes.
“Who is it you say
you’re interested in again?” Mr. Norton said as he opened up a large ledger book.
“Reese Meredith. ‘M-e-r’—”
“Yes, I have him here. He came to us by way of Earl Baverstock, but he was previously in the King’s Dragoon Guards, with service in the Second Opium War.”
Hurst nodded. “How is he in his duties?”
“Competent. He has proved himself to have talent in training horses, so I’ve let him work with our new stock at times.”
Hurst knew that sort of response. Mr. Norton was complimenting Meredith without saying he actually liked him.
“Did he ever displease you?”
Mr. Norton huffed. Palace staff shouldn’t be gossiping about one another. It was undignified and reflected badly on the queen herself if staff were behaving badly.
Hurst almost smiled to see Mr. Norton in so much mental anguish. The man could prevaricate all he wanted; Hurst would have the truth out of him eventually.
While the superintendent pretended to look at his ledger, Hurst’s thoughts turned to Mrs. Harper’s friend Mary Cooke. What a reserved beauty. So dignified. She was beyond childbearing years, but perhaps that was beyond his care now. After all, he was no young cock of the walk anymore, either. Mrs. Cooke had a very fragile look to her—from mourning, presumably—that made him instinctively want to shield her from the cruelties of the world.
He wondered if Mrs. Cooke would entertain his attentions once she was finished with her first year of mourning. The thought of a courtship with her sent pleasant, unfamiliar sensations through him.
He had to face reality, though. Mrs. Cooke had one serious drawback. She was close friends with Violet Harper, the most aggravating woman he’d ever met.
“Mr. Hurst?” Pratt was looking at him strangely.
“What?”
“Mr. Norton wants to know what else we want.”
“Right, yes. Bring us Meredith, and have a mind not to tell him we’re here.”
A Virtuous Death Page 24
