“In Hyde Park?” Violet asked incredulously. “I can hardly believe that. Next you’ll tell me there are opium sellers waiting for the queen on the lawn of Buckingham Palace.”
Sam was insistent, though. “Only a member of a bunch of ruffians would be bold enough to snatch a woman from her husband. Predators. The worst sort of filth.”
Violet had a thought. “Did he take your reticule?” she asked.
Susanna looked at Benjamin. “I don’t know.”
Benjamin shook his head. “No, I carried it back along with you. It’s . . . What did I do with it?” He rose and searched around, eventually pulling it from beneath a stack of newspapers that had been tossed down to the floor.
Benjamin handed it to Susanna, who untied the strings and went through it. “Everything is here. Either he looked through it and didn’t find anything interesting, or he wasn’t a thief.”
“But why would someone cosh you in the head and not steal your valuables?” Violet said. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“I think there is a deeper question,” Sam said. “Did he bash her in the head to rob her, to warn her, or to kill her?”
Violet considered this. “To warn her away from what? And to actually
kill
her? For what reason?”
Benjamin started in again on his lament. “We shouldn’t have stayed this long. Everything is much more peaceable in Colorado. I should have insisted that we return sooner. I don’t—”
Susanna stiffened under Violet’s touch. “Quite the contrary, it is vital that we remain, Benjamin. We can investigate for ourselves what happened.”
“I don’t understand. You don’t want the police involved, but you want to—what—prowl through dark alleys, asking who the local bludgeoners are?”
“Do you think I’m not capable?” she asked, the tone of her voice suggesting that unyielding resolve was settling in.
Violet hid a smile of admiration for her daughter’s backbone, which appeared to have been stiffened, not wilted, by her experience.
“Capability has nothing to do with it. You’re just a tourist here, honeymooning with your new husband. It’s time to return home, back to your safe and contented life there.”
Susanna set her lips in a thin line. “Of course,” she replied, and said nothing further on the matter. Violet suspected Benjamin would rue his words, and Sam must have thought so, as well, for he said, “Careful, my son, on tangling with an undertaker. You aren’t as experienced with it as I am.”
He turned and leaned toward Violet. “Wife, listen to me. You are not a detective. Our girl is not a detective. A criminal has attacked her for reasons we don’t understand, and we are going to the police at dawn’s light if Benjamin and I have to throw you over our shoulders and haul you there like fussing babies. Is that clear?”
“Hmm,” she replied. She hadn’t realized Sam would choose to leap on
her
.
“Violet . . .” he warned.
“Very well. I have no objection to reporting it to the authorities, it’s only proper. But we’ll go to see Inspector Hurst, not the local police.”
“That’s the detective who helped you on your other cases, isn’t he, Mother?” Susanna was already springing back to life.
“I wouldn’t exactly say they were ‘cases,’ Susanna. It was more like I stumbled into a few unfortunate situations and was able to provide Scotland Yard with some assistance.”
“Assistance!” Sam cried. “I can’t even count how many times you’ve nearly been killed. Violet, you make undertaking the most deadly profession in the world.”
Susanna laughed at her father’s overblown pronouncement, but Benjamin shook his head. “Far beyond time to go back to America,” he muttered.
Violet made a few final brushstrokes through Susanna’s hair, then gathered the hair up and began braiding it while she contemplated the evening’s crime.
If it wasn’t a random attack, who would have wanted to injure a sweet girl like Susanna? An image of Julian Crugg flashed through her mind. Hadn’t he just mentioned Susanna yesterday during Violet’s meeting with him? But why would he feel the need to attack the girl? Other than pay him a visit, she hadn’t done anything to him. In fact, Crugg had even suggested—sarcastic though he may have been—that Violet send Susanna in her stead next time. And how would he even know they would be at the circus this evening?
Who else could possibly wish the girl harm? Hardly anyone in London knew her given that she’d been living in Colorado the past four years. Unless it was one of the other undertakers Susanna had visited on Violet’s behalf. Perhaps one that they weren’t even considering.
The only thing Violet knew for certain was that there would be no return trip to the circus on Friday.
