Death at the Abbey by Christine Trent Page B

Garside?”
    â€œOh, Mrs. ’Arper, it’s no use being coy with me. You know I’m meaning ’Is Grace’s bird, Aristotle. ’Is death ’as already brought a bit of doom to Welbeck, ’asn’t it? What with that Burton Spencer falling and ’itting ’is ’ead.”
    Violet wasn’t sure how to respond. She wasn’t about to tell Welbeck’s cook that she suspected foul play.
    â€œI don’t think Mr. Spencer’s death, although tragic, constitutes doom for the estate,” Violet said, sipping her tea, its smoky aroma enveloping her. Souchong leaves were high-quality, and this pot was good and strong, made from new leaves, not reused ones that a servant would have for preparing tea downstairs, which indicated to Violet that Mrs. Garside was showing her a large degree of respect by brewing upstairs tea for her.
    â€œIt’s just the beginning, you mark my words, madam. There’s more to follow.” The cook nodded her head sagely. “It’s lucky you’re ’ere to bury all the bodies. I ’ear yesterday’s service was lovely. You’ll need to stay on longer for the others.”
    Violet couldn’t bring herself to tell Mrs. Garside there was no reason for there to be other deaths on the estate, for the cook spoke with unshakable assurance. Instead, she simply replied, “I shall keep my eyes open for any further bodies.”
    Satisfied, Mrs. Garside topped off Violet’s cup and returned to the kitchens.
    With the ever-present construction noises soon receding to a dull throb in her mind, Violet closed her eyes and simply enjoyed the warmth of the cup in her hands. It was impossible to keep her mind blank, however, and her thoughts drifted to the events of the past three days. Had it really been just three days since she had arrived to bury a bird? She shook her head. That was the strangest undertaking request ever made of her. But it had ensured she was on the premises when Spencer died, hadn’t it? That had certainly been a divine stroke of fate.
    Although if someone had murdered the estate worker, the killer might not leave fate’s handiwork alone, and instead take matters further into his own hands.
    â€œWhat did you do to earn a fatal beating, Mr. Spencer?” Violet whispered softly. “Was it done in the heat of the moment, or had you earned someone’s hatred over time?”
    She brought the warm cup to her lips again, tapping the side of it as she drank.
    A sudden thought came to her and her eyes flew open. Putting the cup on the tea tray, she reached for her reticule and dug through it, finally retrieving the porcelain shard she had found in Aristotle’s gullet.
    It occurred to Violet that when she had compared the shard to all of the duke’s dish sets in the storage room, she had merely held it up against the various porcelain designs, trying to match them. She hadn’t actually held any of the dishes in her hand to, say, compare heft or thickness. Perhaps Aristotle had choked on a piece of the servants’ dishware.
    Although, hadn’t Olive told her that His Grace ate on that, as well? The maid should have recognized it in either case.
    Furthermore, did it really matter what specific shard from a soup bowl or dessert plate the raven might have choked upon?
    Nevertheless, Violet liked for all of her undertaking jobs—no matter how strange—to wrap up tidily.
    She lifted her teacup again and drained it, then lifted the cup in her left hand and the shard in her right, twisting and turning them in comparison.
    Now that is strange.
    The shard was . . . different. It was of fine quality, better than that of the teacup and probably more like that of the stored, unused sets, yet it had an odd, translucent quality she hadn’t noticed before. What factory produced porcelain like this?
    Or was it even porcelain?
    If it wasn’t, what material was it? Something used in