Death at the Abbey by Christine Trent Page A

bringing Sam along. Would Mr. Reed feel obligated to entertain her husband as penance for his churlish behavior? Would Portland believe Violet to be taking advantage of the privilege she had in taking care of one of his workers?
    Who knew what they would think about using dynamite? Queen Victoria herself had been horrified at the prospect when Violet had once told her that Sam was pursuing it.
    Violet’s thoughts were muddled, and she knew it. But ultimately, she needed to do this for her husband, no matter what her concerns were.
    â€œOf course. I’d be happy to do it.” Violet wasn’t at all happy about it, but wanted to please her husband. If she knew the troubles that lay ahead for Sam, though, she would have stamped her foot in protest.

8
    I t was with great trepidation that Violet now stood in Mr. Reed’s cottage, which served as both his office and his home, and stood a distance behind the kitchen gardens. The small building stood amid several other wood cottages with thatched roofs, and all looked as though they had been built in recent years but purposely made to look old and pastoral.
    With things back to normal after yesterday’s funeral, the roar and clanging of construction continued unabated around them. Reed seemed not to notice it, Sam looked thrilled, and Violet felt queasy.
    Within moments of introduction, Sam was deeply animated in his description of dynamite and its potential for Welbeck’s underground projects, and Reed was nodding in interest, seemingly unperturbed by Sam’s drawling American accent. With Violet all but forgotten, she decided to leave the men to their discussion, which would probably end up lingering over cigars and whisky, despite the early hour.
    Besides, there were intermittent clouds already brewing, so she might as well take advantage of whatever sun was left to examine the area where Mr. Spencer had fallen.
    No one questioned Violet’s unexpected presence as she made her way back past the tunnel, which she now saw led from somewhere beneath the house to a set of stables in the distance. No one, actually, even seemed to remember that Spencer had died mere days ago. He was already forgotten like the fallen autumn leaves—once young and green and soaking in life, then quickly swept up by the wind, never to be seen again.
    The grass was still damp from the morning’s dew, and soon her hem was wet from pacing methodically back and forth across the area of the lawn where Burton Spencer had been found.
    There was still the stain of blood where his head had lain. The rock was no longer here. Had Violet dropped it somewhere after showing it to Kirby, Reed, and LeCato?
    She retraced the general steps they had taken to get Spencer’s body to the house, but couldn’t find it. Well, perhaps it wasn’t important.
    She could find nothing else of any interest near the death site. Discouraged, she went back to Reed’s cottage to collect Sam, but the two men were still in deep conversation, standing over a large map, which they were marking up with charcoal pencils.
    Violet decided to seek a cup of tea from Mrs. Garside. Unsurprisingly, the cook and her kitchen maid, Judith, were in the roasting room, billowing the aroma of golden chicken up into the house.
    â€œMrs. ’Arper, you ’ave returned,” the cook said, but there was no malice in her voice. Instead, she seemed to welcome the undertaker’s company. Violet soon understood why as she waited in the kitchen garden beneath a walnut tree whose bounty had been recently harvested, if the scattered shell pieces were any indication. Upon bringing a tray out to Violet, Mrs. Garside’s voice turned conspiratorial.
    â€œI was right, then, wasn’t I, madam?” the cook said, setting the tray on a folding table next to Violet’s lawn chair and pouring out steamy, fragrant souchong tea.
    â€œPardon me, you were right regarding what, Mrs.