The Mourning Bells (7 page)

Chopin’s protracted dirge emanated from the chapel until Violet and the funeral cortege were well underway, as if it were sympathetically sending them off to their heartbreaking and dismal work. At the grave site, the minister spoke a few more words; then the coffin bearers unloaded Mrs. Danforth and placed her into the harness to be lowered into her grave. This was always a heart-stopping moment for Violet, for even with ropes and pulleys, things could go wrong and a coffin might land badly in the ground.

She breathed an internal sigh of relief when the coffin reached its destination with no fuss. The Presbyterian minister intoned more words from his Book of Common Order as some of the men scooped up spadefuls of dirt and gently tossed them down onto Mrs. Danforth’s coffin.

With Mrs. Danforth buried and her grave covered in flowers, the procession followed the empty hearse back to the chapel, where Violet folded the bier and its cover, and the men comforted the women. The undertaker’s work was now done for this funeral, except to ensure that a headstone was installed since the woman had not been placed inside a family crypt.

Only first- and second-class funerals were entitled to grave markers. A third-class funeral required a paid upgrade for the privilege of a headstone, and, as with a safety coffin, a marker and the cemetery’s fee for it were an unthinkable outlay of money. Rarely did third-class funerals include headstones at Brookwood.

Back at the North station, Violet was handed up into the train while a porter stowed away her bier. Mrs. Danforth’s funeral party was in the first-class carriage, while Violet, of course, rode in the third-class carriage next to the hearse vans. There was no one else in her carriage, much to her relief as she wasn’t in the mood for conversation now that her insides were once again pestering her for sustenance.

What she wanted even more than food, though, was a word of comfort from Sam. Should she forget about the seemingly resurrected bodies at Brookwood, or was there something to be done about it—a trail to follow, advice to seek, more people to question?

Sam would know what to do.

Sam was preoccupied with his investment meetings as they sat together once again in their bedchamber, the only place they had for privacy with Susanna and Benjamin staying with them. Sam had gone back around to all of the potential investors, but in the end they had all declined. He was too inexperienced in coal mining, said one. Too enthusiastic for that foreign fellow, Nobel, said another. One even told him he was too American, despite Sam’s having an English wife.

“What will you do now?” Violet asked as she unpinned her watch from her bodice and removed her jet earrings and necklace.

“I’ll go to Threadneedle Street and talk to the Bank of England, of course. After that, I’ll visit one or two private banks. I’ve made a list and plan to start with White, Ludlow, and Company in Haymarket and London East Bank in Cornhill. Among the three I expect one to bubble up with the funds in short order.”

Poor Sam, to have endured such rejection. However, his optimism, so typical of the Americans, was infectious, and she was soon convinced that he would indeed soon have his coal mine financing in order. Not that she was altogether convinced about the wisdom of owning a mine. The deplorable conditions, the disease, the accidents . . .

But Sam was convinced that a coal mine that used Mr. Nobel’s dynamite would be much safer, and he was determined to prove it so. Violet clamped down on her concerns, equally determined not to be a nagging wife.

Later, at the dinner table, Sam said grace as was his usual habit, then took a bowl of carrot soup, cooked in the liquid from the previous night’s beef bones, from Mrs. Wren’s talons and served everyone. Violet announced what had happened at Brookwood, that yet another body had come out of his coffin, this time fleeing the scene immediately.

“I’m wondering if I should go see Mr. Hurst at Scotland Yard about it.”

Susanna enthusiastically bobbed her head up and down. “Yes, Mother, I think you should. Something very strange is happening. When have we ever seen one body, much less two, arise from coffins? Besides, I still think Mr. Crugg is up to something odious.”

Benjamin eagerly agreed with his wife, patting Susanna on the shoulder. Was Violet mistaken, or had a shadow passed over Susanna’s face as he did so?

Sam, though, shook his head. “I agree that there is something strange going on, but there is nothing criminal in it. Scotland Yard would chuckle, busy with solving crimes involving poor souls that have died, and suggest you visit one of the scandal sheets to have an article written about it, or that you have a medium accompany you next time and hold a séance over the coffin. I imagine the queen would be enthralled with the idea, and demand that Albert be exhumed immediately in case he might still be able to ring a bell.”

“Papa!” Susanna exclaimed, her face a combination of shock and amusement over Sam’s pronouncement.

Violet’s husband continued. “I could easily defend one of these undertakers in court. I would point to their wisdom in recommending safety coffins for their customers, as they now have been proved to work. And, sweetheart, maybe they
do
work.”

Violet winced as though Sam’s words caused her physical pain. Her greatest fear was that he was right, and that safety coffins deserved a more prominent place in undertaking.

Susanna, though, was insistent that Violet should pursue the situation on her own, as there was certainly an abnormality to it, and no one else was interested enough to investigate.

Sam shook his head in good-natured resignation. “I won’t forbid it, but I sense that somehow this perfectly innocent circumstance will erupt into mayhem as soon as you get involved with tugging on the strings of the truth.”

As she readied for bed that night, Violet was conflicted. Sam was right, of course, both in that there was nothing to explore and that she did have a way of ending up in trouble. Yet she couldn’t help but think that Susanna was also right. It simply wasn’t
normal
for bodies to rise from coffins. Why, no one even knew who either man was. Wouldn’t there be relatives and loved ones eager for news?

Sam was already gently snoring as she finished pulling the pins from her hair. Having her body tightly corseted and her tresses firmly pinned each day made the undressing ritual a blissful relief. As she sat before the mirror in her nightdress, firmly ignoring the parts of her that were not quite as trim as they used to be, she gently drew an ivory comb with very fine teeth through her hair, careful not to let it catch in any tangles.

