Boyce lowered the writing table portion of the secretary and sat at a chair before it. From another drawer he pulled paper, pen, and ink, then studied his ledger at length. In fact, he took so long that Violet worried he had fallen asleep in front of it, but then he dipped his pen in the inkwell and began writing.
Half an hour later, Violet left with a folded sheet of paper containing a list of undertakers in London who had purchased safety coffins from Boyce and Sons. She didn’t open it until she returned to her own shop, and when she did, she was quite disturbed.
One name on the list jumped out at her from among all the others and filled her with more dread than an open crypt on a cloudless night.
Violet finished the rest of her day in the shop without sharing anything with Harry, who didn’t seem curious as to when she might begin her investigation into who was responsible for the previous day’s bell coffin. Without doubt, worries about his expectant wife were keeping his mind largely occupied. He spent his time in the coffin room, preparing space for the samples that Boyce and Sons would be sending soon, while Violet spent the rest of the day taking inventory of their mourning brooch domes, mourning card samples, jet jewelry, black lace fans and collars, and other accoutrements they always kept on display.
That evening, after supper with her family, served by the ever-cheerful Mrs. Wren, Violet asked Sam and Benjamin to retire to the parlor while she and Susanna looked over the list of twenty-three undertakers Violet had. It was a substantial number of London’s hundred or so undertakers serving the city. Mr. Boyce had secured much more than a “fair number” of them.
Taking into account that Mr. Boyce only served a portion of the city’s undertakers, Violet was also dismayed at the number of undertakers now trading in safety coffins.
She tore the list in half horizontally, and passed the lower half to Susanna, pointing to the name that had disturbed her so much earlier. “This is Julian Crugg. I know him.”
Susanna looked puzzled. “Then why don’t you visit him?”
“He doesn’t particularly care for me. He once accused me of stealing customers from him.”
Susanna’s blue eyes widened. “But you would never do that.”
“Of course not. When I first returned to London, I was called in by the queen to perform undertaking services for a peer, and I displaced the family undertaker, who happened to be Mr. Crugg.”
It was no wonder that Crugg had been angry to lose the Lord Raybourn funeral. The cost of a service for a person of rank or title could vary between five hundred and fifteen hundred pounds. By comparison, the funeral of a gentleman might cost around three hundred pounds, and that of a tradesman of better class might be around sixty pounds. Then there were the members of the laboring class, who, due to their constant financial straits, might only spend around five pounds for a funeral that included a plain pine coffin, no lining or ruffling, no attendants, a flat hearse with no glass walls, and a single horse.
It was certainly in an undertaker’s best interests to attract as lofty a clientele as possible. When Julian Crugg lost the funeral to Violet because of the queen’s command, he risked losing future funerals for the extended family, representing thousands of pounds.
“He was displeased, to say the least,” Violet continued, reviewing her own list. “I think you might have better luck in speaking with him.”
“So, what shall we try to discover?” Susanna asked. She was nearly trembling with excitement. Violet wondered if Susanna wasn’t just a little bored back in Colorado.
“I think we want to find out, first, how often they have used bell coffins and, second, if they’ve recently sent a red-haired man in his thirties to Brookwood.”
“And what reason would we give for wanting to know this information?”
“Hmm.” Violet absently twirled her half of the list around on the table as she conjured up a plausible reason. “Let’s say we are writing an article for The Times about a rash of red-headed men being saved by safety coffins? People love stories of the supernatural.”
“Mother, that’s ridiculous.”
“Well, how do you think we should go about it?”
Mother and daughter were silent awhile, each contemplating how they might go about interviewing their fellow undertakers.
Finally, Susanna said, “I know. We will just present ourselves as considering the purchase of bell coffins and looking for advice on the best ones.”
Violet nodded at her daughter’s commonsense approach. “That should work. We can also ask if they use them at Brookwood, and see what sort of interesting information we can glean that way. Be careful, though. This is not the first time I’ve gone round asking questions of other undertakers. They might think we’re attempting to steal trade secrets.”
