A Virtuous Death

Book 0: Lady of Ashes Mystery

by Christine Trent

Genres: Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

Queen Victoria, still mourning her long-dead husband Prince Albert, has found solace in John Brown, an enigmatic palace servant who dabbles in the occult and keeps the grieving queen entertained with his tarot card readings. Undertaker Violet Harper is invited to attend one of Mr. Brown's infamous readings, during which he implies that Buckingham Palace will soon be shrouded in death's dark veil. Well acquainted with death, Violet shrugs him off as a charlatan—until his sinister divinations begin to prove true . . .



Violet wonders if something foul is in the cards when the aristocratic young friends of the queen's daughter begin to die under mysterious circumstances. Her suspicions only grow when one of London's "moralists," a group bent on repealing the law that forces prostitutes into hospitals, suffers a similar fate. The deaths merely buttress the queen's enthusiasm for Mr. Brown's ominous talents, and, concerned by the fortuneteller's influence, Violet races against time to unearth the truth before the killer strikes again. But as she closes in on a murderer with an unearthly motive, Violet realizes she may be digging her own grave . . .



By turns heart wrenching and hopeful, A Virtuous Death is a gripping tale of fortitude besieged by vengeance inside the extraordinary world of Queen Victoria's court.

Release date: October 28, 2014

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 298

Sample

Buckingham Palace, London

Violet Harper had never been inside Buckingham Palace before. Her work for Queen Victoria had always taken Violet to either Windsor Castle or Osborne House, as after her husband’s death the queen had retreated from Buckingham Palace to both of these places that held such fond memories of her marriage.

Lately, though, the queen had slowly returned to life, which meant she was taking more interest in political affairs and in her residences that had seemed destined for dusty cobwebs and faded draperies.

Buckingham Palace was so neglected that a wag had once posted a sign at the gate: “These commanding premises to be let or sold, in consequence of the occupant’s declining business.”

Now, however, as Violet was ushered through wide corridors and past elegant state rooms, it was obvious that the palace was coming to life again in richly colored wall coverings and sparkling chandeliers. The number of ballrooms and dining rooms suggested to her that the queen and prince consort must have entertained lavishly while he was still alive.

Violet’s mind was not entirely on the state of the palace, though. The queen’s summons gave no indication of why she wanted to see Violet. From experience, Violet knew it could mean anything from a death in the family to hunting down a killer.

Thus prepared, what actually awaited her inside the queen’s private sitting room two floors up was disconcerting.

All of the pale blue drapes were pulled closed, despite the sunny day, and candles set in sconces decorated the fireplace mantel and every available table surface. The gas lamps in the room were extinguished, so that the room had an eighteenth-century glow to it.

Queen Victoria, dressed in her customary black, sat on a blue and gold settee across from her favorite outdoor servant, or ghillie, John Brown. Between them on an ottoman lay a familiar spread of cards. Standing behind the queen and observing what was going on was a girl, maybe twelve years old, with long, straw-colored hair flowing wildly down her back and pulled off her face with a simple red ribbon. Pearls swayed from the girl’s ears in equally simple gold settings as she intently watched as the queen’s personal servant gathered the cards back up, shuffled, and redistributed them facedown in a formation resembling a cross with four additional cards lying in a vertical row to the right of the cross.

“Ah, Mrs. Harper, you’ve finally arrived,” Victoria said. “Dear Mr. Brown is about to do another reading.”

Violet rose from her deep curtsy that the queen seemed not to have noticed in her thrall of the cards. “Your Majesty, did you summon me to attend—”

“Please sit, Mrs. Harper. Mr. Brown’s readings have been exceedingly significant lately. He is having difficulty interpreting the cards, and since you share our passion for the afterlife and things otherworldly, we thought you would be interested in joining a reading.”

“Your Majesty, I’m an undertaker, not a spiri—”

“We also thought you might try your hand at interpreting the cards, since you have an affinity for those that have passed into the Great Beyond.”

Violet sank into the plush peacock-blue chair that the queen had indicated. “Yes, but my affinity is merely—”

“You haven’t met our daughter Beatrice. She, too, is very spiritual in her nature. Sweetheart, this is Mrs. Harper, the undertaker we mentioned.”

Princess Beatrice raised large, soulful eyes at her, eyes that seemed to render Violet completely transparent to the girl’s penetrating stare. Violet shivered. Perhaps the princess was the one Victoria should consult with on spiritual matters.

