Free The Mourning Bells by Christine Trent Page A

a more prominent place in undertaking.
    Susanna, though, was insistent that Violet should pursue the situation on her own, as there was certainly an abnormality to it, and no one else was interested enough to investigate.
    Sam shook his head in good-natured resignation. “I won’t forbid it, but I sense that somehow this perfectly innocent circumstance will erupt into mayhem as soon as you get involved with tugging on the strings of the truth.”
    As she readied for bed that night, Violet was conflicted. Sam was right, of course, both in that there was nothing to explore and that she did have a way of ending up in trouble. Yet she couldn’t help but think that Susanna was also right. It simply wasn’t normal for bodies to rise from coffins. Why, no one even knew who either man was. Wouldn’t there be relatives and loved ones eager for news?
    Sam was already gently snoring as she finished pulling the pins from her hair. Having her body tightly corseted and her tresses firmly pinned each day made the undressing ritual a blissful relief. As she sat before the mirror in her nightdress, firmly ignoring the parts of her that were not quite as trim as they used to be, she gently drew an ivory comb with very fine teeth through her hair, careful not to let it catch in any tangles.
    The movement was soothing, and the teeth rubbing against her scalp felt like a rather nice scratching. As Violet combed, she contemplated what to do. Susanna thought the situation deserved attention, but Susanna also seemed enthralled by the excitement of it. If Violet did pursue it, would Susanna want to assist and then never go home to Colorado?
    Violet chastised herself for such a disloyal thought. It was joyous to have her daughter with her. Besides, who knew when they might see each other again?
    That was no reason to chase phantoms, though. Sam was probably right in his opinion, and she would be wasting precious undertaking time to continue. After all, who chases down a nonmurder? Someone who has lived instead of dying? It was ridiculous.
    She put the comb down and stared at the dark liquid in the bowl before her. Susanna had brought several issues of Godey’s Lady’s Book, a popular monthly American magazine, and one issue recommended black tea for ensuring a good head of glossy dark hair.
    Violet sighed. She had never cared about such things when she was younger, but now that she was approaching forty, vanity had pushed its way into her life and refused to leave. She’d thought using Castile soap once each week, combined with vigorous nightly brushing to distribute the oils in her hair, was enough, but Mrs. Hale, the magazine’s editor, insisted otherwise.
    She dipped all ten fingers into the small bowl of tea-infused water, sprinkled the tea from her fingers onto her scalp, then gently rubbed her scalp, going back and dipping her fingers in the tea repeatedly.
    That done, Violet picked up her boar’s-hair brush that had an ivory handle to match the comb, and used it in long, even strokes from her scalp to the ends of her hair. The sensation was even more relaxing than that of the comb and enabled Violet to think further on the matter that troubled her.
    Even if Sam was correct and there was nothing criminal to consider, would it really hurt to investigate a little further? But what should she do next? Whom should she visit? Or revisit?
    Undoubtedly, Mr. Crugg was at the top of Susanna’s list. But as Violet thought about it, she realized that he didn’t fit her opinion that whoever had mishandled the bodies had been incompetent. Crugg might be vile and resentful, but Violet had no reason to think he was unfit for his work.
    What about Mr. Upton, the octopus-like man who had so cleverly repulsed her questions about safety coffins and Brookwood? Perhaps another visit to him, with a box of Fry’s chocolate blocks, might elicit a few substantial answers.
    Furthermore, what about Mr. Vernon, who was disposing of paupers and other