“I’m afraid not. But the ball is to be there tomorrow evening.”
“Yes, of course. You will see it then. You will be amazed to know that the palace is nearly twenty thousand square feet and was completed in just six months, in time for the celebrations. Naturally, it is populated with some of the finest statuary and relics to be found in Egypt.”
So the khedive would be able to top this evening and everything that had gone before tonight’s dinner.
“It is most impressive,” Violet murmured, also declining a waiter’s offer of absinthe.
“What is not impressive is that Pasha has spent nearly a million francs on these celebrations, on top of the nearly unimaginable amount spent on the canal itself. And that was with using slave labor—at least, until you British put an end to that. Your country’s bellowing over it, when you are so recently disengaged from true slavery yourselves, demonstrated that you did not understand the principle of it.”
“What do you mean?” Violet asked, uncomfortable on the topic. Slavery had been outlawed in Britain since 1833, the year she was born. Her experiences with workhouse inmates had been bad enough; she couldn’t comprehend outright slavery.
“Many nations have used corvée labor. It is not slavery; they are merely conscripted for a period of time to work on projects that benefit the nation as a whole. Eventually, the fellahin return to their homes and fields. They are not chained up in cellars for their lifetimes. I admit that one thing I cannot fault Pasha for is using a system that has been in place for thousands of years.”
Perhaps it was time to change the subject. “You are the director of antiquities, are you not, monsieur, and have provided the story for Aida to the khedive?”
Mariette flushed with self-admiration, nodding in acceptance of the recognition. “Yes to both of these, madame. My time in Egypt has been mostly worthwhile, and the khedive is not l’enfant terrible in all ways.”
“You are thus responsible for excavations in this country?”
He nodded proudly. “I have overseen dozens, and have published a little treatise about them that can be purchased at the book stalls here in Ismailia.” He then frowned. “At least, I intend to have more digs. You British are frightful with your tomb raiding and interferences. You must be watched like dogs around the kitchen.”
“I do hope, monsieur, that you do not blame me personally, and that we can be friends?” Violet asked.
“Non, madame, it is not you I blame for what is wrong with antiquity preservation in Egypt, but the khedive. He has an unfortunate tendency to take antiquities for himself that belong in the museum, having servants spiriting away treasures faster than I can lift them out of the ground. It is despotic and wrong, but I intend to resolve it. Very soon.”
Mariette’s tone was overtly menacing, and Violet involuntarily shivered at it. How did he intend to resolve his dispute?
The dinner progressed, with hours of dining, drinking, card playing, and impromptu speeches throughout the tents. Sam and Violet spent time in the Philosophers’ Tent, although their conversation was far too profound for her, and they also visited the Tent of Artists, where an impromptu painting competition had started. There was great laughter here, as the free-flowing liquor ensured that every brushstroke resulted in messy drips. The artists all heartily congratulated themselves on their fine work.
Shaking their heads, Violet and Sam returned to the Literary Corner tent. She was about to recommend to her husband that they consider retiring to their own quarters, as she was tired from the absinthe, the heavy cloud of smoke, and the din of voices that grew louder with each passing minute. She also wanted to contemplate some very interesting statements that had been made to her during the evening.
However, Sam wanted to spend more time with Mott, and she didn’t have the heart to press her desire to leave. Noticing that Eugénie’s maid was seated alone at a far end of the long table, Violet joined her. “Mademoiselle Lesage, are you enjoying yourself?”
Julie’s eyes were narrowed as she stared at the group of Americans that Sam had rejoined. “I suppose it could be said so,” she said indifferently, not looking in Violet’s direction.
Violet tried again with tactful flattery. “Your mistress is certainly the most celebrated of the sovereigns here.”
Julie’s attention was finally torn from the soldiers and focused on Violet. “And why should she not be? She is the empress of France, a princess of Spain, and a renowned beauty besides. It is only proper that she be made preeminent. This is as much a French celebration as an Egyptian celebration.”
