Stolen Remains (19 page)

E
xhausted and without a single genuine hint as to what may have happened to Lord Raybourn’s body, Violet returned to Raybourn House to report on her futile search. The entire family, including Toby, gathered in the drawing room to hear what little she had to say. She’d hardly opened her mouth to speak when there was a loud banging at the door, followed by Hurst, Pratt, and another police officer barging in. They quickly stomped up the stairs, the officer dangling handcuffs from his hand. Hurst planted himself firmly with both legs spread apart and hands balled on his hips, like a Roman centurion about to announce the taking of barbarian lands.

“Gordon Cyril Bishop, you are under arrest for the murder of Anthony Fairmont, the Viscount Raybourn. You will be remanded into custody and held to answer criminal charges against you. . . .” Violet was too shocked to hear the rest of what he said.

Mr. Bishop rose, pale and speechless. A cigarette dropped from his lips, scattering ash down his front before landing on the carpet. Nelly bent down and picked up her husband’s stub, depositing it in an ashtray as the officer attempted to put the manacles on Gordon’s wrists.

“Is that really necessary?” she asked. “You don’t know what you’re doing, anyway. Gordon is as harmless as a ladybird beetle.”

“Procedure, Mrs. Bishop,” Hurst said.

“Just a moment here.” Gordon laughed nervously. “What is all of this? On what grounds do you presume to arrest me?”

“We have been investigating Lord Raybourn’s activities in Egypt. It seems he was regularly sending telegrams to you, sir.”

“What of it? I’m his son-in-law.”

“It was the nature of these telegrams, some of which we’ve copied down.” Hurst waved a hand to Pratt, who read from his notebook.

“ ‘Find some Tigers and Diadems. They are worth whatever price I must pay.’ And here is another: ‘Shipment received. Several pieces missing. What happened?’ Most interesting is this one: ‘Must discuss poor shipments upon your return. Insist that money be returned.’ ”

Gordon’s face was pale. “Inspector, this is not what it appears. I’ve been expanding my butterfly collection, and my father-in-law and I were merely discussing an investment into some unusual samples from Egypt. Few knew it, but there are more than fifty varieties in that country, although I’m most interested in obtaining a Baton Blue. It’s the world’s smallest, you know.” Gordon held up his cuffed wrists to display his thumb. “Smaller than my nail. Lives exclusively in a special thyme plant that grows around Mount Sinai. Difficult to find and capture, as you might imagine, and you have to pay old Bedouin women to venture up into their habitats. That’s what our correspondence was about.”

“Butterflies! What man collects insects?” Hurst said.

“I can show you my collection. Nells, would you retrieve one of my mounting boards?”

Nelly started to go upstairs, but Hurst stopped her. “I don’t care whether you are collecting butterflies, spiders, or cockroaches, Mr. Bishop. It’s no answer to the communications we have between you and Lord Raybourn. Your defense was a cleverly invented answer, I’ll give you that.”

“This is madness,” Nelly said. “Gordon has never so much as stepped on a cat’s tail. Besides, he loved my father. More than I did.”

Gordon smiled, despite being bound and surrounded by Hurst, Pratt, and the police officer. “That’s right good of you, Nell.”

“Mr. Pratt,” Hurst said. “If you would be so kind as to show Mr. Bishop what else we have.”

Pratt produced a small package from his jacket and unwrapped it. Inside the paper were two cigarette stubs. Holding the paper flat in his hand, Pratt showed the group the stubs. “This one is the one we found next to Lord Raybourn’s body. This other one is what Mr. Bishop was smoking the other day.”

“Two crushed cigarettes and you’ve declared my husband guilty of killing my father?” Nelly said.

“That’s not all, Mrs. Bishop,” Pratt said. “I visited Fribourg and Treyer, tobacconists who have served the royal family, and your father, for many years. It is their label you can see right here.” He pointed to a small, decorative band of blue around the stub. “This is one of their exclusive ones, made of pure Turkish tobacco uncut with anything else, produced only for Lord Raybourn.”

“So my father gave my husband a cigarette. I still don’t understand what the fuss is about.”

“Lord Raybourn’s tobacco box is special. Not only does it have a lock on it, but each cigarette lies in its own wooden depression. Therefore, once we broke into it, we could easily see that there were just two cigarettes missing. We found one next to his body. The second one was smoked by Mr. Bishop.”

“Again, so my father gave my husband a cigarette. What of it?”

“You are failing to follow, Mrs. Bishop. Lord Raybourn was home only briefly—mere hours—before he was killed. In the interim, he went to his tobacco box, and retrieved a cigarette for himself and Mr. Bishop. Can we not therefore deduce that Mr. Bishop was the last person to see him alive? And if he was the last to see him alive, he most surely knows something about the man’s death.”

Nelly was speechless, as was the rest of the family. Gordon licked his lips but was silent.

Inspector Hurst pointed to the new stub Nelly had put in the ashtray. “I believe that’s an identical blue marking band.”

Nelly picked it up. “Yes, so?”

“If I go up to Lord Raybourn’s study, will I find a third cigarette missing?”

“Maybe, but it doesn’t signify anything.”

“Except that your husband was more than likely the only other person in the household who knew of Lord Raybourn’s hiding place for his box. Weren’t you the least bit curious to find the lock broken, Mr. Bishop?”

“I . . . I . . .”

Stephen said, “Inspector, it’s impossible that my brother-in-law could have done this. As Nelly said, he’s the most gentle of creatures.”

“Even the nicest of dogs will wrap its jaw around your wrist if cornered or threatened. I can hardly use such descriptives in determining whether to arrest someone, can I?”

