Stolen Remains by Christine Trent Read Free Book Online

impact their daughters’ debuts into society.
    Carrying her black leather undertaker’s bag, she climbed the wide steps to the front door as the royal conveyance lumbered off. She paused, set the bag down, and readjusted her black top hat, making sure that the long, ebony silk tails were properly arranged down her back. Smoothing her dull crape skirts, she took a deep breath and twisted the bell handle.
    It rang loudly within the house. Violet’s policy was to always go to families through the front door, never a rear or servants’ entrance. Sometimes she was met by an angry wife or mother who took her for just another tradesman. In Violet’s mind, though, an undertaker became an intimate member of a family, even if for a very short time, and family members enter through the front door.
    The Raybourn door was opened by a housekeeper, her telltale chain of keys around her waist. She had arresting green eyes that made an otherwise plain face most compelling. The woman held a well-used handkerchief in her hand, and upon taking in Violet in her black hat with tails, unadorned black dress with matching gloves, and undertaker’s bag at her feet, the poor servant burst into loud sobs. She buried her face in her handkerchief with one hand while waving Violet in with the other.
    In typical townhome style, there were two connecting rooms to her right, a dining room and a drawing room, both much larger than in a middle-class residence such as where she used to live.
    Directly in front of her was a tiled hallway, and hugging the wall to her left was a staircase with heavily carved oak newel posts and balustrades. Oil paintings lined the wall up the stairs in a fantastic jumble of opulence probably leading up to two floors of bedrooms and then an attic of servants’ quarters.
    What lay on the floor was in stark contrast to the décor. Under a blanket lay a human form.
    “Is this Lord Raybourn?” Violet demanded. “Why is he still here? Why hasn’t someone at least carried him into the dining room?”
    The housekeeper snuffled and gulped. “Mister Hurst said that Lord Raybourn was not to be moved yet, not until certain investigations were complete.”
    “Not to be moved! The poor man has been dead for more than a day. You’ll have to help me, Mrs.—?”
    “Peet. Harriet Peet.”
    “I am Violet Harper.”
    “Are you Mr. Crugg’s assistant?”
    “Who?”
    “Mr. Crugg. The undertaker. He’s upstairs with Mr. Hurst right now.”
    As if on cue, a thin, wiry man, dressed similarly to Violet in solid black and carrying an undertaker’s bag, charged down the stairs. He grabbed his silk hat with tails from a coatrack and jammed it on his head, pausing at the sight of Violet. He wagged a finger at her.
    “So you’re my replacement. I’ve served the Fairmont family for many a year, and I’ll not sit idly by while some upstart woman comes along and thieves away my good business and precious reputation.”
    “Mr. Crugg, that will be enough.” A man wearing a cocoa-brown coat over rigidly creased black pants, and sporting thick, curly whiskers on either side of his face, appeared at the top of the staircase. “The queen has honored the family in her own way and there’s no sense in insulting Her Majesty’s chosen servant.”
    Servant! Violet was a respectable tradeswoman. She reached into her reticule for one of her calling cards.
    Mr. Crugg merely harrumphed, ignored the proffered card, and stepped casually over the remains of Lord Raybourn as he stormed out of the house.
    The housekeeper’s previously florid, swollen face now went white in disbelief as the front door slammed shut behind the family undertaker. Mr. Crugg obviously adhered to Violet’s philosophy on an undertaker’s status.
    Deaths were difficult for servants as well as for family members, Violet knew, and to have been this long in the house with her dead master lying on the floor must have been excruciating.
    “Mrs. Peet, might I have a cup of tea?”