“Yes, but—”
“Mrs. Peet must have mentioned it to Mrs. Bishop, who couldn’t risk the housekeeper sticking her nose in the coffin and realizing who wasn’t in there.”
Pratt put down his pencil. “So you think the woman murdered three people? Seems like excessive violence from a society lady, doesn’t it?”
Hurst’s chest expanded. “That’s because you don’t have as much experience with criminal investigations as I do. Continue to observe, and I will turn you into a great detective.”
“What of the theft of Cedric’s body?” Henderson asked. “Do you think Mrs. Bishop was behind that, or was it something else entirely?”
“Obviously she panicked, and paid those two cretins to take the body to make sure no one would ever know it was her brother.”
“And the ransom demand?”
“Her way of paying them.”
Henderson frowned. “But they eventually gave up the body.”
“More than likely, there was some altercation—maybe they thought they could extract even more money from the viscount’s daughter—and when she wouldn’t pay, they exposed the body.”
“A neat theory, Inspector. I’m impressed,” Henderson said.
Violet wasn’t. Hurst’s analysis left too many unanswered questions in Violet’s mind. She thought about the conversation she’d overheard, when Nelly said she had been keeping Stephen’s secret. Did this secret have anything to do with Cedric’s death, or was it totally unrelated? And was a decades-old grudge truly enough to make a sister slay her own brother? Nelly was selfish and spoiled, but did she have a murderous heart?
Then there was the scene at Westminster Bridge. Was Nelly the one who came from nowhere and pushed her over? For what reason would she want to kill Violet?
I’d already supported the story that the body was Lord Raybourn’s through my undertaking work. Why get rid of me? Unless she thought I was someone else? But whom else could she possibly want to kill?
Violet reflected on the moment when she felt strong, rough hands at her back. The image of Stephen’s face rose in her mind again.
No, impossible.
As impossible an idea as that of Nelly having gone on a murderous rampage, all because she was mad at her presumed-dead elder brother.
“Inspector,” she said. “Your theory neglects one important aspect of this case.”
“Which is?”
“You haven’t explained what happened to Lord Raybourn in the first place. That’s whom the queen is most interested in.”
“For reasons she has never shared.”
Violet couldn’t argue with that.
Hurst rubbed his hands together. “Commissioner, I believe we are ready to make an arrest. One that will stick this time.”
Henderson nodded. “Mrs. Harper, you may wish to report to the queen that Lord Raybourn is perhaps not dead after all. Or, if he is, we have no idea where he might be. Meanwhile, Inspector Pratt and I have a visit to make to Raybourn House. I expect we’ll extract a confession rather quickly.”
“Inspector, I must protest,” Violet said. “It seems as though you are conjecturing—”
“Once that’s done, Mrs. Harper can return to the United States, which is her singular goal in all this. Correct, dear lady?”
“Not at the expense of an innocent woman going to jail!”
Hurst shook hands with Commissioner Henderson and signaled to Pratt that it was time to leave. Outraged, Violet followed them.
“How much longer do you think the undertaker will need to stay here?” Dorothy asked over glasses of chilled champagne to finish off their dinner. “You seem to have regained your senses, Eleanor. Isn’t it time to send her packing?”
Nelly glared at her sister. “I find comfort in having her around. Besides, she’s an old friend of Stephen’s, and it’s not as though Mrs. Peet’s room is being used anymore.”
“Comfort! Two people have died since that woman entered our lives, Mrs. Peet and that Godfrey creature. Who knows when one of us will be next?”
“Surely you aren’t suggesting, dear sister, that the undertaker brings bad luck?” Nelly said.
“What do you think? Our father’s body stolen, a servant’s death, the arrival of a blackmailer, more death entering the household . . . Honestly, it has been Bedlam having her here.”
“Now, Dorothy, I hardly think we can lay that at Violet’s feet,” Stephen said, setting aside his drained glass. “She has been quite helpful, moving in to soothe Nelly’s fears and willingly staying in Mrs. Peet’s old room after having luxurious accommodations at St. James’s Palace.”
