Stolen Remains (11 page)

Tears rolled down the woman’s face. “Please,” she whispered again, her voice cracking as she took Violet’s hand and squeezed it.

“Very well. I suppose Inspector Hurst cannot object to it, although it’s better if we don’t tell him. I have to return tomorrow morning to put a lock on the coffin. I’ll think of a way to get the family out of the room, then I’ll unshroud him for you. Your visit with him must be very quick, do you understand? I’ll inform the new Lord and Lady Raybourn about it, but I don’t want the family to see us opening the coffin. You must realize that it’s very irregular for me to do this.”

In an overwrought show of emotion, Mrs. Peet kissed Violet’s hand. “I am forever in your debt.”

Violet didn’t want anyone in her debt; she just wanted to wrap up this burial and go home.

Before heading back to her temporary home, though, Violet went to Oxford Street in search of the C. Laurent Fashion Doll Shop. It was still in its same location as when she last visited eight years ago, although the front had expanded into the shop next door. The doll business must be booming. Of course, the queen had been a renowned doll collector in her youth, so it was no surprise that public demand for them had grown over the years.

She was pleased to see several dollhouses in one of the shop’s windows, each filled with sofas, tables, paintings, lamps, carpets, and other miniature items. The strap of bells on the door jangled as she entered. Standing behind the counter was the regal, elderly woman she remembered waiting on her back then, except there was a teenage girl with her.

“May I help you?” the girl said, as the older woman nodded approvingly.

“Good afternoon. My name is Violet Harper.”

The young girl smiled, but it was the older woman who spoke. “I’m Elizabeth Greycliffe Peters, and this is my granddaughter, Lizzy, named for me, I’m proud to say.”

“You have a fine business here. I have one of my own that I run with my daughter.”

“Oh? What is that?”

“I’m an undertaker.”

Mrs. Peters blinked several times, but she didn’t let down her professional demeanor for a moment. “I see. How can we help you?”

“I purchased a dollhouse from you some years ago, the Barclay House.”

“Yes, the Barclay House was a very popular model, but we stopped carrying it last year. We still have many pieces that go well inside its Regency interior.”

“Actually, I’m looking for something else this time. My daughter lives in the United States, and I think she may be getting married soon. She and I spend many hours playing with her dollhouse, and it may be overly sentimental, but I’d like to purchase bride and groom dolls to send to her.”

“Ah, but I adore sentimentality. My parents fell in love during the French Revolution and theirs was a wildly sentimental tale. What a wonderful idea yours is. I shall have to place an advertisement recommending such a course of action for all of my customers attending weddings. Remember that we need to do this, Lizzy.” Mrs. Peters patted her granddaughter’s shoulder and turned back to Violet.

“She’ll take over the shop one day from my daughter, and will be the fourth generation to do so. It’s good to train them early, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Mrs. Peters. My daughter, Susanna, joined in my business at a very young age, and now she is running it by herself out in the Colorado Territory.”

“Grandmamma,” Lizzy said. “The prince and princess dolls . . .”

“Excellent idea, child. Mrs. Harper, we still have one set of the bride and groom dolls we made to commemorate the marriage of the Prince and Princess of Wales. Lizzy, fetch them from the storage room for Grandmamma.”

The girl returned a few minutes later with two dolls nestled on purple velvet in a wooden box. They were large, two-foot-high replicas of the royal couple, exquisite in detail down to the princess’s heavily lace-and-flower-embellished dress and long, layered, matching veil.

Violet was instantly transported back to the days of playing dollhouse families with Susanna in their London home’s drawing room.

Had she just sighed aloud at the memory?

“I’ll take them.”

After her purchase, Violet took the doll box back to St. James’s Palace and set the dolls on a chair in the middle of the room, so she could see them from almost any vantage point. They were a perfect reminder of her daughter . . . and of home.

T
he next morning, Violet was awakened by a distant scratching. What was that irritating noise at her door? She opened one eye. It was still dark out and already mid-May, so it couldn’t even be six o’clock in the morning yet.

She dragged herself up, threw on a wrapper, and opened the door a crack. A footman stood there, his hand raised as if to scratch at the door again. He blushed at seeing Violet in her nightclothes and turned his back to her.