“This will be fun,” Susanna exclaimed, clapping her hands together like a little girl. “No wonder you like investigative work.”
Violet didn’t consider it fun as much as . . . necessary. Necessary for the reputation of undertaking, and necessary to ensure that the dead were properly and respectfully cared for in their time of farewells to the earth.
And to ensure that they were indeed deceased.
Susanna was dressed in a full complement of her mother’s undertaking clothing as she and Benjamin headed out the door. It would hopefully lend credibility to her visits with the undertakers on her list. Benjamin, too, wore somber clothing, although he lacked the telltale hat swathed in black crape that ended in two long tails draping down the back.
Her mother had recommended that Benjamin accompany Susanna for protection. Susanna had acquiesced to the idea but was inwardly dispirited about it, for she had wanted to engage in this endeavor on her own. She had only been married a couple of months now, but things weren’t quite as . . . exciting . . . as she’d anticipated. Their visit from Colorado to London had been to celebrate their marital happiness with her parents, but Susanna had hoped it would also infuse a bit of stimulation into her marriage.
Susanna’s childhood had been traumatic, full of death and a despondent workhouse confinement, until Violet had appeared in her life, bringing stability and love with her. Susanna had largely forgotten the trials of her youth and assumed that marriage, with its resulting routines and patterns, would continue her happiness.
Benjamin was kind and handsome, and Susanna had had high hopes for him. He’d been so doting and took a special interest in ensuring her safety after Mother and Father returned to London. Besides, he was Father’s law clerk, and Father thought so much of him. It only seemed natural that she should fall in love with Benjamin Tompkins.
What she wanted was a marriage like her parents’, one that was full of life and love and teasing and unabashed kisses. What she seemed to have gotten instead was something much more . . . cloying. Susanna couldn’t point to anything in particular that disturbed her about Benjamin. He was steadfast and kind. He adored her and told her so constantly. Susanna was almost ashamed by her feeling that something was defective.
Perhaps she hadn’t given it enough time.
Perhaps her expectations were too high.
Or perhaps they would never have what Mother and Father did because they had never experienced all of the crises and tumult that her parents had.
She frowned as she pulled on her black gloves and buttoned them. Was a marriage only truly happy when the participants had endured the worst of what life had to offer? How ironic it would be if that were true.
Well, perhaps today they would experience a little of her parents’ tribulations, depending on how things fared with their interviews.
Most of the undertakers whom they visited were friendly but indifferent. One, though, a Mr. Parris, happily showed her his safety coffins. His strangest one involved a tube into which the trapped person would blow, causing a bright yellow flag to shoot out at graveside. Like the others, he insisted that he hadn’t sent anyone to Brookwood lately.
By midafternoon, Susanna was bored and nearly starving to death.
After a quick meal and tea at a nearby hotel with Benjamin, she suggested that they finish up at Julian Crugg’s shop. Rejuvenated from eating, she looked forward to meeting the man about whom her mother seemed so apprehensive. He was located in a side alley off Regent Street, making him convenient to the upper-crust residents of Mayfair.
The shop had large, sparkling windows, with no cracks at all in them. The wood surrounding the glass had been recently painted a deep, shiny black, and the gold lettering announced “Undertaking Services, Julian Crugg, Proprietor.” She put her face closer to the glass to peer inside. An undertaker—presumably Mr. Crugg himself—sat on a plush settee facing Susanna’s direction. Across from him sat a couple, their backs rigid and unmoving, a sure sign of terrible grief.
Susanna was overwhelmed with the desire to rush in and comfort them. Instead, she turned to Benjamin. “Perhaps we should visit the perfumery we saw back on Regent Street for a few minutes.”
A half hour later, with a new bottle of patchouli tucked in her reticule, she and her husband returned to Crugg’s shop, where they found him alone.
