Free The Mourning Bells by Christine Trent

up into the train while a porter stowed away her bier. Mrs. Danforth’s funeral party was in the first-class carriage, while Violet, of course, rode in the third-class carriage next to the hearse vans. There was no one else in her carriage, much to her relief as she wasn’t in the mood for conversation now that her insides were once again pestering her for sustenance.
    What she wanted even more than food, though, was a word of comfort from Sam. Should she forget about the seemingly resurrected bodies at Brookwood, or was there something to be done about it—a trail to follow, advice to seek, more people to question?
    Sam would know what to do.

    Sam was preoccupied with his investment meetings as they sat together once again in their bedchamber, the only place they had for privacy with Susanna and Benjamin staying with them. Sam had gone back around to all of the potential investors, but in the end they had all declined. He was too inexperienced in coal mining, said one. Too enthusiastic for that foreign fellow, Nobel, said another. One even told him he was too American, despite Sam’s having an English wife.
    “What will you do now?” Violet asked as she unpinned her watch from her bodice and removed her jet earrings and necklace.
    “I’ll go to Threadneedle Street and talk to the Bank of England, of course. After that, I’ll visit one or two private banks. I’ve made a list and plan to start with White, Ludlow, and Company in Haymarket and London East Bank in Cornhill. Among the three I expect one to bubble up with the funds in short order.”
    Poor Sam, to have endured such rejection. However, his optimism, so typical of the Americans, was infectious, and she was soon convinced that he would indeed soon have his coal mine financing in order. Not that she was altogether convinced about the wisdom of owning a mine. The deplorable conditions, the disease, the accidents . . .
    But Sam was convinced that a coal mine that used Mr. Nobel’s dynamite would be much safer, and he was determined to prove it so. Violet clamped down on her concerns, equally determined not to be a nagging wife.
    Later, at the dinner table, Sam said grace as was his usual habit, then took a bowl of carrot soup, cooked in the liquid from the previous night’s beef bones, from Mrs. Wren’s talons and served everyone. Violet announced what had happened at Brookwood, that yet another body had come out of his coffin, this time fleeing the scene immediately.
    “I’m wondering if I should go see Mr. Hurst at Scotland Yard about it.”
    Susanna enthusiastically bobbed her head up and down. “Yes, Mother, I think you should. Something very strange is happening. When have we ever seen one body, much less two, arise from coffins? Besides, I still think Mr. Crugg is up to something odious.”
    Benjamin eagerly agreed with his wife, patting Susanna on the shoulder. Was Violet mistaken, or had a shadow passed over Susanna’s face as he did so?
    Sam, though, shook his head. “I agree that there is something strange going on, but there is nothing criminal in it. Scotland Yard would chuckle, busy with solving crimes involving poor souls that have died, and suggest you visit one of the scandal sheets to have an article written about it, or that you have a medium accompany you next time and hold a séance over the coffin. I imagine the queen would be enthralled with the idea, and demand that Albert be exhumed immediately in case he might still be able to ring a bell.”
    “Papa!” Susanna exclaimed, her face a combination of shock and amusement over Sam’s pronouncement.
    Violet’s husband continued. “I could easily defend one of these undertakers in court. I would point to their wisdom in recommending safety coffins for their customers, as they now have been proved to work. And, sweetheart, maybe they do work.”
    Violet winced as though Sam’s words caused her physical pain. Her greatest fear was that he was right, and that safety coffins deserved