The movement was soothing, and the teeth rubbing against her scalp felt like a rather nice scratching. As Violet combed, she contemplated what to do. Susanna thought the situation deserved attention, but Susanna also seemed enthralled by the excitement of it. If Violet did pursue it, would Susanna want to assist and then never go home to Colorado?

Violet chastised herself for such a disloyal thought. It was joyous to have her daughter with her. Besides, who knew when they might see each other again?

That was no reason to chase phantoms, though. Sam was probably right in his opinion, and she would be wasting precious undertaking time to continue. After all, who chases down a nonmurder? Someone who has lived instead of dying? It was ridiculous.

She put the comb down and stared at the dark liquid in the bowl before her. Susanna had brought several issues of
Godey’s Lady’s Book,
a popular monthly American magazine, and one issue recommended black tea for ensuring a good head of glossy dark hair.

Violet sighed. She had never cared about such things when she was younger, but now that she was approaching forty, vanity had pushed its way into her life and refused to leave. She’d thought using Castile soap once each week, combined with vigorous nightly brushing to distribute the oils in her hair, was enough, but Mrs. Hale, the magazine’s editor, insisted otherwise.

She dipped all ten fingers into the small bowl of tea-infused water, sprinkled the tea from her fingers onto her scalp, then gently rubbed her scalp, going back and dipping her fingers in the tea repeatedly.

That done, Violet picked up her boar’s-hair brush that had an ivory handle to match the comb, and used it in long, even strokes from her scalp to the ends of her hair. The sensation was even more relaxing than that of the comb and enabled Violet to think further on the matter that troubled her.

Even if Sam was correct and there was nothing criminal to consider, would it really hurt to investigate a little further? But what should she do next? Whom should she visit? Or revisit?

Undoubtedly, Mr. Crugg was at the top of Susanna’s list. But as Violet thought about it, she realized that he didn’t fit her opinion that whoever had mishandled the bodies had been incompetent. Crugg might be vile and resentful, but Violet had no reason to think he was unfit for his work.

What about Mr. Upton, the octopus-like man who had so cleverly repulsed her questions about safety coffins and Brookwood? Perhaps another visit to him, with a box of Fry’s chocolate blocks, might elicit a few substantial answers.

Furthermore, what about Mr. Vernon, who was disposing of paupers and other undesirables at various hospitals and medical universities? He claimed he performed his work legally—and he behaved forthrightly enough—but there were surely dozens of musty old books and magazine clippings in existence that would teach a man how to skirt the law. And a man working around the law was not an honest man. And a dishonest man was more likely to blunder and bungle his way through things.

The hair should be brushed for at least twenty minutes in the morning, for ten minutes when it is dressed in the middle of the day, and for a like period at night,
Mrs. Hale had asserted with authority.

Violet soon realized, though, that this much brushing in one sitting was tiresome for the arms, especially for Violet, whose right arm had once been scalded and scarred in a train collision, and was easily fatigued. She put down the brush and made up her mind.

Of her three suspects, Mr. Vernon was the most likely to have been responsible for the ineptitude she thought had been performed on those two men. When she had time tomorrow, she would pay him another visit.

 

Violet’s hair
did
seem cleaner in the morning, although Sam didn’t seem to notice anything when he gave her his daily morning kiss on top of her head. Well, better that he didn’t observe anything at all, lest he notice that she had a few gray hairs popping up from some unknown, fertilized bed of them under her scalp. Violet was also glad that Sam hadn’t noticed the weight she’d gained since they’d returned to London, although perhaps he was being intentionally oblivious to it.

Violet skipped breakfast to get down to the shop as soon as possible. There were suppliers to be paid, and she hoped to hand her envelopes to the postman on his first pass by the shop today, before she headed out to see Mr. Vernon. With that done, she went over the day’s tasks with Harry. There were no funerals scheduled, but Jonathan and Christopher Boyce would be dropping off coffins later in the day, and Harry planned to wait for them, freeing Violet to take as much time as she needed on her mission.

As a precaution, she picked up the box of chocolates she thought Mr. Upton would have liked, thinking Mr. Vernon might, as well. With the chocolate-covered raspberry blocks under her arm, she made her way to Chelsea.

Mr. Vernon blinked in confusion at her arrival, as though trying to place an unfamiliar face. Violet mentioned the London Necropolis Railway, and he said, “Of course, I remember you, Mrs. Harper,” but not before Violet noticed a moment of fear reflected in his eyes as he took the box from her and set it aside. Rather ungraciously, in her opinion.

“Pardon my intrusion,” she said, trying to carefully formulate her next words. “I thought you might like to know that another man came to life at Brookwood yesterday.”

“That is very interesting, indeed. Did you have an opportunity to speak to him?” The undertaker rubbed the hem of both sides of his vest between his thumbs and forefingers.

“I did, in fact. He seemed quite perplexed as to why he was in a coffin.”

“How terrible for the man.”

Violet tried another approach.

“Do you deny that you shipped a body to Brookwood yesterday?” She tried to sound imposing but didn’t think the words sounded particularly formidable in her own ear.

“I had no corpse scheduled yesterday on the LNR,” Vernon replied.

No, of course not.
“Perhaps you forgot that—”

The shop’s bells rang as a customer entered. The customer was an older man, bleary-eyed and grizzled. Completely ignoring Violet’s presence, he launched into a diatribe against Vernon. “Where have you been? You were supposed to arrive two hours ago. How long are we supposed to wait for you? Have you no decency?”