“Two men from Scotland Yard are here to see you, Mrs. Harper.”

What in the world . . . ?

“I’ll be there shortly.” She shut the door and hurriedly put herself together before heading into the corridor and through several hallways to the staircase leading to the front entry where Detectives Hurst and Pratt waited.

“Have you no other garb but deathly black, Mrs. Harper?” Mr. Hurst asked.

“I am an undertaker, sir.” She touched the brim of her hat for emphasis.

“How could I forget? I suppose you’re dressed appropriately for today. You’ll need that bag of yours, though.”

“Why?”

Hurst raised an eyebrow. “Why do you imagine? We’ve had another death at the Raybourn home. We’ll never get on with our other investigations now. Hurry, woman.”

Violet ran back up to her rooms and opened her undertaking bag, removing the bottles of Lord Raybourn’s blood and shoving them into the far reaches of the room’s armoire. Hopefully, no maid would open the doors and be startled out of her wits upon finding them.

“We must make a stop along the way,” she told Hurst.

“I have no need to run women’s errands. This is police business.”

“As is my errand, sir. I need to pick up a lock for His Lordship’s coffin.”

“For what reason?”

“Just in case.”

Hurst grunted in irritation, but followed Violet’s directions to Morgan Undertaking. Fortunately, she could already see Will moving around inside the shop, despite the early hour.

“Mrs. Harper, yet another surprise,” Will said, looking curiously out the window at Hurst, who stood next to the carriage looking for all the world as though he’d like to murder someone himself.

“I’m glad you’re up with the roosters, Will. Do you have the locking set and silver plate yet?”

“Yes, they’re right here.” Will retrieved a cotton bag from behind the counter, and pulled out a tissue-wrapped item. “This is the plate for Lord Raybourn’s coffin.”

It was just as Violet had requested it. Broken columns etched on either side, with the prescribed wording between them.

Will handed her the bag. “The lock set and brass nails for the plate are in here. Is something wrong? I was still planning to come along sometime today to affix the lock to the coffin.”

“No, nothing’s wrong. It’s just more a timing issue of attaching the lock. I’d like to do so first thing this morning, so I think I’ll just take it and the plate with me now. Have you some tools I can borrow?”

“I don’t mind doing the work, Mrs. Harper.”

Violet smiled. “It’s quite all right. Have a long supper with your bride this afternoon.”

Will’s downcast expression as he handed over a hammer and screwdriver suggested he’d rather be securing a coffin’s lock than securing his wife’s affection.

Throwing in the lock set and inscription plate, she snapped the valise closed again, and went back to join the detectives. At the door, she turned back. “Will, do you still have my old sample cases? I could also use a couple of collection bottles.” She would eventually need to deliver the bottles of Lord Raybourn’s blood to Morgan Undertaking for disposal.

“Of course.” He went behind the shop’s antique counter, and from shelves behind it pulled out some glass-covered trays filled with selections of jet necklaces, rings, bracelets, and ear bobs—which Lord Raybourn’s daughters would be able to wear once two months had elapsed—plus black lace fans, hair brooches, and other mourning accoutrements. He disappeared briefly into another room and returned with two thick bottles.

With the trays in hand and the bottles stowed in her bag, she went back to the carriage. She and the detectives rode silently to Park Street, Hurst refusing to say anything more about what had happened at Raybourn House.

Upon their arrival, all was chaos. Katherine was folded in Stephen’s arms, crying in the entrance hall. The Bishops were arguing between themselves in front of the coffin inside the parlor. Dorothy sat stony-faced, watching her younger sister and Gordon quarrel.

Everyone was still in nightclothes except for the young stranger sitting near Dorothy. Violet recognized him from his photograph. This was Nelly’s son, Tobias.

Hurst clearly recognized him, too, for he whispered, “I told you we would eventually see him here. Must admit, I didn’t expect the mother to get so worked up as to fetch him right away.”

Tobias drummed the fingers of his left hand on the arm of his chair. Seeing him in person, Violet realized that it wasn’t an expression of condescension the young man wore, it was more like . . . irritation. As though he found his parents insufferable.

