Stolen Remains by Christine Trent

bloodied and mangled. She looked at Hurst, certain her question was obvious in her eyes.
    “Multiple shot wounds from a duck’s foot volley gun we found next to his body. We’ve recovered three of the bullets.”
    “What is a duck’s foot volley gun?”
    Hurst reached inside his jacket and retrieved a vicious-looking weapon. “A duck’s foot volley gun is a pistol with four forty-five-caliber barrels arranged in a splayed pattern and resembling a duck’s webbed foot, as you can see here. It sprays a sizable area with a single shot. They’re typically used by prison wardens and sea captains for defense in confrontations against a group. It’s overkill for a suicide, if you’ll pardon my pun.”
    Violet nodded. “What about the fourth bullet?”
    “Pratt dug around a little for it, but couldn’t find it, nor could the coroner.”
    More indignity for Lord Raybourn.
    “Ready?” she asked.
    “Langley Pratt at your service, Mrs. Harper.” Pratt was far younger than Hurst and carried himself uncertainly, as if unsure whether to salute Violet, shake her hand, or bow.
    “Thank you, Mr. Pratt. The service you and Mr. Hurst can provide me is to carry His Lordship to the dining room. Wait just a moment.” Violet gently rolled the blanket back farther. Lord Raybourn wore an olive-green smoking jacket, so fashionable these days. She cupped his arm with one hand and applied light pressure, then did the same to his thigh and calf. Violet took the man’s hand and slowly moved his fingers. They were pliable and his limbs weren’t stiff, so rigor mortis had passed.
    She removed the blanket and spread it out next to his body. “Lift him onto the blanket—gently, sir, he’s a human being!”
    Violet brought his arms to a crossed position on his chest and held them. “He’s ready,” she said.
    She caught Hurst’s head shaking as he went to Lord Raybourn’s feet and Pratt picked up the blanket behind the man’s head. The officers lifted the body and moved it to the dining room, with Hurst leading the way backward as Violet continued to hold Lord Raybourn’s arms together.
    “Slowly, Mr. Hurst. Do not jostle him any more than has already been done.”
    He grunted in exasperation but did as Violet requested. Lord Raybourn ended up on the linen-covered table with more of a thud than she would have liked, but at least he was no longer splayed out on the floor. She directed the men to gently ease the viscount from the blanket onto the cloth-covered table.
    “Tell me, what does the coroner say about Lord Raybourn’s death?” Violet asked.
    “The coroner says His Lordship pulled the trigger on his own pistol yesterday afternoon. It was at close range and there are no signs of a struggle. I agree with him, as I also do not see signs of a struggle, nor can I find evidence that any acquaintances had a quarrel with him.”
    Violet nodded. But why would someone of Lord Raybourn’s stature, wealth, and royal esteem do something as undistinguished as shooting himself? It made no sense.
    Hurst continued. “I’ve confirmed with the family that His Lordship regularly kept loaded pistols stored about the house.”
    Which meant that the whereabouts of the pistols might be known to many people. “I see. Does this mean that your investigations here are concluded?”
    “For the moment. We will return to interview the family members when they arrive in London. Although I believe his death to be self-inflicted, we must cover every possibility, and quickly. I want to finish with this, as we have another case to tend to.”
    “I’m sure your interviews will prove quite illuminating, Mr. Hurst.”
    “Yes, well, I should say so.” Hurst was momentarily nonplussed. He and Pratt bowed to Violet and left, returning a few moments later.
    “One more thing, Mrs. Harper. Please do not put any bunting on the windows or do any exterior decorating that will make it obvious that someone here has died.”
    “Why not?”
    “The press. They