The door’s bell tinkled prettily as they stepped in, and the man looked up from where he was standing behind his counter, flipping through an urn catalog. He immediately stepped out and bowed with both hands held out. Cupped in his palms was a calling card.
“I am Julian Crugg. How may I be of service to you today, sir? Madam?” He looked curiously at Susanna, obviously recognizing her garb. He was middle-aged, thin, and wiry.
Benjamin took the card as Susanna said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Crugg. I am Susanna Tompkins, and this is my husband, Benjamin. We are undertakers in Queen’s Road.” For the tenth time today, she wished there had been time to create calling cards. How legitimate did she look without one?
The undertaker didn’t seem to notice. “May I be of assistance to you on a funeral?”
“Not exactly.” Susanna rolled out her speech, perfected after so many visits. “We understand that you are a prominent expert in safety coffins. We haven’t used them before, but are considering adding them to our inventory. We hoped you might recommend some models and makers.”
The undertaker smiled, then lifted his left hand and snapped his fingers. Almost instantly, another man, with hair hanging so low on his forehead that it nearly covered his eyes, appeared from the back. “Yes, Mr. Crugg?” He inclined his head toward Susanna and Benjamin in greeting, then swiped a hand across his forehead, pushing his hair aside. His pants were too long, and his jacket sleeves too short. Susanna wondered why Mr. Crugg, the owner of an elegant shop, would keep such an unkempt man in his employ.
“Bird, this is Mr. and Mrs. Tompkins, undertakers over in Paddington. They’re interested in investing in safety coffins. Bring out our new portable chamber, will you?”
The man went off to do Crugg’s bidding.
“Bird?” Susanna asked curiously.
“Birdwell Trumpington, my assistant.” Mr. Crugg sniffed contemptuously. “Have you ever heard of such a ridiculous name? His parents must have loathed him, but they died years ago in a shipwreck off the coast of India en route to Calcutta on a holiday, so there’s no way to really know. Very tragic. Of course, I never met them, so his story might be an invention, and they may live in Seven Dials right now, for all I know.”
Crugg had further insulted his employee with this mention of such a disreputable section of London. How odd. Violet would be interested to know that Crugg employed a man who was both disheveled and such an object of disdain, although Susanna wasn’t sure yet if that fact was significant at all.
Mother would also be interested in the seeming plethora of avian-related names in London.
Trumpington rolled out a flat cart, atop which sat what looked like a typical coffin, but with a box fitted over where the deceased’s head would lie. The top of this box was fitted with a piece of glass. At the foot of the coffin was a metal crank.
Crugg patted the box portion of the coffin. “We’ve only just gotten it in and haven’t had a chance to set it out for display. This clever device enables the cemetery watchman to keep an eye out on the deceased’s body. The body is buried inside the case below. If he begins breathing, naturally the glass will fog up. The watchman can also peer down to see if the eyes are open or the mouth is moving. After several days or a week without any signs of life, or if there is putrefaction emanating from the body, the watchman merely has to crank this lever”—Crugg touched the handle as Trumpington flipped the coffin onto its side, exposing the bottom of it to Susanna and Benjamin—“and the body will drop neatly into the waiting coffin in the grave below.” Crugg cranked the handle, and the bottom panel of the artificial coffin opened on hinges.
“How . . . interesting,” Susanna murmured.
“What is particularly attractive about this model is that it is reusable. Simply remove it from the grave, drop the real coffin lid over the body, and cover the grave over. The portable chamber is now ready for its next visitor.”
Susanna felt faintly queasy at the thought. Mother would definitely be appalled to see this. “What about the effects of decomposition in the chamber?”
Crugg lifted a shoulder, shrugging off her question. “The body is not inside for very long and so the chamber should air out in between funerals. Besides, you will keep a fresh one in your showroom, and your customers need never know the ones in use were used before.”
She brought a gloved finger to her mouth and frowned, as if in contemplation of the deceit that he’d just demonstrated. It was time to bring the subject around to where she needed it. “This is fascinating, sir, but what we are particularly interested in are the, ah, entry-level bell coffins.”
