9
V
iolet joined Sam and peered into the coffin. She shuddered to see Julian Crugg lying inside, as calmly reposed as if he were merely napping. Violet couldn’t be sure, but she guessed he had been dead mere hours. Ironically—and perhaps cruelly—there was a string tied around the forefinger of his right hand, which linked to an alarm bell.
Sam stood by stoically, still holding the coffin lid. His years in the recent war in America had made him as immune to death as Violet was. “What do you think?” he asked, in a tone that suggested he knew exactly what she thought.
“I think I am right in my assertion that something very terrible has been happening.” She bit back her thought that Crugg now lay in a coffin much as Violet once had, courtesy of James Vernon. Except Vernon hadn’t
really
tried to kill her, had he? And he certainly hadn’t tied a bell to her. So was this the work of someone else?
“You think his murder is related to the doings at Brookwood and Hyde Park?” Sam asked. “How could that be?”
Violet held up her hands. “I don’t know, but I have a suspicion this was not the act of some random thief who was discovered in the act of stealing money.”
Sam lowered the coffin lid, which banged lightly against the box, sealing Crugg up again. “Well, if this was the man responsible for the attack on Susanna, I can’t say that I’m particularly sorry at his demise.”
Violet agreed, but didn’t voice her opinion that the attacker was probably after Sam’s wife, not his daughter. Another thought came to her mind. “It’s curious that Mr. Trumpington, his assistant, isn’t here, either. I wonder if . . .”
“You think something happened to him, as well?”
“Honestly, I’m more confused than ever, but we should consider the fact that he may have gotten in the way of whoever did this.”
“Or maybe this is Trumpington’s handiwork. It wouldn’t be surprising to learn that Crugg was a difficult employer. Perhaps Trumpington was berated to the point that he simply exploded, and this was the disastrous result.”
Violet arched an eyebrow. “Exploded, like a bundle of dynamite?”
“Not at all like dynamite, Wife. More like a volcano.” Sam gave her his sternest look, which had her smiling inappropriately over Crugg’s dead body.
Instantly serious again, Violet knelt on the floor and lifted the lid. “My apologies, sir, for my dreadful behavior. We did not get on well at all in life, but you don’t merit derision in death.” She began to close the lid again, but remembered something and opened it up again. “And please be assured that your death won’t go neglected. I’ll not rest until I determine who did this to you.”
She felt Sam shift next to her and looked up to see him rolling his eyes. “Do you plan to undertake the man, as well?”
Violet shook her head. “No, that is for his family to decide on. But I will certainly try to find out who did this to him. He deserves at least that much.”
Her husband sighed. “We’ll have to go see Inspector Hurst again. He won’t be able to ignore you now.” He put out a hand and helped Violet up.
“You’re right. But first, wouldn’t it be helpful to have our own look around? Before we summon the police?”
“What are you looking for?” Sam asked.
“I have no earthly idea. Something that would give us a clue as to who might have been here and done this.”
“Maybe Crugg was murdered elsewhere and brought here later.”
Violet considered this. “No, it would have been too difficult to haul his lifeless weight here without someone seeing him.”
“I disagree. All the killer needed was a covered wagon. This shop is far enough from Regent Street for the murderer to have unloaded him into here without detection. The bell string on the finger was a coarse gesture, though. Was it a message?”
The thought sent shivers down Violet’s spine. “More importantly, was it a message for me?”
They were silent several moments as they contemplated the gravity of what Violet had said. Finally, Violet turned away from the coffin. “Let’s see what we can find.”
She and Sam went through the undertaker’s shop as unobtrusively as they could, starting in the outer room and making their way to the back. They worked silently but efficiently together, picking up everything and always setting items precisely back in their places. As they searched Crugg’s desk, Violet found several items of interest. First was a silver pocket watch, its case filigreed with the subtle shape of a bell on it. Possibly a funeral symbol Crugg had had specially made, or perhaps it was a gift from a safety coffin supplier. Next to it was a woman’s hairbrush, a common enough item for an undertaker to possess but not typically stored inside a desk. A half-full bottle marked “Laudanum” also lay in the drawer, with a label glued to the front of it, listing all of its benefits for curing cases of nerves, vapors, and imbalances. It didn’t surprise Violet, given how high-strung the man was. She wished he had used more of it.