Violet ventured in. “Inspector Hurst, isn’t this a bit premature? After all, we don’t—”

The detective held up a hand. “Thank you for your considered opinion, Mrs. Harper, but kindly leave the detection to those at Scotland Yard who make a profession of investigating such matters.”

The detective’s audacity was beyond comprehension. A few days ago he didn’t even think Lord Raybourn had been murdered. Now he was strutting about in the Fairmont drawing room, making an arrest.

“It isn’t my intention to interfere with your investi—”

“Then please do not. Thank you very much.” Hurst waved at Pratt and the police officer, who escorted Gordon out.

It was just then that Hurst noticed the empty bier in the drawing room. “What have you done with Lord Raybourn?”

“He was—” Violet began, but Stephen interrupted her.

“We moved him down to the kitchen. It was too much for the family, what with not knowing how long he would be forced to remain here.”

Hurst frowned. “But you’ve left everything except the coffin up here.”

Stephen struggled with an answer.

“It’s my fault,” Violet said. “I sent my men over to move the coffin and didn’t give them specific instruction to send everything downstairs. I stopped by to take care of it myself.”

“Right, then.” Hurst followed the other men out of the house. Violet marched after him.

“Inspector,” she called. Hurst turned back, annoyance emblazoned on his face, but she plowed on anyway. “It seems to me that your arrest is based on the flimsiest of evidence. You cannot possibly think he can be found guilty of murder because he may have shared a cigarette with Lord Raybourn.”

“You have much to learn about detection, Mrs. Harper. Let’s say that Mr. Bishop did not murder Lord Raybourn. Someone the viscount knew did do it, and I’m fairly certain Mr. Bishop knows something. A few days without his special cigarettes, glasses of brandy, and fine clothes should sharpen his memory a bit and make him cooperative. Butterfly hunting, indeed.”

“So you have changed your mind about Lord Raybourn’s death being self-inflicted.”

“I am not a man who cannot change his mind. And now I will use all of my powers for justice.”

Violet shook her head. “Your methods are heartless. I would never do such a thing to Mr. Bishop.”

“Which is why I am the detective and you are the undertaker.”

Violet watched helplessly as Gordon Bishop, still handcuffed, was jostled and pushed into an open wagon with “Metropolitan Police” painted on the side.

Poor Mr. Bishop. How humiliating this was for him, to be unceremoniously shoved into a police wagon in front of all of his Mayfair neighbors.

The papers would be in a feeding frenzy now.

Violet returned to Raybourn House, where she found Nelly collapsed into a chair, with Katherine fluttering over her. Dorothy was rigid and unblinking, as if completely unaware of what went on around her, while Toby had apparently fled upstairs.

“As I said before, Violet, the authorities are worse than useless,” Stephen said, taking her by the elbow and leading her to a corner of the adjoining dining room. “Don’t worry about Gordon. I’ll contact the family solicitor straightaway to see about things. You were about to tell us what you’d found out from the other undertakers.”

“Unfortunately, nothing of any value. I went around London, meeting with the city’s undertakers, to see if they knew anything or were even possibly involved. I even saw Mr. Crugg—”

“What?” Stephen’s frown made Violet question the wisdom of having gone to Mr. Crugg’s shop.

“—but I am of the mind that he isn’t guilty.”

“You suspected him of stealing the coffin out of our home?”

“He was very angry when I . . . when the queen dispensed with his services.”

“Yes, but to suggest that the man who has been burying Fairmonts for more than thirty years would reduce himself to such common criminality, well, really, Violet.”

“I’m not an actual detective, Stephen. I am merely taking the steps I think most logical.”

“Yes, of course, you’re right. I apologize. So what is your next course of action?”

Violet debated whether to voice her next suspicion. Surely it couldn’t be true. But she had no other idea at the moment. “I am wondering if perhaps . . .”

“Yes?”

“If perhaps he was taken by a resurrectionist man.”

“Violet! That’s even more fanciful than the idea that Mr. Crugg took him.”

“Isn’t it possible, though? Doctors and medical schools constantly need fresh cadavers for dissection. The newspapers just published their piece on your father and Mrs. Peet. For all we know, they wanted both bodies but were only able to get your father.”

“But my sister said they only asked about Lord Raybourn.” Right. Maybe Inspector Hurst was right about her. Violet was not proving to be an apt detective thus far.

Think, Violet, think.

She stewed over the situation over a meal of baked carp back at her rooms. What line of reasoning should she pursue next? Whom should she talk to? Who would even talk to Violet Harper, a lady undertaker?

She pushed the food tray aside and got out her notes again. She scanned them once more, unsurprised that they still didn’t reveal anything, then made a list of every thought she’d had about the Raybourn situation.

After all, Mr. Pratt constantly made notes and presumably he and Mr. Hurst solved many crimes. They weren’t going to be very happy that Violet was Stephen’s new “detective,” especially now that Hurst had seemingly concluded the case. She could imagine the inspector swelling up like one of the wild turkeys she’d seen in America, and verbally pecking her to death over it.

The more she wrote down, the more questions she had. When she finally had the list complete, Violet drew a fresh sheet of paper to her and made a secondary listing of what actions she could take based on those questions. Reviewing this second list of activities, she selected her first task for the next day: to interview Rebecca, the maid at Lady Cowgil’s residence next door.

By the time she was done, the back of her head was throbbing. She took a Beecham’s powder and lay down with Mr. Barnum’s book to help her sleep, but it was of no use. She put the book down and turned to prayers to calm her mind. Tomorrow would be a long day.

Violet’s morning was not off to a promising start. She went to the rear servants’ entrance of Lady Cowgil’s home and was greeted by a young boy covered in ash, presumably from cleaning fire grates. He scampered off and retrieved the housekeeper, a frazzled woman who quickly informed Violet that Rebecca was no longer employed at the Cowgil residence.