Violet rose from the chair and sank into another curtsy, unsure what the proper etiquette was with such a junior member of the royal family.

“I am delighted to make your acquaintance,” Beatrice said in a solemn, flat voice. Violet took that as a signal that she could rise and sat back in her chair again.

The queen reached down and tapped the back of one of the cards. “We haven’t seen you use this deck before, Mr. Brown. It is lovely.”

Brown swatted the air around the queen’s hand. “Ach, wumman, don’t touch them. You’ll disrupt the aura surrounding them. I had these cards imported from Italy.”

“Oh dear.” The queen pulled her hand away.

Beatrice leaned farther forward over the back of the settee in order to get nearer to what was happening. It almost looked as though Victoria had two heads, so close was daughter to mother. Victoria impulsively brought a hand up and patted the girl on the cheek, and Beatrice responded with a kiss to her mother’s ear.

“With Baby here, and you, as well, Mrs. Harper, we will undoubtedly reach an answer together, won’t we, Mr. Brown?”

“I am confident of it, ma’am.” Brown turned over his first card, which lay over a hidden card in the center of the cross. “Yes, the two of pentacles.”

The queen brought a hand to her mouth. “Ohh. Again, Mr. Brown. It’s a two of pentacles each time.”

The servant had turned over a card that showed a man in medieval peasant dress, his back to the viewer so that one could only partially see that he was holding some sort of puzzle knot in his hands.

Brown dropped his voice low. “As you know, madam, this card represents your current situation. Our young man in the picture is trying to balance two ends of a very big knot, which tells us that you have a very difficult problem before you, one that is hidden from your view.”

He divined that much from a card mass-produced on a printing press?

His voice dropped even lower. “Now let us see what the near future holds for Your Majesty.”

Brown flipped over the card that had been underneath the first one. This one featured a man holding three swords, with two more at his feet, as he looked sadly over what appeared to be a burning village.

The servant shook his head. “This represents your near future. Desolation and loss, I’m afraid.” He sat back and closed his eyes, spreading his hands out, palms up, in supplication.

“Yes, I feel intense suffering for Your Majesty. It is almost as if—oh!” Brown dramatically clutched at his heart with one hand. “The pain is almost unbearable.”

“What is it? Will we be ill? Is it our heart? Oh, we’ve felt such palpitations lately.”

Brown spread his hands out again and breathed deeply. “No, it is not disease or illness.”

He opened his eyes again. “Let us look further at what the cards tell us.” He rapidly turned over the remaining cards, each bearing a figure in some sort of pose, surrounded by numbers and words such as “pentacles,” “cups,” “chalices,” and “wands.”

“Look at this card. It represents Your Majesty’s hopes and fears, and is the tower, from the major arcana. It speaks to me. It speaks of arrogance, and ruin, and of someone’s downfall. In fact, I see death.”

The queen gasped, and even Violet recoiled at what the ghillie had just said.

Brown waved his hands over the cards as though he was absorbing thoughts or feelings from the miniature artwork, although Violet couldn’t imagine how the cards might be telling him some sort of story.

“There are secrets in the palace, ma’am. Someone within the palace walls is plotting a dangerous scheme. Someone has dark secrets, black as coal. The cards, they are afraid to speak directly to me about this very serious matter. They say there is someone else to whom they will reveal the truth. Someone who comes out of blackness.”

Eerie silence descended on the room as Brown let his words settle on the women like coal smuts on a freezing cold morning.

“What does it mean, Mama?” Beatrice asked.

“We don’t know. If only your father were here, he’d know. Perhaps we need a séance to communicate with our dear prince, so that he can relay the meaning. Don’t you think so, Mr. Brown?”

“Yes, ma’am, we can certainly summon the spirits to seek your dear husband’s advice, but I believe the cards are pushing us in a specific direction.” He closed his eyes briefly and opened them again.

“Out of the darkness the answer will come. No, wait, someone dark will provide the answer. No—” Brown took a deep breath and blinked rapidly for several moments as he held his hands over the cards again. “Ah, the cards speak more plainly now. Someone in black will divine the solution.”

Victoria looked down at her dress, which made her look like a roosting crow. The severe color was relieved only by a cream lace collar and a matching lace cap on her head, as well as a gold mourning brooch that contained curled locks of Albert’s hair.

Now it was the queen’s turn to take a deep breath. “Surely the cards do not suggest that the Queen of England traipse the streets like a Wilkie Collins character, poking about in dark alleyways for clues.”