“Aha!” Sam said triumphantly, holding up what looked to be a journal. It was tattered along the edges, and most unlike something Julian Crugg would use. “Found this cleverly propping up one desk leg. I imagine we’ll find something interesting in it.”
Violet closed the drawer she was searching through, and together they opened up the journal and stood side by side, poring through it. Violet was soon disappointed. It just seemed to be a ledger listing names and dates of bodies Crugg had handled. There was nothing detailed, such as type of funeral, cost, or the name of the nearest relative for each listing, but each undertaker had his own way of handling things. It wasn’t how Violet would do it, but there was nothing wrong with Crugg’s ledger.
Except... “Why do you think he would have stored this on the floor, practically as a piece of trash?” Violet asked.
Sam looked perplexed. “To hide it from others? Who would casually walk in here and notice it down there?”
Violet was struck with another thought. “Maybe it belongs to Mr. Trumpington. But I suppose the same question still applies. And why hide the thing? There’s no information of any value in it.”
Sam shut the ledger and returned it to its place under the desk. “These are questions Inspector Hurst will have to answer.”
They departed Crugg’s shop to seek out the detective at Scotland Yard, but not before Violet checked on Mr. Crugg once more. A pocket watch dangled from a chain clipped to his vest. Either Crugg had more than one watch, not an unreasonable idea, or the watch in the drawer belonged to someone else. But whom? Mr. Trumpington? Then why wasn’t he wearing it? Or did it belong to an unknown party who might know something about what had happened in this shop today?
As they made their way to Scotland Yard, Violet made a bizarre observation. Today she had found the first actual murdered body in the string of funeral oddities besetting her lately, and it belonged to the man whom she had blamed for all of those irregularities.
Sam was wrong; Inspector Hurst was more than capable of continuing to ignore her, despite the fact that she now brought him the news of a dead body. In fact, he laughed outright when she told him of their findings. “An undertaker died inside one of his own coffins? That’s a tale worthy of a Poe novel,” he joked.
“Inspector!” Violet admonished as severely as she knew how, even though she felt a twinge of guilt over having been recently irreverent herself. “A man has been murdered in his place of business and it is not an amusing matter.”
“Mrs. Harper, you say he has been murdered, but you are not expert in knowing the signs of it. Yes, I know that you have had some luck in the past, but you have also been grossly wrong before. Need I remind you of your misidentification of Lord Raybourn’s body? Your peculiar passion for your work makes you overly excitable sometimes. You must leave such determinations to us. I’ll send a couple of men over to check him out, don’t you worry.”
Next to her, Sam was tapping his cane ominously against the floor. Violet shot him a look of warning.
Please, Sam, let me handle this.
“Of course, Inspector. I just think it might be helpful to confirm how he died.”
Hurst intertwined his fingers. “Very well, Mrs. Harper, why are you convinced that the man was murdered?”
“Because he was lying inside one of his own coffins with a bell pull around his finger.”
“I see. Perhaps he did himself in.”
“How would he have done that?” Violet asked, frustration rising that a corpse lay stuffed ignominiously inside a coffin while Hurst toyed with her. Would he never trust her instincts?
“You lot of crows have a peculiar sense of humor. Crugg probably thought that it was a riotous way to go, hanging himself on a rope timed to come apart over a coffin.”
Before she could stop him, Sam thundered, “You dolt, that is an insanely complicated way to commit suicide. And there was no rope, just a man shoved into a box with the lid on top of him.”
Hurst gave Sam a sharp look, admonishing him without a word to be respectful of the detective’s station. “Very well, Mr. Harper, I said I will put some men on it. I would just caution Mrs. Harper not to see nefarious doings in every death she comes across. Lately, she seems to find wrongdoing even in living bodies.”
Without even looking over to see his expression, Violet put out a restraining hand to calm her husband before speaking again.