“That makes her all the more suspicious, doesn’t it? Doesn’t she have her own husband to return to? Why would anyone give up royal quarters just to pacify a hysterical woman?” Dorothy said.
“Such blithe words from someone who couldn’t possibly know what it’s like to have your husband snatched away from you and thrown into a dank and grimy prison cell. What with your perpetually unwedded state,” Nelly said.
The barb landed as intended, directly into Dorothy’s heart. She clamped her lips together.
“It wasn’t so bad,” Gordon said, pouring both his wife and Katherine more champagne. “I shared a cell with just one other chap, and he was only there for vagrancy.”
“Honestly, Gordon, consider my point of view. I was the one worrying myself ill about you.”
“Of course, Nells, dearest. I shouldn’t be so selfish.”
“Speaking of selfish, I think it’s time we ask Toby to stay home from all of his social activities while this mess is sorted out. He isn’t here nearly enough and I do miss him so.”
“I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”
Nelly offered her husband a rare smile.
A commotion outside interrupted the family discussion. Stephen went to the window and drew back a curtain. “It’s Violet and Inspectors Hurst and Pratt. They seem to be arguing. I’ve never seen Violet so livid before. And look at her, she’s positively filthy. I wonder what’s wrong now.”
20
Violet was granted another audience with the queen, and was happy to flee Raybourn House, which had become a five-story mausoleum since Nelly’s arrest. Stephen and Katherine stayed locked away in their rooms, with Katherine’s pitiful sniffling audible at all hours. Toby vanished from the house altogether, without even a word to his father as to where he was going. Not that Gordon would have noticed, as he spent his time in a state of near insensibility, sitting in chairs with his legs crossed, staring at nothing.
Dorothy’s sharp tongue was now like a knife, cutting and wounding anyone in her path. Violet witnessed the lack of humility firsthand, as the maid, Louisa—already tense and jumpy over the endless number of tragedies occurring to the family—spilled a bit of sherry at the dining table. Dorothy berated the poor girl as though she’d dropped a thousand-year-old Chinese vase.
The family was near to breaking apart.
So despite the fact that she was probably due for verbal lashing and crucifixion herself, Violet was almost glad to be at Windsor, away from the fragile atmosphere of Park Street.
At the castle, she was told that the queen was riding at the Great Park, and was taken aboard another carriage for the mile’s journey to where Queen Victoria, sitting sidesaddle on a sturdy pony, was with Mr. Brown. He walked along to her right, the reins in his left hand as he guided the animal along a grassy trail. Sharp, the ever energetic border collie, pranced about, occasionally nipping at the horse’s heels as if guiding him back to the herd.
The queen was dressed in customary black, although for her ride she’d donned a pair of tan kid gloves, the only spot of color in her ensemble.
The driver helped Violet out of the carriage and drove off a respectful distance to wait, while Violet approached the queen and curtsied.
“Mrs. Harper, we were just visiting our daughter, Princess Helena, at Cumberland Lodge here in the park. Such a dutiful daughter, staying close by even aft
er marrying her husband. She recently produced another son. Our dearest Albert would have been delighted. Please rise.
“Your timing is fortuitous. We were thinking of stopping at Frogmore to visit Albert on our way back to the castle. We would be pleased to have you join us.”
Violet had overseen Albert’s reinterment from Windsor Chapel to the specially built Frogmore Mausoleum in 1862. On that day, she had joined the queen in a private mourning session next to the prince’s tomb.
Victoria signaled to Brown, who arranged the queen’s skirts as though he were her lady’s maid ensuring she looked dignified enough to hold court.
It was terribly awkward to address the queen as she sat regally erect on a pony, especially when the animal splattered droppings behind him, which they all studiously ignored. The pony’s actions did serve to quiet Sharp, who decided a nearby rabbit was much more interesting, and took off after it in a happy lope.
“Actually, Your Majesty, I’m afraid I’ve come with bad news for you.”
