Free Death at the Abbey by Christine Trent

which had a tablecloth hastily thrown between it and the corpse, Violet allowed herself to be escorted to her rooms by Mrs. Neale. The door plaque read, “Old English Black Room,” and although it was located on an upper story with Portland, his suite overlooked the rear gardens and lake, whereas she was at the front of the home, overlooking the long drive and the ongoing tunnel construction.
    â€œAm I in this room because it is complete, or because the name is a play on my profession and dark clothing?” Violet asked.
    â€œNeither, madam,” Mrs. Neale said as she shook out one of her dozens of keys and inserted it into the lock. “His Grace is a well-known horseman and has named the guest rooms after extinct breeds. We all get lessons in them. Let me see, William the Conqueror was responsible for the Old English Black breed by crossing some of the brutes he brought over the Channel with some English mares, if I recall correctly. The other rooms on this floor are the Norfolk Trotter, the Irish Hobby, and the Cheval Navarrin.”
    â€œAre those rooms also finished?” Violet said as she followed the housekeeper into the darkened room.
    â€œYes, this wing of the house is complete.” Mrs. Neale bent over a table and turned up a lamp. It illuminated a chilly room with tall windows framed in thick, fringed floral draperies in deep reds and blues, a canopied bed, an oversized walnut armoire, and a Turkish carpet that covered much of the herringboned floor. Spectacular landscapes covered the walls. A doorway at one end led to another room, which Violet supposed was a sitting room, as she could see a writing desk and several chairs in it. As with the other art-filled but otherwise empty rooms that she had traveled through earlier, there was an elaborate commode in one corner.
    â€œHis Grace provides magnificent quarters for his guests,” Violet said. “Does he entertain often?”
    â€œNever,” Mrs. Neale replied tersely, pulling aside the fire screen from the fireplace and using a poker to turn over the dying embers of a fire that must have been laid hours ago. “Where is that Olive? I told her to start this fire and keep it going.”
    â€œI suppose that’s my fault, Mrs. Neale, since she was helping me look through the dishes.” It seemed like a lifetime ago that Violet had thought the shard Aristotle had choked on was of any importance.
    â€œThat’s no excuse for the girl. She should have been able to manage both. I’ll have her bring up a carafe of water, unless you prefer sherry?” When Violet shook her head no, the housekeeper went to the doorway. “Will that be all, Mrs. Harper?”
    â€œYes, thank you.” With Mrs. Neale gone, Violet arranged her clothing in the room’s armoire. Sam had done an admirable job of selecting things for her. She set her undertaking bag near the door to the hallway since she would need it first thing in the morning.
    Olive knocked at the door, carrying a tray with not only water but also a pot of tea and some buttery scones. The girl looked as though she had been well chastised as she added more coal to the fireplace from a bucket on the hearth. Soon it was blazing again.
    â€œHave a pleasant evening, madam,” Olive said aloofly, having lost any vestige of her earlier friendliness.
    Finally alone, Violet went into the sitting room and looked through the writing desk’s drawers. As she’d hoped, it was well stocked with paper, pens, and ink jars. She set to work, outlining what had to be done for Spencer’s burial.
    Presuming that his fellow estate workers would wish to pay their respects to him, Violet knew she had to plan on a fairly large entourage. Let’s see, the duke wanted it to be held at Worksop Priory, which must be at least five miles away if it was in the center of town. Should it be a walking procession, or should she ask the duke for carriages to transport mourners