7
T
he next morning, the four of them crowded into Detective Chief Inspector Hurst’s cramped office, while Second Class Inspector Langley Pratt took his usual position with his pencil and notepad.
Susanna looked much better today, despite her eye, which was still very swollen and discolored. Benjamin sat slumped with his arms and ankles crossed. The young couple’s heated voices had floated into Violet’s bedchamber last night, and it seemed to Violet that Benjamin was still suffering the ill effects of it.
Susanna, however, appeared invigorated by whatever had transpired. Perhaps they really did need to return to Colorado. Violet hated the thought of strife growing between them because of their honeymoon trip. Should she talk to Susanna about it?
“Now, Mrs. Harper, what seems to be the problem this time?” This was Inspector Hurst’s way of conveying grudging respect to Violet. She knew she was a constant source of aggravation to him, but she had rescued his own investigations more than once and he couldn’t quite bring himself to dismiss her anymore. At least, not completely.
Especially now that he had met the lovely and fragile Mary Cooke. Magnus Pompey Hurst resembled a snorting bull and looked like he swallowed criminals during afternoon tea, but he was a soft, gelatinous mess whenever he was around Mary. Violet had shooed him away from her friend—who was officially in mourning, for heaven’s sake—but she suspected she hadn’t seen the last of Hurst’s mooning eyes.
Sam was no less restless and impatient than he’d been the previous evening, despite a night’s worth of sleep, and he jumped right in. “Inspector, I am completely outraged by what occurred last night. My daughter was nearly killed! Do you realize I am a lawyer? As is my son-in-law here. We will seek all remedies possible in the English courts—”
Hurst held up a hand. “Mr. Harper, I’m not following your story. Perhaps if Mrs. Harper would care to . . . ?”
Violet began her explanation of what had happened the previous evening, telling him of their visit to the Sanger circus performance and their subsequently noisy—and treacherous—walk through Hyde Park.
Sam interrupted. “Violet, remember to tell the detectives that you thought she was dead. That she’d been struck so hard it was difficult to revive her. Someone tried to extinguish our girl.”
“Yes, as my husband says, Susanna appeared to be dead.”
Hurst turned to Susanna. “Mrs. Tompkins, you didn’t see who grabbed you?”
Susanna shook her head. “It was past ten o’clock and quite dark.”
“Did the assailant say anything to you? Give you a reason for his attack?”
“No. It all happened so quickly.”
“And it was just the three of you?”
“No, my mother’s friend Mary Cooke was with us.”
A sappy smile spread across Hurst’s face, as though he’d lumbered into an unexpected hive of honey. “Is that so? Is Mrs. Cooke socializing now? I thought you said she would be in mourning for quite some time, Mrs. Harper.”
Violet’s protective instincts for Mary controlled her next words. “Yes, she is. She went out for just an evening at my urging. Otherwise, she is mostly still in seclusion.”
“Quite understandable.” Hurst nodded. “She enjoyed the circus, did she?”
“Yes,” Violet said cautiously.
He nodded again. “Splendid. A fine lady like that deserves a bit of happiness. I hear that the Theatre Royal is bringing back Joseph Lunn’s
Family Jars
farce this December. I’m sure Mrs. Cooke would enjoy an outing to see it, don’t you, Mrs. Harper?”
That was four months away. Perhaps he would have forgotten his crush on Mary by then. Of course, she wasn’t being fair to Mary. Perhaps her friend might welcome Inspector Hurst’s attentions. But . . . Violet shook her head. The thought was too much to stomach. Mary being courted by Magnus Pompey Hurst? However, his attitude toward Violet might have no bearing at all on his demeanor as a suitor or a husband.
A husband! Mary’s husband? No, Violet had to quell the very notion right now.
“Perhaps she would. It’s so hard to know, what with her grieving still being so fresh.”
Hurst, for all of his quirks, was astute, and took her point immediately. “Of course. You’ll pass along my salutations, won’t you?”
“I will.” Actually, it might be interesting to see Mary’s reaction.