“Indeed?” Not the queen nor her pony nor Mr. Brown moved an inch. Was it necessary for Violet to receive her punishment in front of the queen’s ghillie?
“Yes. I have made a great error in judgment. You see, Lord Raybourn’s body is—well, isn’t—actually Lord Raybourn.”
That earned Violet a majestically raised eyebrow.
“And who, exactly, is it?”
“His son, Cedric, whom the family believed had died in the Crimea.”
The queen nodded slowly, as if trying to absorb what Violet said. Violet was still trying to absorb it all herself.
“Well, ’tis a fine turn of affairs, ma’am,” Brown said. “The lass embalmed a man she thought was his father, and dinna know what she did.”
Violet felt fiery heat climbing up her neck to her face. This had to be the most embarrassing moment in all the days of her livelihood.
Brown continued, “I wish you’d let me have her do up my wicked cousin, Robert. I’d tell everyone it was some town drunkard who fell into the River Dee and be done with the man, I would.”
To Violet’s surprise, the queen laughed. “Mr. Brown, you are very naughty.”
The ghillie looked over at Violet and winked.
“What has Scotland Yard to say about it, Mrs. Harper?” Victoria asked.
“They believe that Eleanor Bishop, Cedric’s sister, killed him and played along that it was her father. She has been arrested.”
The queen frowned. “That doesn’t seem logical, does it?”
“No, Your Majesty.”
“Unless the sister is crazed. Does she seem unbalanced in her mind to you?”
“No, Your Majesty.”
“I see. Well, it does complicate things a bit to have the son involved. We are glad you’ve come to tell us this. Return when you have more news.”
That was all? No royal temper tantrum? No castigation for incompetence? No lamentation over where Lord Raybourn might be? Praise God for Mr. Brown, who seemed to keep the queen in a harmonious state. Violet vowed to defend him against any suggestive comments made by any Briton in her presence. She could have danced her way back into London, but confined herself to a train.
The queen and her ghillie slowly made their way north to Frogmore, so that the queen could have a quiet visit with Albert at his tomb. Strange that the undertaker didn’t want to go along, but instead wanted to rush back to London.
Of course, everything was strange these days, ever since Lord Raybourn had gone missing. But now they had an answer, didn’t they? This latest turn of events might prove very interesting to her prime minister.
“Mr. Brown, I’ll need to see Mr. Gladstone right away.”
“Yes, ma’am, I expect you will.” He clucked his tongue. “Come on, Lochnagar,” he said, and led the pony back to the castle.
Violet returned to a nearly empty house. All the remaining family was out, and the beleaguered maid departed for shopping errands shortly after Violet’s arrival.
The quiet and solitude were a relief. In her room, she sat down on the floor with her old lists and reread them, crossing off items that had been resolved. That done, she drew out a fresh piece of paper, a bottle of ink, and a pen, to begin a new list.
Why kill Cedric Fairmont? Either revenge or inheritance . . . or some other reason?
Why was Mrs. Peet killed?
Who killed James Godfrey? Why?
Did Eleanor or Gordon Bishop really play a part in what happened? What of Toby?
Where IS Lord Raybourn?
Having finished her new list, and calculating that she had twenty-eight wholly unanswered questions about the mysterious doings in the Fairmont family, Violet decided a quick nap was in order. She tossed her lists on top of the pile of papers accumulating on the chest of drawers. Really, she should separate the funeral documents from her personal letters and her growing number of lists.
Murder lists, she supposed she should call them.
Hadn’t she been frustrated when her deceased husband, Graham, used to stack newspapers and vendor bills together? Even in her worst housekeeping days, she never let herself become a sloppy record keeper.
Sleep beckoned. She’d worry about the papers later.
Before she could even think about dropping her head against the pillow, a doorbell rang. With no one else home, Violet supposed it was up to her to answer it. She glanced out the window and saw that it was Toby on the front stoop, waiting to be let in.
She hurried down three flights of stairs and let him in. “Mrs. Harper, why are you answering the door?” he asked.