They were interrupted by the Austrian emperor’s chamberlain, Karl Dorn, who came up behind Julie and across from Violet. “Pardon me, Frau Harper and Fräulein Lesage, you will permit me to sit?”
Julie shrugged and motioned at the empty seat next to her, her attention fixated back upon the soldiers.
“Herr Dorn,” Violet began, “how do you find—”
Dorn swayed unsteadily as he grabbed the back of his velvet chair, then slumped down into it. Was this lurching fellow the same man as the precise, clipped manservant of yesterday evening?
“How do you find the festivities?” she concluded cautiously.
“What?” Dorn said, stumbling over the simple word. He appeared disoriented, and the man’s complexion was ashy as he stared at Violet, no longer seeming to recognize her. His pupils were pinpoints, and his hands, which were now placed upon the table as if to continue to steady him, began to spasm.
“Herr Dorn,” Violet cried in alarm, truly anxious about the man. “Is something wrong? How can I help you?”
In response, Dorn crashed down face-first onto the table, eliciting a nervous titter from Julie. “Too much absinthe, I think,” she said airily. “It is surprising that most men in here have retained their faculties.”
Violet jumped up, grabbed her skirts, and ran around the corner of the table to the other side where Dorn was. She knelt down and put a hand to the man’s shoulder, shaking him gently. “Herr Dorn? Can you hear me?”
“Hmmm?” he slurred, barely opening his eyes. He was no longer spasming but had become oddly still. Dear Lord, what was happening to the man? Violet wondered fleetingly if there was a Tent of Medicine. From the other side of the incapacitated Dorn came Julie’s indifferent voice. “Has he gone to sleep?”
“Hardly,” Violet said. “Help me lift him to an upright position so I can look at him.” She had no idea what she thought she would discover. She was an undertaker and dealt only in corpses, not a physician who cared for the sickly.
With difficulty, she and Julie maneuvered the heavy Karl Dorn so that he was vertical in the chair. As his head slumped strangely to one side, Violet let out a gasp, realizing with a start that, indeed, she was once again dealing with a corpse.
Chapter 17
“Why won’t he wake up?” Julie asked as she patted Dorn on the hands and face to rouse him.
“Julie,” Violet said in a low tone, “go and ask my husband and his friends to come assist me. Quickly.”
But Julie bristled, drawing herself up indignantly to her full height. “I am lady’s maid to the Empress Eugénie. You cannot order me about as if I am—”
Violet had had enough of her arrogance. “Do it now, you brainless little nitwit, or I shall grab you by the ear, drag you to the canal, and joyfully drown you. Go!”
Julie opened and closed her mouth several times, pop-eyed like a goldfish, then turned and flounced off. Sam and Thaddeus Mott were at her side in moments, but Julie did not return. Out of the corner of her eye, Violet thought she saw Julie talking with one of Mott’s men. In fact, it appeared to be Caleb Purdy, whom Mott had dressed down during the demonstration earlier. Was she actually over there flirting?
Thank heavens Violet’s own daughter, an undertaker in her own right, wasn’t as silly and self-absorbed as this ninny of a girl.
“What has happened?” Sam asked.
Keeping her voice low, she said to both men, �
��Herr Dorn here is dead, I am afraid.”
“What?” Mott exclaimed, surprise flashing across his face.
“Shh,” Violet instructed forcefully, forgetting that she was talking to a US lieutenant colonel. “I’m not sure what happened to him. Perhaps he had some sort of medical condition,” Violet said, not really believing that to be a real possibility.
As if he had been coached by Julie, Mott said, “He probably couldn’t tolerate the absinthe.” At least his voice was lower.
“Perhaps,” she replied, not really thinking that possible, either. Dorn seemed no more likely to allow himself to get carried away by absinthe than his master was to permit his dignity to be impugned. His symptoms were also not those of someone who had overimbibed alcohol. It was more as if he had been—dare she say it?—poisoned.
She didn’t dare utter it aloud. Not yet.
