Stolen Remains by Christine Trent Read Free Book Online Page A

Violet asked. “I’ve traveled extensively today.”
    “Yes, beg pardon, where are my manners? Everything is just so . . . so . . .”
    “Of course it is. Why don’t you let me take care of things here? Also, could you cover the dining room table with a cloth? Something dark, if you have it.”
    Mrs. Peet went down the hall to the servants’ staircase, where she disappeared down into the kitchen.
    Violet looked up at the man who still stood at the top of the staircase. “Mr. Hurst?” she asked.
    The man walked, or, rather, lumbered down the stairs. He was a giant of a man, powerfully built, with neatly clipped side-whiskers on a broad face. His clothing was of better-than-average quality. This was no ordinary policeman.
    She handed him her card. He glanced at it only briefly before tucking it inside his coat. “ ‘Undertaking and embalming services for Golden City, in the Colorado Territory,’ eh? You’re an undertaker far from home, aren’t you? Magnus Pompey Hurst, chief inspector at Scotland Yard at your service . . . Mrs. Harper, is it? We were informed that you’d be undertaking the funeral.”
    His stature matched his name. He just needed a centurion’s cloak and helmet crest, and Violet would swear he was ready to go to battle with Caesar against the Gallic tribes.
    “Yes, I have been greatly honored by the queen. However, first I would like to know why Lord Raybourn is on the floor twenty-four hours after his death, then I want you to help me place the poor man on the dining room table so I can properly attend to him. He deserves respect and honor, not to be ignominiously left on the ground like a stricken deer.”
    Hurst visibly stiffened, his welcoming smile gone. “Excuse me, Mrs. Harper, but I am the detective in charge of this investigation, and I left Lord Raybourn here while certain matters were looked into. From the coroner’s report, however, and my own observations, I am convinced this was a suicide.”
    “I see. Yet still the man lies without dignity on the floor.”
    “You might have noticed that the family undertaker was already here, but because I was given instructions to wait for you, I turned Mr. Crugg away.”
    “Nonetheless, from the ugly smears here and over here, it looks as though you’ve wiped some blood from the floor, so surely you could have found the time and decency to make Lord Raybourn more comfortable.”
    “He is beyond feeling or caring about anything, Mrs. Harper. Surely you of all people understand this.”
    “What I don’t understand is your attitude as someone who is entrusted with the care of his body.”
    “Scotland Yard is entrusted with justice and to chase down hardened criminals who perpetrate the most heinous of crimes, ensuring safety for all Londoners.”
    “A pretty speech, sir. I, too, am entrusted with justice—for the deceased’s earthly remains. To ensure its safe and solemn carriage to the grave.”
    Hurst shook his head and muttered unintelligibly under his breath. “Beg your pardon, madam, but you are a strange one, indeed. Very well, let’s fix Lord Raybourn up all dainty and proper. Maybe we’ll all take tea with him in His Lordship’s study. Mr. Pratt!” he shouted up the stairs.
    Violet heard the sound of multiple pairs of feet moving around. To her surprise, three more people appeared at the landing and came down. One was another man dressed similarly to Mr. Hurst except younger, wearing a black jacket and looking more rumpled, in addition to a man and woman around Violet’s own age.
    The woman was tall, blond, regal, and elegantly dressed enough to tell Violet that she was a family member. The man next to her was . . . Stephen Fairmont. Was this poised, self-assured gentleman the same boy she had once chased in and around the stables at Willow Tree House?
    He looked at her quizzically. “Hello, don’t I know you?”
    Violet proffered a hand in greeting. “You do, indeed. I’m Violet Sinclair, now Violet