“I believe I am the only one here.”
“Oh. Well, I’m just here to pick something up. Tell Mother and Father I won’t be in for dinner, will you?”
Violet realized this was her moment. While Toby was in his room, she went back to her own room for her reticule, then waited until she saw Toby step down into the street. He was headed south again. Violet ran down the stairs as fast as her skirts would allow, and followed Toby Bishop to wherever it was he was perpetually disappearing.
Would it be the home of a revolutionary? The back of a seedy tavern? An abandoned warehouse converted to a secret barracks? She had no idea, but she had to find out what he was doing, and whether it had anything to do with his grandfather’s disappearance and his uncle’s death.
21
Toby walked casually through Mayfair, whistling, down toward Hyde Park Corner. From there he hired a cab heading east. What was Violet to do now?
She attempted to follow the hackney on foot, since traffic prevented it from traveling too quickly, but she soon realized that she had no idea how far he intended to travel. So she picked up her own hack at a nearby taxi stand, and, feeling rather foolish, asked the driver to follow Toby’s. “The one with the broken lamp on it.”
“Husband been visiting his mistress, what?” the rough-shaven driver asked from his perch behind and above the enclosed passenger seat. “Goin’ t’ follow him to her place, is ya?”
“No, I’m—never mind.” Violet climbed in, sat against the torn leather seat, and let the driver think whatever he wanted to think, as they drove along Victoria Embankment. Soon they were in Whitechapel, and although the main thoroughfare was not particularly squalid, the warren of dark side streets branching off Whitechapel High Street suggested poverty and suffering that had trampled its occupants down for generations. The children sitting in doorways had particularly vacant looks that made her shiver. Violet instinctively moved to the center of her seat.
The driver rapped on the window to Violet’s left. “Madam, I’m not going too much farther in than this. Likely t’ have the brass lamps stripped off the carriage and to be beaten to death for my boots, as well. T’isn’t a fit place for a lady, neither.”
She knew it was dangerous, but she’d come this far and had to know what Toby was doing, although at least now she knew he was up to nothing virtuous.
“Please, just a bit more. Look, they’re stopping th
ere, at Thomas Street.”
“I’ll go there, but no farther.”
When he stopped, Violet paid him and asked if he’d wait. “Not likely,” he said and hurried off.
Now Violet was alone. Well, her nerves would simply have to settle down. She continued after Toby, who was walking nonchalantly past heaps of trash and debris that served as multi-storied living quarters for a variety of rats and vermin. People stared at Violet in curiosity, but no one bothered her.
It seemed so much darker here. Did the sun forget to shine in Whitechapel?
About halfway down the street was a break in the bleak rows of sooty brick buildings, opening surprisingly onto a small cemetery. In the center of the cemetery was a large red-, blue-, and yellow-striped tent, an incongruous spot of happiness in the middle of the misery.
Toby headed straight for the tent. Violet stayed some distance behind, but she needn’t have bothered, for he was quickly enveloped in the crowd of poor and bedraggled men, women, and children under the tent’s roof. Violet made her way to one corner of the tent, whose pole was lashed to a headstone so old the name was obliterated from it.
Now she saw that a man, probably forty or so years old and wearing a carefully groomed chin beard, stood on a dais with a woman—presumably his wife?—and was shouting at the people inside.
No, he seemed to be whipping them up with enthusiasm.
Wait a minute. No, the man was preaching the gospel. He was an open-air evangelist.
What was Toby doing here?
As if to answer her question, Toby approached the dais, which caused the man to stop what he was saying. He and his wife warmly greeted Toby, then pulled him up on the dais, to be introduced to the milling crowd. Violet slipped under the tent to hear more clearly.
Once she was inside, she saw a banner hanging from the rear tent wall. It read, “Christian Revival Society.”
Violet was thoroughly confused. How could Toby, who was apparently associated with some sort of insurrectionist movement, also be attracted to a missionary working in an abysmal part of London?
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