The Mourning Bells

Book 0: Lady of Ashes Mystery

by Christine Trent

Genres: Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

A living man is rescued from a coffin on its way to the cemetery—in a puzzling whodunit with an “interesting exploration of Victorian mourning practices” (Kirkus Reviews).

One of Victorian London's most respected undertakers, Violet Harper has the new duty of accompanying coffins from various undertakers on the London Necropolis Railway for respectful funerals and burials in Surrey. But on her fateful first trip, the mournful silence of the train is shattered by the shrill ringing of a coffin bell—a device that prevents a person from being buried alive.

Inside the coffin Violet finds a man wide-eyed with fear, claiming he was falsely interred. When a second coffin bell is rung on another trip, Violet grows suspicious. She voices her qualms to Inspector Hurst of Scotland Yard, only to receive a puzzling reply that, after all, it is not a crime to rise from the dead.

But Violet's instincts are whispering that all is not well on the London Necropolis Railway's tracks. Is this all merely the result of clumsy undertaking, or is there something more sinister afoot? Determined to get to the heart of the matter, Violet uncovers a treacherous plot and villains who will stop at nothing to keep a lid on her search for the truth . . .

Release date: April 1, 2015

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 280

Sample

August 2, 1869

Until today, undertaker Violet Harper would have sworn that it was impossible for corpses to rise out of their coffins.

Now, she wasn’t so sure.

The sun was just breaking over the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral when Violet entered Waterloo station to stand on a dedicated funeral train platform with her undertaking partner, Harry Blundell. They were both watching as six coffins, including one under their own care, were loaded into the long compartments on the railroad hearse van, which contained twelve total slots. Each compartment in the van had a door in the side of it, past which a coffin was pushed so that it lay perpendicular to the train’s length. The coffins, stacked in individual compartments, were three high and four wide in the wood carriage. These special carriages were made especially for the London Necropolis Railway and painted chocolate brown, edged in an orange-red vermilion, to match the carriages of the London and South Western Railway, upon whose tracks the LNR ran.

Coffins were placed on large biers with hand cranks by the coffin porters, who wore simple dark-blue uniforms and matching hats with large brims and flat crowns. With one man on the ground cranking the bier up, the second coffin porter rode on the bier and pushed the coffin into its compartment, and was then cranked to the ground for the next coffin.

As the last coffin was pushed into its compartment on the ground level—a little too carelessly, in Violet’s opinion—she noticed that it bore a maker’s plate from Boyce and Sons Cabinetmakers. It reminded her that she wanted to set up dealings with Putnam Boyce again, now that she was permanently back in her London undertaking business.

But the coffin was hung up on something, and as one of the coffin porters pulled it back out to reposition it, she noticed something disturbing. She held up a hand to stop them.

“What’s the matter, Mrs. Harper?” Harry asked in irritation. Harry’s wife was expecting, and although she wasn’t due for at least a month, he was always impatient to return to the immediate area surrounding their shop.

She waved him off as she moved closer to inspect the coffin. It was one of those confounded “safety” coffins, intended to give loved ones comfort with the idea that if the deceased were not truly dead, he could send an alarm aboveground and be rescued even after burial.

Violet heartily despised these so-called safety contraptions, which took the form of bells, trumpets, and even ladders in vertical coffins, by which someone who awoke to find himself mistakenly buried could literally climb up a ladder and out of his grave.

No matter how often Violet railed against these foolish mechanisms, firmly telling people that only the return of the Lord Christ would cause people to waken in their graves, people still wanted them as a measure of comfort. And as always, unscrupulous undertakers were happy to sell them.

This one had a bell apparatus, with a bell attached to a string following along a folding brass pole that would be unfolded after the coffin went into the ground so that the bell sat above the freshly shoveled dirt.

Violet’s insides churned. If she opened the coffin, she would undoubtedly find a string tied to the deceased’s fingers and toes, so that with the merest of tugs, he could set the bell jangling.

