Read Online The Mourning Bells by Christine Trent - Free Book Online

Ting-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling.
    As if in response, there was an immediate knocking from down below. In an instinctive reaction, Violet screeched, loudly and not very much like a demure undertaker at all, falling backward and onto her rump.
    She stayed frozen in her awkward position, too frightened by the sound from within the coffin to even breathe. Gathering her wits, she untangled her skirts, went back to the coffin, and began tugging on the lid. To her amazement, she was able to easily remove it; there were no nails holding it in place.
    She staggered onto her backside once more when, yet again, a man struggled out of the coffin. He pushed her aside as he crawled out of the coffin, coughing and gasping. He was younger than the first man but just as well attired.
    “Sir,” Violet said, once again regaining balance and approaching him with concern, “are you quite all right? May I help . . .”
    The man had a hunted, feral expression on his face as he rose up, tottering on his feet. “Who are you?” he demanded. Violet smelled the distinct odor of cloves on his breath.
    “I’m Violet Harper, sir, and I believe you have been mistakenly—”
    “Where am I?”
    “Brookwood North train station, sir. You must let me find a doctor for you. You’ve been—”
    The man grunted something unintelligible and began lumbering off.
    “Sir!” Violet called, chasing after him and taking his arm when she reached him. “You must let me help you. Surely you need—”
    The man pushed Violet away from him, nearly causing her to tumble again. Violet called after him, but he ignored her.
    Still bewildered, she took a few steps once more in his direction, but the shock of the experience stopped her in her tracks. She watched helplessly as he stumbled out of the station and into the nearby woods. What was there to do? She couldn’t force him to stay with her. After all, it wasn’t a crime to become undead.
    But Violet was once again overcome with the idea that there was something criminal going on. She just wasn’t sure what. How was it possible that two men had popped out of bell coffins, not two weeks apart, before her very eyes? Was this some type of clever huckster’s advertisement for safety coffins?
    Perhaps she should go to Magnus Pompey Hurst, detective chief inspector at Scotland Yard, with whom she had dealt on other cases. Violet hesitated. He was usually skeptical of her claims. She could only imagine what he would say to this one. No crime had been committed. He’d probably have a good laugh over it at her expense. After all, who could be arrested for a dead person coming back to life?
     
    With the body of Mrs. Elvira Danforth, a senile old woman who had mistaken rat poison for baking soda and accidentally used it in a sponge cake—apparently not trusting her household help to make it for her—now waiting at the chapel for her services, Violet returned to the North station to greet the mourning party.
    Given what Violet had seen of Mrs. Danforth’s kitchen when she went to visit the body, it was no wonder the woman had made the fatal error. It was difficult to discern the difference among her kitchen, her larder, and her scullery. Of course, if Violet didn’t have day help in Mrs. Wren and Ruth, her own small kitchen might be just as catastrophic.
    Did that mean if she ever gave up the cook and maid, she ran the risk of doing herself in with rat poison?
    She shook her head to clear it of such ridiculous notions. As if she was capable of baking anything edible in the first place!
    A distant train whistle alerted her to the imminent arrival of the mourning party. The North station was built on exactly the same plan as the South, intended for Anglican funerals, and Violet posted herself inside the first-class reception room. Railway workers helped people wearing black armbands, hats, gloves, and jewelry off the train and into the reception area, where Violet then greeted them and murmured appropriate words of sympathy.