A Crimson Warning (12 page)

Except this answer. Are some sins so great they merit execution rather than exposure? Is that why Mr. Dillman died? And if so, what makes a sin that heinous? Could mine be considered so?

I fear even to write these words in my happy home, where my daughter, so innocent, plays. I don’t want to bring such ugliness to her world. How I wish I could hide forever from what I’ve done.

12

Once Colin was satisfied we’d gathered everything useful we could from the Royal Academy, he headed for Scotland Yard while I set off on an errand of my own. I was worried about Cordelia Dalton and had made a point of calling on her every few days since her fiancé’s death. The Daltons’ house was quiet and dark when I arrived—too many closed velvet curtains—and a servant set off to fetch Cordelia from her bedroom. The poor girl was like a prisoner. When she entered the gloomy sitting room, I hardly recognized her. Her dress hung on her—she must have lost a stone in the past weeks—and her face, gaunt and dull, looked ten years older than when I’d seen her last.

“Cordelia!” I could not help leaping up and embracing her. “How are you managing?”

She didn’t say anything, but twisted and twisted her black-hemmed handkerchief.

“Has something happened?”

“No. No. Not a thing.” She twisted harder. “Would you like tea? Ivy was just here, but she didn’t want any. She’d be sorry to have missed you.”

“I don’t require any tea, thank you,” I said. I could see she was biting the inside of her cheek. “Are you quite sure nothing else has happened? Please, Cordelia, my husband and I can’t help you if you don’t keep us au courant of the situation.”

She burst into tears and collapsed onto a settee. I sat next to her and put a hand on her back, rubbing softly.

“Have you received another letter?” I asked.

“Three,” she managed to gasp between sobs.

“Three?” I did my best to hide the chagrin I was feeling. Making her feel worse wouldn’t help at all.

“I wanted to tell you. I did. Truly,” she said, keeping her head buried in her hands. “But he insisted I couldn’t. Said if I informed anyone he’d kill my mother.”

Now I was angry, but not at Cordelia. How dare this person torment her so?

“What else did he say?”

“In the first, he chastised me for not coming to the meeting he’d demanded. Do you remember?”

“Yes,” I said. Colin and I had told her in no uncertain terms not to even consider going to the park in such circumstances.

“In the second, he said how important it was that I do what he tells me and that I not share any of what he wrote with anyone else or the consequences, as I explained, would be dire. The third came yesterday. He’s insisting upon meeting me tonight, and says that if I don’t succumb to his wishes untold evil will befall me.”

“It sounds as if his imagination has failed him,” I said. “Where does he want you to go?”

“The same place. Achilles.”

“You’re not to go,” I said.

“But he’ll—”

“Stop, Cordelia. Think carefully. This man has already killed once. He believes you to be in possession of something that could harm him, some evidence that he wants you to return to him, correct?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t know what it is?”

“No.” Her voice was small.

“So what would you do if you met him? Give him nothing? What would he do to you then?”

“We could invent something … something I could give him to satisfy his wishes.”

“We have not even the vaguest notion of what that would be. Unless you’re hiding something from me?”

“No, I swear I’m not.” She started to cry again. “I’ve already told you everything and now he’ll—”

“He won’t do a thing. Mr. Hargreaves wouldn’t allow it.” We did have to do something, but I wasn’t sure what. “So long as this man believes you are in possession of this information, he won’t harm you. If he did, he’d have lost his way to recover it.”

“But if I do nothing—”

“You cannot go. Don’t even consider it. How would you even get out of the house? Your father would never allow it.”

“He would if he thought my mother was in danger.”

“I’ll go in your place,” I said. “And I’ll take Colin with me. We’ll confront whoever is there—I doubt it will be the man himself—and do whatever it takes to stop you from suffering further torment.”

“Do you really think it would work?” she asked.

“I’m absolutely confident.”

She seemed to believe me.

If only I could convince myself.

*   *   *

Colin was less put off by my scheme than I’d expected. He read the letters—Cordelia had let me take them—and agreed we had few other viable options. The meeting was scheduled for ten o’clock, a time when almost no one would be in the park. Thankfully, it would still be light out, but nonetheless, I felt slightly nervous about the undertaking. With Meg’s help, I put on one of the mourning dresses I’d stored away years ago and fixed a black veiled bonnet to my head. It was unlikely anyone who knew Cordelia would mistake me for her, but if our villain had sent someone in his stead, it was possible I could pull off the deceit.

Colin left the house well ahead of me, dining at the Reform Club instead of at home, to confuse anyone who might be watching us. He would make his way to the park early, and set himself up in a hiding place well before I—or our adversary—would arrive. Cordelia would have taken a carriage from her house, so though it was somewhat ridiculous to drive so short a distance, I did it nonetheless, taking two footmen with me. One of them I brought with me to the sculpture while the other waited at the gate to the park. There was no one else in sight.

“That’s fine, leave me here and go back to the gate,” I said to my loyal servant. “This miscreant can’t expect a lady to come out at night completely unescorted.”

He did as he was told and I stood, alone, at the base of the hulking statue George III had installed to honor the Duke of Wellington’s numerous victories in the Napoleonic Wars. It had caused a furor when first erected earlier in the century, a furor that stopped only when a strategically placed fig leaf was added to the piece, giving the Greek hero—I use the term loosely—a more socially acceptable appearance. Not even Achilles was above the vexation of society.