“Mama, the plot is inside the palace, not in St. Giles or Whitechapel.”

“Still, Baby, it is unseemly for the spirits to demand this of us. Surely they mean someone else, Mr. Brown?”

“Perhaps, good lady, perhaps.”

“Why do you look at Mrs. Harper so curiously? Surely you don’t think . . . but perhaps you are correct. Mrs. Harper, you dress in black regularly for your profession, don’t you? And with your love of the occult, why, you must be whom the spirits want as their medium. Mr. Brown, perhaps the spirits led us to call Mrs. Harper here for today’s reading.”

A slow smile spread across Brown’s whiskered face. “You may have the right idea of it, Your Majesty.”

Violet was horrified. Wander about Buckingham Palace’s corridors hoping to meet with either a horde of specters or a confederation of traitors?

“Your Majesty, my husband will be returning soon from Wales, and—”

Victoria waved her off with royal aplomb. “He will certainly understand that your queen needs you to perform this small service.”

Violet had learned that services for the queen were never small, and they had resulted in Violet’s near demise on more than one occasion.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

With an enthusiasm incongruous to her black garb and the dire warning her servant had just pronounced, Queen Victoria clapped her hands together. “So we shall have our own mystery here at Buckingham Palace, and the undertaker shall solve it. Is that not frightfully amusing, Mr. Brown?”

“Quite.”

“Mrs. Harper, you are permitted to roam our palace at will, as long as you do not disrupt any official or family affairs. Please remain at St. James’s Palace while you investigate.”

Violet had been installed at St. James’s while helping the queen on a peculiar situation involving a murdered viscount that had been resolved recently, and still retained her quarters there.

“You are very generous, ma’am, but perhaps I am not the best—”

“Mr. Brown will be happy to do more readings for you, to help you get more in touch with the spirits.”

“I’m sure that won’t be necess—”

“Mama, I want to help discover the plot. We must prevent any deaths from occurring.” Beatrice’s eyes flared with anticipation.

“Now, Baby, don’t you want to stay by your mama’s side? We have so much correspondence for which we need your help addressing envelopes, and you told Mr. Caradoc you were ready to start your painting lessons.”

As quickly as it was ignited, the light in Beatrice’s eyes was extinguished. “Of course, Mama.”

“Mrs. Harper, we will await your findings.”

This was Violet’s cue to leave. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

Violet backed out of the room, bewildered by the task she had been assigned. Did this just amount to a game Mr. Brown was playing to entertain the queen, or was it possible that there was some sort of treasonous plot being contrived in whispers and secret rendezvous inside the queen’s own residence? He didn’t actually mean to imply there would be a murder within the safety of the palace walls, did he?

Violet sighed heavily as she made the short walk from Buckingham Palace to her quarters at St. James’s Palace. How had she just gone from royal undertaker to royal snoop?

Winterbourne Manor, Wiltshire

Reese Meredith poured out some more neat’s-foot oil on his cloth and applied it to the brass-studded leather harness. He rubbed it in, darkening the rich brown leather.

Setting it aside for the moment, he picked up another harness and applied more oil to it. Reese had learned to leave the harnesses to sit for some time before buffing them out. Lord Christie was exceedingly particular about the condition of any of his property viewed by the public, and everything having to do with his horses and carriages was prized. It required only one spittle-filled lecture and cuff on the ears by Mr. Parks, the stable master, to ensure Reese never presented a ride for Lord Christie that wasn’t gleaming, sparkling, sleek, brushed, and burnished.

Reese put the second harness down, picked the former back up, and applied a new cloth to it, rubbing with vigor. When he was finished, the leather was smooth and supple and he could nearly see his reflection in the brass.

Mr. Parks couldn’t have any complaint today.

Reese sat straight on his stool and put a hand to his lower back. Och, how it hurt to sit here for hours. Being in the saddle was much better, even if it was in the form of hanging on to the back of a carriage as a groom.

He supposed he couldn’t complain about the job, though. After service to the Crown in the cavalry, fighting in China ten years ago to legalize opium trade and open all of China to British merchants, he’d come home to find few positions for a man of his considerable military skills.

Reese had been lucky to find this position as groom to the Earl of Baverstock. The pay was terrible and the hours long, but Reese was used to that.

He picked up a third harness. Five more to go.