“Gentlemen, can you help me get him out of here? Pretend he is insensible from drink so that no one bothers us.” Violet glanced around as casually as possible under the circumstances. Good, thus far no one was paying any attention to them.
“I know where we can take him,” Mott said, giving a low whistle, which no one but Ross Keating and one other man seemed to hear. With no questions asked, they instantly obeyed Mott’s instruction to move Dorn. Four men carried him to a corner of the tent, while Keating figured out how to detach that section of the fabric wall so that they could all slip out with the body.
Outside the confines of the smoking, music, and laughter, it was as though they were in a different world. The noise receded into the background, leaving only the men’s heavy breathing as they struggled with their unfortunate load and the guttural braying of camels somewhere in the distance.
Mott led them to a small outlying tent. Keating had managed to find a lantern along the way, illuminating an interior containing open chests overflowing with costumes and props, undoubtedly for future entertainments. By the look of it, there would be jugglers and acrobats later.
The men put Dorn down in the center of the tent, and Violet examined him as best she could. His waxy skin, his constricted pupils, his slurring, the spasms . . . what in the world did they mean?
“Do you think it was an excess of drink?” Mott asked. “I don’t think he has any marks to suggest foul play with weaponry, which is good. It means he was not in any fights with locals.”
Violet knelt next to the dead man’s now gaping mouth and sniffed. The men in the room recoiled as she did it, and she rolled her eyes at these battle-hardened soldiers becoming squeamish at her actions. She didn’t notice anything unusual other than a faint, vaguely flowerlike odor, which suggested he might have had some hibiscus tea earlier. He definitely had not had any spirits, and most certainly had not been drinking absinthe just prior to his death. She began a minimal disrobing of his jacket and shirt.
“Mebbe he killed himself,” offered one of Mott’s men. “Wouldn’t be the first soldier to do it.”
Violet frowned. “Why do you say he’s a soldier, sir?”
The man shrugged. “I’m Sergeant Owen Morris, ma’am.” He eyed the dead man. “And you can just tell.”
Sam put a hand to her shoulder. “I agree with Owen. The man had an air of soldiering around him. And look there, along his rib cage. I’d say that looks jagged and misshapen enough to be battle related. In fact, it looks as though he endured something quite painful.”
Sergeant Morris and Colonel Mott nodded in agreement.
Was that possible? That Karl Dorn had seen the horrors of war and attempted to do away with himself? He had seemed so very controlled, though. It was difficult to believe that the man she had met was someone intent on killing himself in short order. It was even more difficult to think that he would do so in this public place.
“He may have done so,” she said slowly, rising up with Sam’s assistance. “But he didn’t do it with liquor, and I haven’t any idea how he might have done so. I believe he may have been pois—”
The flaps of the tent were rudely yanked apart, and General Ignatiev of the Russian delegation entered, bearing his own lantern. He held it up and surveyed the occupants of the tent. Espying Dorn on the ground, the general grunted. There was no shock in the grunt, just an odd sort of acceptance. “Sorry for disturbance,” he mumbled. “I saw you carrying man out, and I think I will see what has happened. This man is dead,” he concluded.
As it was impossible to hide that fact, Violet said, “Yes, he has met with some sort of accident.”
“Yes, some sort of accident.” Ignatiev stroked his mustache while contemplating the body. “What will happen with dead man?”
“Herr Dorn will need to be properly attended to,” Violet said, wondering how to forestall the body being removed in a moment of distraction. “I must inform the emperor.”
“Good for him to know,” the general said simply, and lumbered out of the tent.
Now Violet’s curiosity was thoroughly piqued. Turning to Mott, she asked him to watch over Dorn’s body while she slipped out of the tent to follow the Russian, who appeared to be headed in the direction of the main tent entrance. Sam was right on her heels, and she was just about to suggest that they run after Ignatiev to talk to him before he reached the sovereigns’ dining area when her husband stopped her. Pointing to the exit that Mott’s man had made in the tent, Sam showed Violet that Julie Lesage was making her way out, stumbling in her skirts through the rough opening. However, she finally freed herself and dashed across the grounds, directly toward Ignatiev.