More frustrating was that this coffin had been made by Putnam Boyce, a respected cabinetmaker whom Violet had used in the past. Most cabinetmakers made coffins during their slow times, for there was always demand for them in a mortal population. Mr. Boyce’s coffins were well crafted, with tightly fitted lids and smooth surfaces. Why, then, was he peddling safety coffins?

Perhaps she would have to rethink her plan to purchase coffins from him.

“Thank you,” she said simply to the two coffin porters, who were still looking at her in bewilderment as to why she was halting their work. They pushed the coffin off the bier and into the compartment. With the last coffin now placed inside the hearse van, the train was ready for its journey from Waterloo station to Brookwood station in Woking, Surrey.

Violet climbed into the passenger carriage with Harry. They would accompany Mr. Harland’s body to the cemetery, making final arrangements at the chapel until his family arrived later in the day for the funeral.

The LNR had been in operation since 1854, but Violet had only recently become involved with it. Although she had sold Morgan Undertaking to Harry Blundell and his partner, Will Swift, four years ago, Will had recently asked her to buy him back out so that he could join his wife’s floral business. During his time with Morgan Undertaking, though, Will had built up a considerable business with wealthy patrons who wanted to start family crypts far outside the stench and overcrowding of London.

Not content with some of London’s garden cemeteries, such as Highgate and Kensal Green, they were flocking to Brookwood, which its owners bragged had enough spaces that London need never build another cemetery again. Clearly the gentlemen had no experience with what happened in a cholera or typhoid outbreak, where deaths in the thousands could occur in the space of a few weeks.

However, coffins at the 2,200-acre Brookwood didn’t have to be buried in the crowded manner that they did at these other cemeteries, and certainly didn’t need to be stacked up to six high as they did inside the ancient and overflowing church graveyards. The owners’ idea of creating a cemetery that could accommodate millions of bodies when fully developed—thus alleviating the need to ever build another London cemetery again—was commendable.

The funeral train pulled out of Waterloo with a steamy snort and a jarring lurch as Violet settled into her third-class compartment with Harry. This special train was only comprised of an engine, the hearse vans, and six passenger carriages. The passenger carriages were divided into two sections, conformist and nonconformist, with first-, second-, and third-class carriages within each religious section.

Conformist carriages were for those passengers who belonged to the Church of England, also called the Anglican church. The nonconformist carriages typically conveyed Presbyterians, Methodists, Baptists, Congregationalists, Unitarians, and Quakers, but might be those of other sects, as well. Special care was taken to ensure that people from different social backgrounds and religious leanings didn’t have to be distressed by having to mix with others of a different class.

The train ran a single, hour-long route from Waterloo to Woking, southwest of London, so it certainly had no beds or Pullman dining carriages, but it did have comfortable enough seats for the hour’s ride, even in third class. The first-class seats included plush cushions, chandeliers, filigreed ornamentation, glass windows instead of bare openings, and doting attendants, but such fripperies were never Violet’s concern when there were bodies to be looked after.

The only real inconvenience was having to travel at dawn with the bodies and wait at the cemetery for the train to return to London to pick up mourners at the more civilized hour of eleven thirty in the morning. If the number of mourners for the day justified it, later trains followed.

There were always details to attend to at Brookwood, but it was still earlier in the morning than Violet cared to rise.

The train conductor stepped into their carriage, nodded at Violet, Harry, and the other two undertakers in the car, and passed on through to the next carriage via the open platform between them. The undertakers were always recognized by their severe black dress and tall hats with black crape wrapped around the base of the crown and trailing down their backs. However, the conductor had to dutifully check for any stowaways who might attempt to board the train for a free ride.

Now that they were in relative privacy, seated across from each other, Harry asked, “Do you feel well, Mrs. Harper?”