“Inspector, I’m sure you’ll do all you can to investigate Mr. Crugg’s death. You won’t mind if I make my own inquiries, as well?”
Hurst smiled condescendingly. “As you wish. Keep me informed if you find any
real
evidence of criminal activity. And try not to get yourself into trouble.”
“Impossible,” Sam muttered.
“So you’ll send someone right away?” Violet asked, standing.
“Yes, yes. You may rely upon me.”
Violet hesitated, words in her mouth she wasn’t sure she should utter. Annoyance forced them out.
“Mary will be relieved to know that you are entirely trustworthy in the matter,” she said, then wished the earth would swallow her whole for having bandied her friend’s name like that. What was she thinking?
However, her words had the desired effect. Hurst sat up straighter and took on a more serious tone.
“Mrs. Cooke need have no concerns as to whether Scotland Yard is working to keep London safe. In fact, I would be happy to assure her in person if she has any worries at all—”
“I’m sure she doesn’t. She’s been quite busy helping me redecorate my shop.”
“Is that so?” Hurst stood, too. “So she’s working there currently?”
Violet wanted to be swallowed up for those words, too.
“No,” she admitted. “Wallpaper has been installed and Mary is coming on Saturday to hang new draperies.”
“Interesting. Well, Inspector Pratt and I will report whatever information we glean on Crugg as soon as possible. By Saturday, for certain.”
Violet felt like a complete imbecile as she left Scotland Yard. Hurst would do just enough to help Violet to enable him to seek Mary’s company.
Well, at least she had the detective’s begrudging blessing to conduct her own investigation.
Edmund Henderson, London’s commissioner of police, stood outside Inspector Hurst’s office, listening to every word that transpired between Hurst and Mrs. Harper. Apparently, his detective chief inspector was still allowing himself to get nettled by the undertaker, who was a great favorite of the queen’s. In Henderson’s opinion, a favorite of the queen’s was not to be dealt with lightly.
He slipped back into his own office when the undertaker and her husband departed, then went back to Hurst’s office, entering without knocking.
“Sir?” Hurst said, rising from his desk. Hurst’s protégé, Langley Pratt, sat in one of two chairs across from the desk and followed his mentor’s lead by also standing.
Henderson waved at them both to sit down and took the still-warm seat that Mrs. Harper had just vacated.
“I believe I heard Mrs. Harper’s voice in here,” he said to see how his detective would respond.
“Yes, she is considerably worked up about some goings-on at Brookwood Cemetery in Surrey. Especially since an undertaker connected to the funeral train there has committed suicide.” Hurst mockingly rolled his eyes to express his opinion of Mrs. Harper’s concern.
Hurst’s attitude needed to be surgically removed.
Henderson’s primary fixation lately had been on building up his detective force. Prior to his taking over the London Metropolitan Police several months ago, the force only had twenty-six detectives and one sergeant, hardly adequate for a city population of three million people. He’d already grown it by four detectives, but he had plans to increase the force to over two hundred men. In addition, he intended to consolidate power such that he would determine which crimes could be solved by divisional detectives in local police departments, and which were notorious or difficult crimes that required the investigative abilities of his choice inspectors.
Magnus Pompey Hurst was one of those elite inspectors, and Henderson didn’t want him at cross-purposes with anyone who might have the ear of the queen or Parliament, not when the commissioner might need more money or influence or laws enacted for creating the best detective force in the world.
“What do you mean, ‘worked up’?”
“Honestly, it’s impossible to know. Two bodies were shipped down on the funeral train who turned out to be alive. Both literally rose out of their coffins. A third body was dead, but the undertaker thought the circumstances were odd. She’s been here a few times to plague me over it, demanding that I interview certain people, but I don’t know exactly what it is she wants us to investigate, given that no crime has been committed. Honestly, I think she might be a little . . .” Hurst tapped the side of his head.
Henderson had met the Harper woman on more than one occasion. She didn’t seem like a hysterical female, so if she was uncomfortable in a situation, there was probably something to it. Not to mention that she merited attention because of her connections.