“Ah, of course.” He snapped again at Trumpington, who rolled the portable death chamber to a location across the showroom and began setting it up for display.
Crugg showed Susanna and Benjamin several versions, and Susanna interrupted with questions such as “What classes tend to be most enticed by safety coffins?”
“All classes are enticed. The question is one of affordability. The portable death chamber I showed you earlier can be rented, and so is a better option for the lower classes. More complicated coffins, such as those with escape ladders, can only be purchased by the upper classes. You will quickly learn which ones to suggest to your various customers. Now, may I show you this bell coffin invented by a German named Franz Vester, living in New York? This one has—”
Susanna interrupted his monologue. “Do you do many funerals at Brookwood, Mr. Crugg? What is your experience there?”
Crugg shut the coffin lid he had just lifted. It settled with the clack of wood against wood. “Brookwood? Do you mean the garden cemetery in Surrey? Why, we certainly have a wide range of cemetery affiliations. I undertake for some of the finest families in London, many of whom have tombs on their country estates both north and south of London, as well as in their county church parish graveyards.”
Crugg was rambling to distract her, Susanna was sure of it.
“But have you sent anyone to Brookwood recently?” she persisted.
“I—I can’t really say without looking at my records.”
“So you also wouldn’t know if you’ve put any bell coffins on the Necropolis Railway?”
Crugg’s eyes narrowed. “What is it you really want, madam? For I sense that it has nothing to do with bringing safety coffins into your shop.”
“Forgive my impertinence,” Susanna said, putting a hand on his arm, hoping that she was being successfully flirtatious. She felt Benjamin stiffen next to her, but that couldn’t be helped. “I’m really just curious as to whether Brookwood welcomes these coffins, as we have received several requests for funerals there lately.”
“Is that so? What’s your name again?” he asked with open distrust.
“Susanna Harper.” Susanna offered her maiden name without thinking, not quite used to her married name of Tompkins yet. She immediately regretted the lapse.
“
I know that name,” Crugg said, pouncing on it like Mrs. Softpaws on a spider. “Are you by chance related to Violet Harper?”
“She’s my mother, but—” Susanna’s protest was cut short.
“Get. Out.” Crugg said this through clenched teeth as he pointed to the door. “I want you off my premises immediately.”
Mother was certainly right about the man’s displeasure about her. She tucked her arm in Benjamin’s. “Shall we go?” she asked brightly, pretending the other undertaker’s reaction didn’t bother her in the least.
“Now see here, Crugg,” Benjamin began, and Susanna could feel the tension tightening in her husband’s arm muscles. “I’ll not have you talk to my wife like that.”
“Benjamin, please . . .” Susanna pleaded, trying to diffuse the situation, but she was interrupted by Crugg.
“Very well, sir. If you prefer not to hear it, perhaps she shouldn’t darken my doorstep ever again. To think that Mrs. Harper, knowing her sin, stoops to having her daughter do her bidding. I’ll not have custom with that viper of a woman ever again, nor with anyone related to her. Good day to you both.”
Crugg stalked into the rear of the shop as his assistant gaped at them helplessly.
Susanna, though, was exhilarated. She had left Mr. Crugg in a completely angry, and wary, frame of mind, but he was hiding something, she was sure of it. She couldn’t wait to tell Mother.
If Benjamin was trailing somewhere behind her, she hardly noticed in her excitement to return to Morgan Undertaking. Dark clouds gathered overhead, but what Susanna noticed was how bright the world seemed all of a sudden.
Sam left that morning to pursue his banking interests, while Violet visited the undertakers on her own list, some of whom remembered her from her visits while she was investigating the death of Lord Raybourn a couple of months earlier. Most were wary of another visit so soon, but answered her inquisitive questions about bell coffins and Brookwood Cemetery readily and without appearing suspicious.
The Mourning Bells Page 4