Stephen looked up from where he was comforting his wife. “Detectives, Violet, good of you to come so quickly. Please excuse our appearance. Everything has just gone so wrong. This way, please.”

Violet set her trays down on a table in the hallway, while Mr. Pratt laid her undertaking bag on the floor beneath the table, then she and the detectives went down the servants’ staircase to which Stephen pointed. Violet gasped at what awaited them.

Mrs. Peet, her face red and bloated, dangled from a rope attached to an exposed water pipe running across the ceiling. She wore the same dress and apron she’d had on yesterday. Her once-arresting eyes were dull and faded, staring blankly.

“What happened?” Violet said.

“Yes, someone explain what happened to this poor woman,” Hurst said, as Stephen, Gordon, and Tobias came down the stairs and into the kitchen.

Stephen spoke for the group. “We don’t know. Dorothy says she woke during the night and wanted some tea and a little snack, so she rang and rang for Mrs. Peet, who never showed. Eventually, Dorothy came downstairs, figuring to chastise the housekeeper, but found her . . . as such. We’ve all been in such shock, as you might imagine.”

“Where do you want her?” Hurst asked Violet.

“Here on the worktable,” she replied. It was the same table where she’d met with an overcome Mrs. Peet just hours ago.

Stephen found a ladder in the larder, and the men worked together to cut the poor woman down. The rope around her neck was thick and required a great deal of cutting to free it from the pipe. With Hurst on the ladder sawing through the rope with a knife, Pratt, Stephen, and Gordon held on to the woman’s body to capture her once she was freed. Once Mrs. Peet was down, they carried her to the kitchen worktable and laid her unceremoniously on it, with Hurst commenting insensitively that this was becoming a second profession for him. Only Tobias refrained from assisting, instead standing back to watch the proceedings, his lips moving but no sound coming out.

“First the old man, now this. What is happening to our family?” Gordon said, pulling out his cigarette case from his jacket. “Anyone care for one of these?”

“Mr. Bishop, please. There will be no smoking here while I work on Mrs. Peet,” Violet said.

“Oh, right you are.” He put the case back. “Although I doubt she’d notice.”

“Might I have a word upstairs?” Mr. Pratt asked Gordon. “I was wondering if you might be able to show me something among His Lordship’s belongings.”

The two men went back up the staircase, leaving Violet, Hurst, Stephen, and Tobias behind.

“I can’t understand why Mrs. Peet would do this to herself,” Stephen said. “She had a good home with the family. I know she was overcome by Father’s loss, as we all are, but I can’t imagine it would have caused her to do
this
.” He glanced at her body and grimaced. “I had no idea she was so devoted to my father.”

Hurst nodded thoughtfully. “Did you know any of Mrs. Peet’s friends? Did she have any questionable associations? Were you aware of anyone new she may have met?”

Stephen shook his head. “She was our housekeeper. I have no idea how she spent her free time or whom she met.”

“Right. Well, neither of you need remain down here,” Hurst said. “A terrible tragedy for the family to have to witness. Scotland Yard extends its condolences.”

“Thank you, Detective,” Stephen said. “Toby, come.”

Tobias Bishop obediently followed his uncle up the stairs, leaving just Hurst and Violet with Mrs. Peet’s body.

“So, Lady Undertaker, what do you think happened here? Unfortunate suicide or do we have an unrestrained killer on the loose, intent on persecuting this house?” He smiled as he leaned against the wall and crossed his arms, as though testing her intelligence.

“Mrs. Peet wouldn’t have done this to herself.”

“How do you come to that conclusion?”

“Because I promised yesterday that I would open the coffin this morning for her to say a final, private good-bye to her employer.”

Hurst shot up, erect. “Why would you do that?”

“She helped me carry lilies upstairs, and afterward spoke with me at this very table about her affection for Lord Raybourn. She begged me to let her clip a lock of hair.”

“And you agreed to this?”

“She was quite melancholic about it.”

Hurst rolled his eyes. “A woman’s sensibilities. So we have an agitated housekeeper. Not the first one I’ve seen. You can hardly blame her—the master of the house had just died. I doubt it’s of any significance. However, I must chastise you, Mrs. Harper. You planned to let this miserable woman view her employer’s disintegrated face for one last moment of reverence? If she hadn’t killed herself beforehand, she might have done so afterward.”