Violet had had violent experiences with trains in the past, having been involved in a wreck and also having witnessed a train hitting a murderer who had fallen from a platform. She had largely overcome her resulting fear of the hulking, steam-breathing beasts, but always felt an unwelcome twinge as the whistle shrilly blew and the engine started its laborious forward motion.

“Yes, I’m fine,” she assured him, even as she swallowed the unpleasant taste in her mouth.

Harry nodded knowingly and then proceeded to change the subject. “What did you notice on the platform?”

“A bit of false hope by loved ones preyed upon by an unscrupulous undertaker. A bell safety coffin.”

“Really? How fascinating. I was reading in the latest issue of Funeral Service Journal that an American named Vester has developed a new safety coffin that adds a tube connected to a viewing glass inside the coffin.” He seemed eager to share both his knowledge and the evidence of his willingness to research the latest in undertaking. “That way, the face of the corpse can be viewed from above. An interesting solution to the inadvertent bell-ringing problem.”

Harry referred to the fact that the swelling or position shifting that naturally occurred when the body began to decay would frequently cause the body to ring the bell and send people into a frenzy of grave digging. A viewing tube would enable a mourner or cemetery worker to look down and determine whether the coffin’s occupant was still alive.

Not that it mattered, for coffins held very little air, perhaps two hours’ worth at most, and so unearthing a coffin in time to rescue someone buried alive was nearly impossible.

Violet was displeased with her own grumpiness but unable to condone even a discussion of the infernal contraptions. She turned dismissively to the window to avoid any further discussion of safety coffins and the deceptive reassurance they gave grieving families. Instead, she contemplated the packed and soot-covered hovels of south London. That dreary cityscape soon opened up to impressive country estates, the rich red-brown coats of Sussex cattle, and the spires of crumbling country churches.

Brookwood station’s main platform was deserted except for a few LNR workers, as to be expected so early on this August morning. There were two separate substations serving the cemetery: The North station was located in the center of the nonconformist section, whereas the South station was situated on the east edge of the Anglican cemetery.

The train chugged gently past the main platform and on to the North station, where Violet and Harry remained seated as the nonconformist coffins were unloaded from their hearse van. They then continued on to the South station, where Mr. Harland and the other remaining bodies were unloaded.

Undertakers sometimes neglected to accompany bodies to Brookwood, a failure Violet found shameful and a dereliction of their moral duties. The deceased certainly deserved the respect of an attendant, but many undertakers did not want to rise before the cock’s crow to take a third-class ride an hour outside of London.

The nonconformist third-class carriage always carried whatever undertakers were accompanying the train to Surrey so that they were immediately on hand for the coffin unloading. Also, since they rode for free, the LNR wasn’t about to provide them with luxury accommodation.

Violet suppressed a yawn. Perhaps the lazy undertakers did have a point about these arduous trips.

Soon, she and Harry stood on the South station platform amid a scattering of coffins, waiting for the LNR’s horse-drawn biers to arrive from the company’s stables. It was unusual for these conveyances to not be at the ready.

Harry looked particularly irritated. Violet touched his arm to comfort him. “All will be well, you’ll see. We cannot return until after the funeral anyway, remember?”

He dropped his scowl. “You’re right, Mrs. Harper. I’m just anxious over what the next month will bring. . . .”

“I understand.” Violet moved to sit on a backless bench, and Harry followed. The coffin porters were just cranking down the last box from the third level of the hearse van.

Violet watched their work in fascination, almost missing a man in a tall beaver-skin hat poking about one of the coffins as if looking for something. Violet would have thought he was another undertaker except he hadn’t been on the train, and his jacket was a light camel color. Perhaps he was a local fellow.

She paid him no more mind, for her attentions were diverted by a distinct sound that at first she unconsciously attributed to a servant’s bell. As it penetrated further into her senses, though, the hair stood up on the back of her neck.

Ting. Ting. Ting-a-ling.

Impossible!

Wide-eyed and with only a horrified glance at Harry, who looked as dumbstruck as she was, Violet jumped up from the bench and rushed to the sound.