The room had quickly grown stuffy with six people wedged into it. Hurst either didn’t notice it or was used to it, for he casually put his elbows on his desk and templed his meaty fingers together. “So what we have here is possibly a random attack on a young woman by some tramp or gin addict or cutpurse. Perhaps he was even confused and thought Mrs. Tompkins was a prostitute. Begging your pardon, of course, madam. This is probably not a case for Scotland Yard since there has been no unusual murder or other crime committed. I presume Mrs. Tompkins has no known enemies here in London, given that she has only been a tourist here for several weeks?”
“I believe there is more you need to know, Inspector,” Violet said. “I have experienced some curious episodes while transporting bodies to Brookwood Cemetery in Surrey. Strange as it may seem, on two occasions I have witnessed supposedly dead bodies rise up out of their coffins at the train station.”
Pratt stopped scratching notes as his eyes widened. “Truly, Mrs. Harper? I’ve read magazine stories about people getting buried alive, and now here you have witnessed them in the flesh. So to speak, of course. May I ask what you—”
“Let the woman tell her story, Pratt,” Hurst said impatiently. “Don’t interrupt with silly flapdoodles.”
Poor Inspector Pratt. He was eager, if awkward and unpolished. He had always been kind to Violet, and always on the receiving end of Hurst’s irritability.
Violet continued. “I wasn’t able to talk to either of the two men who rose from their coffins, but it seemed to me that their undertakers had performed extraordinarily sloppy work. Both of them had been placed in safety coffins, and I was able to get a reasonable list of London undertakers who purchase the particular type of coffins they were in. I’m afraid that a couple of these undertakers I visited, Augustus Upton and James Vernon, did not, shall we say, prove to be particularly helpful.”
Hurst separated his hands and held them palms up. They shone with sweat. “And you believe these episodes are related to last night?”
“Possibly. Susanna interviewed several of the undertakers on my behalf since she does undertaking work herself back in Colorado, and—”
Sam interrupted once more. “I didn’t take stock in what Violet told me about some of these undertakers, but now I’m not so sure. There was the one—Croog? Crum?—that my wife suspected. Have her tell you about him.” He rose, his eagle-headed cane in hand, and began pacing, not an easy feat inside Hurst’s small office.
Violet drummed the gloved fingers of one hand against the palm of the other, wishing desperately she could shed the gloves. What had gotten into Sam? Why was he so talkative? So relentlessly agitated? Like Mrs. Softpaws with an empty food dish. This was so unlike him. He had seen his share of battle and death and terror, and very little rattled him. Of course, this was Susanna they were discussing. Violet understood his feelings and shared them, but really, if only her husband would sit down and be calm, they might get somewhere.
“Who is Mr. Croog?” Hurst asked.
“Crugg,” Violet said. “He’s an undertaker who deals in safety coffins. He is not fond of me, as he is of the opinion that I stole away Lord Raybourn’s funeral.”
Hurst nodded. They had worked together on the case of Lord Raybourn’s stolen body. “I recall him. Thin and ill-tempered.”
“Yes. I—Susanna and I, actually—have our suspicions of him, that he might be mistakenly putting bodies that are not dead into coffins, and was responsible for the two I discovered.”
“Do you have proof of this?”
“No.” Violet shifted uncomfortably in her seat. It seemed so foolish when she talked to anyone but Susanna about it. She glanced over; Susanna continued looking rejuvenated, while Benjamin was wilting with each passing minute.
“No, I have no proof. And, as my husband has said, what crime has been committed when a dead body comes to life? I can only—”
Sam stopped pacing long enough to interrupt Violet’s train of thought again. “And there was the third body, the dead one. Remember to tell the inspector about that.”
Violet sighed. Didn’t Sam realize she was used to dealing with Inspectors Hurst and Pratt? “Yes, there was a third, separate incident in which I discovered a dead body in a coffin arriving at Brookwood.”
Hurst laughed and stared at her incredulously. “Are you telling me you found it suspicious that a corpse was shipped on the London Necropolis Railway, and indeed arrived in a dead condition?”
“Sir, that is my wife you are addressing,” Sam growled.
“Sam, please,” she said. “We are all distressed by what happened.”
Sam snorted and resumed his caged pacing.
Violet resumed her story. “As I was saying, this particular corpse was indeed dead, but his fiancée was waiting for him on the platform and seemed positively surprised that he was dead. She was nearly beside herself, and Mr. Crugg had to comfort her.”