“You mischaracterize what happened, sir.”

“I know that you promised to do something dubious for the Fairmont family housekeeper.”

“Well, Mr. Hurst, since you find my actions so questionable, I must suppose you are not interested in what I found out about the other servants.”

“Which servants?”

“Madame Brusse and Mr. Larkin, the elder Lord Raybourn’s cook and valet, whom he brought with him from Sussex to London. Stephen said he reported to you that they were missing, and that you questioned him at length about it.”

“You have no business conducting your own interviews, but what of it? How do two servants benefit from the death of their employer?”

“You are the detective, sir, so I am sure you realize that Lord Raybourn’s
French
cook was taken along to maintain the quality of Lord Raybourn’s table, so it would be understandable if she stopped in France on the return to visit relatives, but why did His Lordship return without his valet, a critical member of a lord’s household?”

“Mrs. Peet told you this? That the cook was French?”

“Yes.”

“Was there a relationship between the cook and the valet?”

“She didn’t say.”

“For what possible reason would you have withheld this information from me?”

“I hardly did so intentionally. You may recall that you roused me from slumber not two hours ago, and insisted on quiet during the ride over here.”

“Well . . . perhaps I was a bit forceful earlier.”

“I am not your enemy, Mr. Hurst. Doesn’t it seem as though we need to discover what happened to these two servants? Either they may have had something to do with Lord Raybourn’s death, or are in great peril, or may have met with their own unfortunate ends.”

Hurst nodded gravely. “It pains me to admit that I was wrong to overlook that bit about the cook and valet, although I can’t see how two servants would benefit from the death of their master. If anything, they would be anxious to keep him from pulling the trigger on himself. Mr. Pratt and I will look into it right away. I guess we’ll have to interview the neighbors and their servants. God, here comes the press. I was hoping to avoid having Scotland Yard excoriated in
The Times.
” Hurst started for the stairs.

“And I shall take care of Mrs. Peet. Mr. Hurst. . . .” Violet said.

He turned as he reached the bottom step.

“There’s one more thing. There was a noise at the top of the stairs as Mrs. Peet and I spoke. She seemed very frightened of being overheard. I don’t know if that might be important.”

He sighed. “Try not to hold back anything else from me, Mrs. Harper. And kindly don’t leave the premises once you’re done with Mrs. Peet. I’ll see to the coroner. If he thought Lord Raybourn’s death was a suicide, he won’t put any extra effort into a housekeeper’s death.”

Once she was alone with Mrs. Peet, Violet took a deep breath and patted the woman’s face. “Oh dear, what happened? I don’t believe for one moment that you did this to yourself.”

Violet took a pair of snips from her bag and went after the individual fibers of the rope’s coil, slowly digging and clipping her way through until she finally broke through and removed the thick cord from around the woman’s neck.

“Much better.” She tossed the rope to the floor and kicked it out of sight beneath the table.

“I’m sorry you didn’t get to say good-bye to Lord Raybourn, but hopefully you are with him now.” Violet felt the woman’s limbs. Rigor mortis was setting in quickly. She patted Mrs. Peet’s shoulder.

“I’m going to find something clean and cheerful in your room for you to wear. I’ll be back later, once this stiffening has passed, to dress you, arrange your hair, and perhaps we can do something about your coloring.”

Mrs. Peet’s face was scarlet from the pooling of blood caused by the cessation of air and blood flow through her head. There was no cosmetic massage color dark enough to mask the resulting flush and swelling to the housekeeper’s face.

Violet took the servants’ staircase all the way to the fourth floor, containing the staff living spaces. She found Mrs. Peet’s room, made obvious by being the largest of the servants’ quarters. Two dresses hung on hooks, one an alternate uniform and the other what must be her only day dress. Violet examined the dress, which had a light brown checkered pattern. Perfectly acceptable. She removed the bodice and skirt from the hook and went to Mrs. Peet’s small chest of drawers to retrieve undergarments. As she was ready to gather everything up to take to the basement, she noticed a large trunk in the corner. It was brand new, wrapped in fine red Moroccan leather and missing none of its gleaming brass studs.