It was coming from Mr. Boyce’s coffin. The bell, dangling down from the tip of the folded brass tubing, danced insistently now. Dropping her reticule to the ground, she knelt down and tugged ineffectively on the coffin lid. It was nailed down in several spots.

Harry was now at her side, and with the burly strength that enabled the man to single-handedly lift empty coffins and move them with effortless ease about the shop, he ripped the lid off as though he were merely opening a tin of biscuits. The two undertakers gasped in unison at the sight of the body inside. Instead of a lifeless corpse there was a man of about thirty years in a rumpled but high-quality frock coat. His coppery beard, mustache, and hair were flecked with early gray and closely cropped, but his bloodshot, pale-blue eyes were wild with panic as he struggled to sit up.

“Havfindabang,” the man slurred, weaving where he sat as he squinted in what was now bright morning light, like a mole popping out from its burrow.

Violet stared at him, speechless. She had been undertaking for more than fifteen years and had never, ever come across a body resurrecting itself. Dead bodies sometimes moved on their own, or made noises through the expulsion of gases, but this—this—was inconceivable. This was actually a body sitting up after having been dead for presumably at least a day. She shivered involuntarily, overcome by the implication of what it meant. Surely it was not possible that she herself had ever buried someone who was not truly, irrevocably dead....

She looked over at Harry, who obviously shared her shock in his unblinking eyes and gaping mouth.

“Sir, can you hear me?” Violet said, her voice quavering as she knelt next to the coffin, still in complete disbelief that she was actually witnessing a body arising from a coffin.

He recoiled from the sound of her voice. Harry, shaking his head in complete incredulity, reached in and lifted the man out effortlessly.

“May I be of help?” came an awestruck voice from behind Violet. It was the man in the light coat. She now saw that he was in his forties, and had thick, curly muttonchop whiskers. He, too, must have realized what had happened, for his face was drained of all color. “I am Byron Ambrose. I’m a doctor with offices nearby. I witnessed the, er, disturbing thing that just happened and can hardly believe my eyes. I cannot comprehend how this gentleman could have possibly—” Like Harry, the physician looked incredulous. “If I might have a moment with him to—”

“Misser ’Brose, havfindabang,” the man from the coffin repeated senselessly, still tottering and struggling to fully open his eyes.

The physician peered into the man’s eyes and pulled open the man’s mouth without asking for permission. “Fascinating,” he muttered as he looked inside. “Sir, can you understand me?” he asked.

“Yuh,” the man said dully, his eyes now darting about wildly. Violet couldn’t blame him. How must it feel to wake up in a dark coffin, with no room to move and with no understanding of why you were sequestered into such a tight space?

She shook her head in bewilderment. It was absolutely inconceivable that a dead man could have risen from his coffin. Wasn’t it?

The doctor was clearly as baffled as she was. “Sir, if you’ll come with me, I’d like to examine you.” He turned back to Violet. “I’ll help this man recuperate back at my office. His . . . recovery . . . is quite unusual, don’t you think? I’ll also help him back to his family.”

At that moment, the stationmaster arrived to see what the commotion had been. After Violet explained what had happened, the doctor interjected, “I’ll help the poor man home, Uriah.”

The stationmaster nodded. “That’s all right then, Mr. Ambrose.”

As the physician offered a supportive arm to the seemingly reincarnated man and the two walked unsteadily away, Violet turned to the stationmaster, who didn’t seem particularly surprised by the supernatural event they had just witnessed. “I am Violet Harper, and this is my associate, Harry Blundell.”

“Uriah Gedding, at your service, madam.” He politely touched the brim of his hat at her and shook Harry’s hand. He wore a dark blue uniform with red stripes up the sides of his trousers. His jacket, with brightly polished silver buttons running up both sides and a large red lapel, marked him as the important railway man he was.

“Sir, I presume you have never seen such a—a—such an extraordinary occurrence at your station before,” Violet said.

