Death at the Abbey by Christine Trent

cream to his face and forehead, then combed his freshly washed and dried hair. “Sir, I believe you are ready for your ceremony, and you may rely upon me to get you to Worksop safely.”
    As Violet cleared up her supplies, set the used washbasin and cloths outside the dining room door for pickup by whichever maid wandered past, and headed back to her room, she considered what had transpired over the last day. It was baffling, from the duke’s oddities to Colonel Mortimer’s confusing claim of a murder, to her realization that someone had indeed been killed.
    Had it been an accident, or had someone maliciously attacked Spencer? If it was just an accident resulting from an argument, why hadn’t the other party immediately run for help?
    Violet shook her head. She’d spent too much time investigating suspicious deaths, and now she assumed that everyone had dark histories and motives.
    And yet it was obvious that Spencer had been abandoned after he fell, although no one had taken pains to try and hide his body. Did the killer want Spencer to be found? If so, why? Was there something of importance about Spencer that was not obvious at a cursory glance? He certainly carried nothing of value upon him. In fact, he carried nothing at all. After all, he was merely an estate worker.
    Moreover, what about the ostensible witness to Spencer’s death, Colonel Mortimer? Was he merely mistaken about exactly what he had witnessed in the dark shadows, or had he intentionally misled the duke?
    Violet tucked her undertaking bag back inside her bedchamber’s armoire before heading out to visit the vicar. At least inside a church there would be calm and peace for a few minutes. Maybe Reverend Appleton could offer her a blessing, or a few words of comfort.

    Violet stopped to send her telegrams to Harry and to Boyce and Sons, then shopped for black ostrich feather plumes at a milliner’s shop before walking to Worksop Priory. The church was located in the center of town as so many were since towns frequently centered around the fairs, festivals, and other activities sponsored by a local chapel or cathedral. It had a magnificent nave and appeared to have been recently restored, although it was obvious that many parts of the church and its outbuildings still required repair, even three hundred years after Henry VIII’s rampage. Violet supposed that sacred spaces were not candidates for hasty rebuilding projects. That, or most of the local men were busy at Welbeck Abbey.
    The Reverend James Appleton was probably as old as the duke, but had a head full of snowy white hair and a step full of vigor. Had it not been for his lined face, Violet would have thought he was half his age.
    â€œYes, I’ve had word about the tragic accident at Welbeck,” he said, inviting Violet to sit down in his cramped study, which was heaped with Bibles, yellowed parchment manuscripts, translations of classical ancient works, and sacramental supplies: chalices, candles, and linens. It was as if the Almighty had blown a mighty breath through the door, leaving His marks behind in a jumble.
    Violet sat in an old leather chair and immediately jumped up at the feeling of something sharp poking her. She lifted the cushion to find a gold-plated crucifix beneath it. The shape of the Christ was very realistically portrayed on it.
    â€œAh, a thousand apologies, Mrs. Harper. I wondered where that went.” Appleton took it from her and inserted the base of it inside a staff and then placed the staff on the wall behind him, with the horizontal bar of the cross resting upon two nails. “So you wish to have Mr. Spencer’s funeral tomorrow?”
    Appleton pulled a ledger from the bottom of a tottering pile of books. He was obviously experienced at doing so because the stack wobbled precariously for several moments but did not collapse. “My curate is away, so I’ve been handling details large and small. Let me see . .