No, what had surprised him was that his employer had as little respect for him as the army officers had. Punishments were the same, too: docked pay, bread-and-water rations, and the occasional cuffing.

Reese’s military training and exploits made him a quick learner, though: Keep your head bowed, obey without question, and don’t do anything too stupid, unless you thought you could pull off something glorious and worthy of reward.

“Meredith, did you see today’s paper?” Kip Runyon, a fellow groom who enjoyed lording his literacy over Reese, casually sauntered in with the folded paper under his arm. Reese wasn’t completely ignorant; he just didn’t have as much learning as most. Runyon, though, believed himself to be a better man because he could read and do sums faster than men such as Reese.

Reese snapped a strap of leather. It cracked loudly inside the small room attached to the stable.

“No, been too busy. Can’t put my feet up on a stool all day long the way you do.”

Not rising to the bait Reese tossed out, Runyon instead smirked in his usual irritating way. “I s’pose those of us with more than porridge between our ears end up with leisure time. Look there, a bit of manure on your boot. Won’t want the master to see that.”

Reese looked down. There was indeed some crusted dung on his toe. “They isn’t my riding boots, numbskull. You too busy with newsprint to notice even the simplest things about your job anymore?”

Runyon didn’t reply and instead leaned against the planked wall and began speaking about the article he was reading. “Ah, a fire over in Trowbridge. Burned down some lord’s house and stables. Four Welsh cobs and two Cleveland Bays lost. Shame about the beasts.” He flipped the page and scanned some more.

“Some chap named Sainsbury has opened a fresh foods shop in London. Promises perfect quality and lower prices to all shoppers. Sure, no chalked milk or coppered pickles from him, eh?”

Reese ignored Runyon, picking up another harness and pouring out more neat’s-foot oil.

“What else do we see here? Hmm.” He turned another page. “What’s this? A riot over in Wales, in Flintshire. That’s where you’re from, isn’t it?”

“Yes, what of it? You think I had something to do with it?” Reese had worked hard to eliminate his Welsh dialect, but somehow people always discovered where he was from.

“Don’t be so tetchy. Nobody’s accusing you of anything. Where was I? Yes, here it is. Yes, very interesting. That will ruffle a few feathers in London, won’t it, now? So much terrible destruction.”

God, but Runyon was irritating. How was such a horse’s rear Mr. Park’s favorite? Reese considered planting his manure-covered toe firmly up that rear but didn’t think the docked pay was worth it. He wiped down the harness in his hands a few more times, then let out a beleaguered sigh.

“So, Runyon, won’t you tell me what the article says?”

The other footman deliberately raised an eyebrow.

“Please,” Reese said through gritted teeth.

“Sure, happy to help those less fortunate than me. A couple of days ago, two colliers were sentenced to jail for attacking their pit manager. Townsfolk didn’t like it and attacked the police escort. The pit manager must have been one mean buzzard, eh? Soldiers were brought in, and they shot and killed several people.”

Reese frowned. “Does it say who was killed?”

“Let’s see, yes, two colliers, Robert Hannaby and Edward Bellis, were both killed. A local maidservant, Margaret Younghusband of Chester, was shot and killed. And the wife of a collier was also killed. Shot in the back, she was. Now that’s just not proper. These soldiers get worked up and think they can just—what’s wrong with you, Meredith? You look green.”

Reese tried to maintain his balance on the stool, but everything was spinning and he knew he’d soon be sharing the straw-covered floor with the remaining dirty harnesses.

He swallowed and licked his lips. “What was the name of the maidservant again?” His voice came out as a dim croaking in his ears.

“Margaret Younghusband. You know her?”

Reese took a deep breath, trying to get some semblance of control over his racing heart and the endless swirling of mental images adding to his unbalance. “What? No. Her name sounded familiar, but I’m sure I don’t know her.”

Och, Margaret, what happened? What were ooh doing there?

He ignored the trickle of sweat trailing down past his ear. The room was coming back into focus again. “What else does it say? Has the queen or Parliament made comment?”

Runyon scanned the article again. “No, no proclamation from Buckingham Palace. I guess the queen’s too busy getting her children married off to the crowned princes and princesses of Europe to be worried about a few grubby Welsh coal miners.”

“Right,” Reese said. Margaret, I’m sorry I wasn’t there to protect you.

“Well, back to work. Lady Christie wants to go into town and won’t be kept waiting, will she, eh?”