Gedding shrugged casually, although whether this was intended to convey that bodies sprang routinely from coffins at Brookwood or that he had no real answer for her, she couldn’t be sure.

“May I ask you a few questions, Mr. Gedding?” she asked. Surely the stationmaster would have answers about what had happened.

“Of course, madam.” Gedding led Violet and Harry into the one-story station, which was built around a square courtyard filled with pebbled pathways and flowering urns for viewing from anywhere inside.

One side of the square contained the first-class reception room for mourners dropped off by the late-morning train, while the other side housed the ordinary reception room for second- and third-class mourners. Gedding took them through the ordinary room to the offices that lay along the back side of the station. She knew that beyond the offices lay lodgings for certain railroad staff, Gedding included.

Gedding’s office was plain, with badly whitewashed walls covered with timetables, maps, and a single drawing obviously made by a child’s hand. There was an out-of-place floral tablecloth thrown over the table that served as his desk. A gift from his wife, no doubt.

As Violet and Harry settled into seats across the distracting fabric’s profusion of roses, lilies, and hyacinths, Gedding offered them tea. Violet waved a dismissing hand and instead pressed directly to the point. “Mr. Gedding, have you ever experienced what we just saw, a man seemingly rising from the dead out of his coffin?”

Gedding pondered the question only momentarily. “I can’t say that I have. I’m just glad there was no one else about for it except you two. Imagine a funeral party witnessing what happened. The Times would have flown reporters in on brooms for that news item, and the LNR would have been accused of intentionally shipping live bodies for profit or some such thing.” Gedding shuddered, presumably imagining reporters in warlock garb blocking out the sun as they swarmed into his station, laughing menacingly in low-pitched voices.

As if on cue, a sleek tan cat, with chocolate-colored paws, ears, and face, appeared from nowhere and jumped gracefully onto the tablecloth with a plaintive meow. Gedding absentmindedly reached out a hand to pet the animal, which turned to face Violet and Harry. The cat sat down, lazily blinking its sea-green eyes at them.

“Do you keep records about the bodies shipped on your trains?” Violet asked.

“Records?” the stationmaster asked, his face reflecting the confusion in his voice. “What kind of records?”

“The name of the deceased in each coffin, for one. Who the undertaker is, in which part of the cemetery the body will be buried, and so forth.”

Gedding scooped up the cat and embraced it to his chest. The cat climbed up and draped itself like a fur stole casually thrown over the shoulder by a wealthy woman. All Violet now saw was a pair of dangling legs and a swishing tail, although the animal’s purr resembled an incoming train.

“Mrs. Harper,” Gedding began, drawing himself up importantly in his chair. He put up an arm for the cat to prop its back legs on. “We are in the business of moving bodies, not doing an undertaker’s job. As you can imagine, anyone who can afford to pay to have a body shipped here is probably not going to abandon that body. We have never had an instance where a coffin went unclaimed.”

“But surely you—”

Gedding shifted the animal to his other shoulder, but the cat became irritated by the movement and leaped from its owner’s shoulder to the floor, disappearing out of the room in a feline huff. The stationmaster leaned forward and, with his elbows on the tablecloth, brought his hands together in a triangle. “Please understand. The LNR has not had a single complaint yet of a body being mishandled or disappearing. Families and undertakers hire us to put coffins on board, and they always—always—show up to collect them. It is vital that we maintain our sterling reputation, for we are not yet profitable, given our presently limited number of runs each day. Any bad publicity would . . .” Gedding spread out his hands expressively to indicate the disaster that would befall the company.

“I don’t think the London Necropolis Railway can be held accountable for what happened,” Harry assured the stationmaster.

Gedding immediately seized on this. “Yes, Mr. Blundell, you are absolutely correct. Besides, there has been no crime committed, has there? A man believed dead now lives. Mr. Ambrose is a respectable physician who will see to the man’s reunion with his lo. . .