Hurst refrained from laughing this time, as Sam was still on edge, but his voice was still full of disbelief. “So are you reporting to me that a young woman met a
funeral
train and was surprised to find an actual
corpse
in a
coffin?
”
“Yes, Inspector, that’s what I’m saying. It’s as though she actually expected him to walk off the train, not be carried out in a box.”
Hurst sighed. “Mr. Pratt, make a note to investigate who this corpse was.”
“I already know that,” Violet said. “It was Roger Blount, second son to Francis Blount, the Earl of Etchingham.”
Pratt’s pencil scratched heavily across the page.
“And you said this Crum person—”
“Crugg.”
“Crugg was the undertaker?”
“I’m not sure.” Violet explained what had happened with Margery Latham on the platform. “Crugg didn’t seem to know her, but maybe he did. Even stranger is that we discovered Miss Latham’s obituary in the newspaper, which reported only that she died suddenly, just like Lord Blount.”
“And you suspect foul play for both of them?”
Violet bit her lip. “Well, no, I’m not sure I have reason to believe so.”
Hurst threw up his hands, leaned back in his chair, and rolled his head in exasperation. “Mr. Pratt, can you read back exactly what we have here?”
As Mr. Pratt read from his notes, Violet realized she’d left out the part where Mr. Vernon had shoved her into a coffin and then acted as if he had no recollection of it. She glanced up at Sam, who now stood in a corner, tapping his cane on the ground. Perhaps it was best to continue keeping that to herself for now.
Sam finally sat down once more, but he was far from finished spewing his wrath. “I must say, Inspector Hurst, I find it appalling that you have such contemptible critters running about, attacking young women at will. I mean, what are your men doing?”
Hurst raised an eyebrow. “Sir, do you know what you’re gumming about? You are aware that this is London, the largest city in the world that I’m aware of at three million souls? Not some upstart little town in the American West?”
Sam didn’t hear a word Hurst said; he kept pressing on. “My wife suspects this Mr. Crugg of something. Why don’t you arrest and interrogate him? See what he knows about my daughter’s attack. Even if he didn’t do it personally, he may have hired some thug to do the deed for him.”
“Mr. Harper, this is not ancient Rome, where we go to the forum and stab whoever we think is our enemy. I must have some sort of reason to arrest him. I cannot see a possible motive. Quite frankly, if I were to point to any possible crime being conducted here—beyond the very obvious one of your daughter’s attack, for which we have no suspect—I would look to this Vernon fellow, since we can at least discover whether or not he is doing things properly. Although even if he isn’t, he still isn’t breaking any laws. You understand, I am entertaining this only on behalf of my high regard for your wife.”
Violet smiled and wiped her brow. Her gloved finger came away wet. High regard for her, indeed.
“I agree with my father-in-law,” Benjamin said, speaking up for the first time. “I met Crugg, and I thought his demeanor toward my wife was coarse and loutish. I nearly had the man on the floor, I tell you.”
“Unfortunately, Mr. Tompkins, we also cannot arrest men for insulting our wives. That is best handled by you in a manner we need know nothing about. However, I’ll make you a promise, Mr. Harper. Inspector Pratt and I will visit Mr. Vernon this very day and see what we can find. We’ll also talk to our informants to see if any gangs have been working in Hyde Park. Will that satisfy you?”
Sam nodded curtly.
They finally escaped into the open air, which was hot but not nearly as stifling as Hurst’s office. Sam’s mood lightened considerably, although Violet wasn’t sure if that was because Hurst had promised to take some sort of action or because he was able to breathe again. Susanna and Benjamin, too, looked relieved.
Violet, though, was more disturbed than ever. She doubted that Hurst and Pratt would try that hard to do anything. After all, relaying her thoughts to the two inspectors had made her suspicions about her fellow undertakers seem absurd. And an investigation into local thugs wasn’t likely to turn up anything, either.
All this visit had done was to arouse Hurst’s interest in Mary again.
By the time they reached home, Violet had decided upon two things. First, that she would follow through and visit Hurst again tomorrow to see what, if anything, he’d learned. Second, any further probing on what was probably a wild-goose chase would have to be done by her without Susanna’s assistance.