With Runyon gone, Reese savored the silence as he mechanically returned to his work, unsure what else to do. Questions of Why? and What happened? were swirling around inside his throat, choking him, like the dust that billowed from the thundering of horses’ hooves on a dry road.

He gathered up the harnesses and staggered to his feet, still not quite sure he’d heard aright. A local maidservant, Margaret Younghusband of Chester, was shot and killed.

Swallowing to keep his stomach from lurching the contents of his boiled egg and cold ham breakfast onto the tack room floor, he focused on hanging each harness on its proper hook. Saddles, harnesses, and stirrups were all identified by the specific riders for each animal at Winterbourne Manor. Woe betide a footman or groom who got them mixed up.

That done, he stumbled out of the room and into the stables themselves. No one there; good. Finding an empty stall, devoid of a horse that must be now carrying Lady Christie on her errand, he huddled in a corner where no one could see him.

He knew he’d end up covered in straw that would never come out of his clothes and it would undoubtedly earn him a cuff or two, but it didn’t matter for the moment.

As a member of the King’s Dragoon Guards, Reese had witnessed plenty of death during the opium war, all of it sickening and much of it committed by him. He’d hacked at men from atop a saddle while sloshing through disease-infested waters, even as horses were cut out from under him. He’d severed, stabbed, and shot dozens in the name of queen and country.

He’d also seen his fellow cavalry members destroyed before his eyes. Being on the receiving end of a friend’s intestines after he was sliced open next to you was enough to make any man cower in terror.

But not Reese Meredith. He barely noticed any of it. After years of working in the grimy, brutal conditions of the coal mines, war was almost a relief. At least it was all conducted outdoors, instead of underground.

But this, this, was cracking his heart like a pickax against a coal face. He covered his face with his hands. Margaret, was this my fault for leaving you behind?

After several minutes of heaving and sobbing, with no one to hear him except a few mares, snuffling anxiously at the sounds, Reese wiped his face on his sleeve—also cuff worthy—and reined in his thoughts. In time, he heard the telltale clopping of horseshoes. Lady Christie had returned and Runyon was bringing the horses back.

Reese slipped out of the stable stall before he was caught. As he returned to his duties, he decided upon one thing.

Someone should pay, and pay dearly, for murdering his sweet Margaret.

Two letters awaited Violet at the palace, one from Susanna and one from Sam. Violet set Sam’s aside to savor later and opened the one from her daughter, which was full of newsy tidbits about her work in Violet’s undertaking shop in Colorado during her absence. Susanna left the most important news for the end.

Violet couldn’t bear the thought of missing her daughter’s wedding, either. To think that she would be delayed in order to chase filmy spirits up and down parquet hallways was beyond mortal comprehension.

It had been months since she’d left Colorado, yet she had to admit to being happy back in London. Despite the fog swirling in the streets, the smuts blackening the air, and the dark alleys inhabited by thieves, prostitutes, and worse, London had always been home to her. She’d learned her trade here, and she’d embalmed hundreds—perhaps even thousands—of its citizens, making her part of both the city’s present and its past.

So although she missed Colorado’s blue skies, the grandeur of its mountain vistas, and its sense of endless possibilities, it was good to be in London, especially since Sam was with her. Well, he was in nearby Wales, but only temporarily. If only Susanna were here, instead of thousands of miles away . . .

Violet also had the Suez Canal ceremony to consider. After the last service she had performed for the queen, Victoria had given Sam and her a royal invitation to attend the opening of the Suez Canal in Egypt. The waterway was scheduled to be opened in November. It was now June. How could she ever possibly discover the plot at the palace, return to Colorado for Susanna’s wedding, and then rejoin the entourage in London and head to Cairo before November?

It wasn’t likely.

She sighed in frustration. It was difficult to be in service to the queen, since the queen’s demands came before everything else, including a husband and daughter to whom you wanted to devote much time.

This was probably why Victoria was usually highly incensed when any of her palace staff had the desire to marry. The very audacity of it!

Violet put Susanna’s letter aside. This decision would require discussion with Sam. Perhaps he could head back to Colorado for the wedding. She imagined the scene at the church, with her spot in the pew empty, and felt a nervous flutter in her stomach.

It just wouldn’t do. She had to resolve the queen’s problem, created by Mr. Brown for unknown reasons, and return home to Colorado as soon as possible. Besides, she’d purchased Susanna a beautiful pair of dolls, wearing exact replicas of the wedding garb worn by the Prince and Princess of Wal. . .