Violet and Sam watched as the maid spoke in urgent undertones to the hefty general. It was difficult to see exactly what was going on in the intermittently flaring torchlight, but it seemed as if she was relaying information. Or perhaps a message.
Ignatiev finally nodded and followed Julie back inside the Literary Corner tent.
Why was the behavior of every single person on this journey so puzzling? How did Julie even know Ignatiev? Regardless, Violet sensed that it was imperative that she reach the emperor quickly to inform him of his manservant’s unexpected death.
“Will you stay with Herr Dorn’s body to make sure no one removes him?” she asked Sam.
“Yes, but return quickly. If you aren’t back in fifteen minutes, I shall send the troops to find you.” Sam kissed her forehead. “I can make that happen literally, you know.”
Violet smiled gratefully and dashed around to the main tent. The glow, the music, and raucous laughter told her that the party was still proceeding with abandon. The servant guarding the entry recognized her and let her pass.
In her determination to immediately find Franz-Josef and pull him aside, Violet paid little attention to her surroundings and nearly ran straight into Gautier, who put out both hands to stop her. “Why the rush, Madame Harper? Did you also hear that they had turned on the wine fountain spigots in here?”
Violet apologized for coming so close to colliding with him. “I must talk to the emperor.”
Gautier chuckled. “The emperor? Which one? There are many to choose from here this evening.”
“Franz-Josef. I must tell him something important.” Violet looked past Gautier, searching for the emperor. Ah, he was brightly illuminated to her left, where he had managed to leave his assigned seat and find his way next to Eugénie, who was laughing at whatever he was saying as he bent his head closely to hers.
Gautier looked at her knowingly. “Act two, scene two. The undertaker enters the room with sensational news. The world is shaken by it. International cable messages are sent with dizzying speed, and the earth rumbles and quakes.”
Violet hoped that he merely was being absurdly dramatic, and that he didn’t actually know why she was here.
“Your Imperial Highness,” Violet said, dropping into a curtsy behind the chairs of Franz-Josef and Eugénie. They both turned, clearly irritated at the intrusion.
“Ja?” he asked. The aggravation was not only in his eyes but also in his voice.<
br />
“Your Highness, I am sorry to intrude, but I must speak to you privately. It is a matter of great urgency.”
“How urgent can it be that I must be interrupted from my international fellowship by a lowly member of the British delegation, which has been most uncooperative?”
“Please,” Violet said, attempting to guide him outside.
With a huff of impatience, he made to follow Violet, but took two large steps to ensure that he was physically in front of her. He led her down the red carpet a distance away from the tent, practically marching instead of strolling.
He stopped abruptly and turned to face Violet, lightly clicking his heels together. “And now, Frau Harper, vhat is it you have to tell me?”
In a rush, Violet explained what had happened to his servant. Franz-Josef remained utterly impassive at the news. He did not gasp. He did not put a hand to his chest. He did not say, “Impossible!” Violet might as well have told him that a stray cat had disappeared from Schönbrunn Palace’s gardens for all of his lack of emotion.
“Would you like to see him before I tell Monsieur de Lesseps, Your Highness?” Violet asked gently.
Franz-Josef stood ramrod straight. “Ja, I suppose de Lesseps must know. You vill tell him now?”
“I can wait until you have visited Herr Dorn. My husband and his friends are standing guard with his body.”
Still no reaction from the emperor. He simply stood there for several moments, during which a horn blew and an announcement was given that fireworks were to commence shortly. Almost immediately the occupants of the main tent began tumbling out, joking and singing with wineglasses in their hands, with servants stumbling behind them to keep up with carafes and lanterns.
Eugénie came out on the arm of Crown Prince Frederick. Franz-Josef’s eyes narrowed. “Nein, I vill not go. You vill tell de Lesseps and take care of the matter.” With that, he strode off to join Eugénie and Frederick.
A Grave Celebration Page 19