I kept my back to the sculpture, not wanting to leave myself more exposed than necessary, and waited, wondering where Colin was sequestered. I checked my watch. It was nearly ten o’clock, and there was no sign of anyone coming to meet me. I smoothed my heavy skirts, remembering what it had been like to wear them daily, all those years ago, after the death of my first husband.

I started, thinking I’d heard footsteps, but could see no one approaching. My heart pounded, but I knew I was safe under Colin’s watchful eye. Knowing and feeling are two different things, though, and my nerves were not soothed by the confidence my head had in my husband. I looked around, searching for any hint of where he might be hidden. His options seemed limited, unless he’d been willing to climb a tree. I found no evidence of him. Not that I would have expected otherwise.

My vigil continued. Then, in the distance, I saw a woman coming towards me. She was walking up the path from the south, which meant she’d not entered the park through the Achilles Gate as I had done. At first, she was a mere wisp of a figure. I could almost believe I was imagining her. As she came closer, though, she scared me. Her boots fell heavy on the ground, despite the fact she was a small woman, a good six inches shorter than I and painfully thin. She looked to be about my age, but the years were written harder on her face than mine. Her mouth was pinched, her nose ordinary, but her eyes, brown and luminous, shone like unearthly gems. She faltered as she approached, reached a hand into the pocket of her coarse skirt, and pulled out a note, which she shoved towards me.

I reached out and took it from her.

Give the girl what you know I want.

The handwriting matched the notes Cordelia had received.

In turn, I handed the girl the letter we’d had Cordelia write in response to her correspondent’s unwanted attentions:

I should like nothing more than to offer you whatever necessary to drive you away from me. But, alas, Mr. Dillman left nothing for me that would satisfy your needs. Furthermore, he never spoke of any involvement with a person such as yourself, and I find myself quite at a loss as to what to do.

Please leave me alone.

The girl pulled the envelope from me roughly and glared at me. She did not open it.

“How does he keep hold on you?” I asked. “Does he threaten you? Is he cruel?”

She did not reply.

“Come with me,” I said. “We can help you break free from him.”

She gave no response, made not even the slightest change in her expression. It was as if she didn’t comprehend my words. I tried again, this time in French.

And then in Italian.

And then in my extremely bad German. Which, to be fair, few people would have been able to understand.

Before I resorted to ancient Greek, my attention was diverted by a loud crash coming from behind me. Without thinking, I spun around, and then turned back. The girl remained expressionless.

“Stay there, Emily!” I heard Colin call from a distance. “Do not move.”

I heard the sound of fist against flesh. Grunts and strained breath. Too-heavy steps and sharp kicks.

The girl didn’t move or react. It was as if she’d heard none of it. And so I, too, stood still, not wanting to alert her to any trouble lest she decide to run. The hideous sounds sickened me, and I prayed Colin was not too badly hurt. My stomach wrenched as I heard him groan. The girl nodded at me and turned, starting off in the direction from which she’d come.

“Grab her!” Colin shouted.

I ran towards her, at first unsure of what to do. Then, thinking as quickly as I could, I dropped down and flung my whole body weight against the backs of her knees. She crumpled over. I rolled on top of her, forced my arms around her shoulders, and held her as tightly as I could.

And then I shouted for the footmen, who came running at once.

In short order, I’d directed one of them to help me secure my prisoner and the other to assist my husband, whom I suspected, from the dearth of sound now coming from his direction, had subdued his attacker. I forced the girl into the carriage, having tied her wrists together behind her back with the veil I’d ripped from my bonnet. The footman sat next to her, ensuring she would not try to escape. Knowing she was secure, I raced back into the park in search of my husband.

He was already on his way to me, pulling his assailant with him, the footman behind, prodding the man along.

“You’re hurt!” I said. He was limping and his lip was split. Blood spilled down his chin.

“Nothing serious. Let’s get to the carriage. You can worry about me later.” In short order, he’d pushed the squat, sturdy man inside, across from the girl. He left the footman next to her and took the seat adjacent to the man, ordering me to sit outside with the driver. “It will be safer, Emily,” he said, helping me up to the seat and then disappearing inside to look after our prisoners.

“Scotland Yard, eh, madam?” Our driver, a jolly sort, grinned as he snapped the reins and we lurched forward. “Can’t say that’s a place I’ve ever been before. ’Course, that’s due to the master generally driving himself.”

I appreciated his attempt at cheerfulness, and wished it could calm my heart, which was pounding so hard I could feel it through my entire body.

“You’re all right there, madam?”

“I am.”

“Exciting times, these, when you work for Mr. Hargreaves. Or are married to him, I expect.”

“Yes,” I said. My teeth were chattering.

“Keeps a man on his toes, it does. You’re sure you’re all right?”

“A bit shaken up, but that’s all.”

“You’re a brave lady, madam,” he said. “Mr. Hargreaves is lucky to have you.”

“Did you see anything when we were in the park?” I asked.

“Not a thing, madam. Just the usual carriages going along Park Lane. Nobody came in or out of the gate.”

We were heading down the Mall, and I could not help notice the irony of our current situation. I, sitting with my driver, parading down such an elegant street; my husband inside our carriage with two criminals. Soon we’d turned into Whitehall and were nearly upon New Scotland Yard. I grew nervous again as the gothic façade rose before us, its red brick taking on an eerie shade of rust in the moonlight. The moment we stopped, an officer stepped forward from the door, spoke to Colin, and ushered the lot of us inside.

13

Scotland Yard was exactly how I’d always imagined it: desks piled with heaps of papers, earnest-looking Detective Inspectors bent over their work. Almost as soon as we arrived, Colin disappeared with our prisoners, and our servants were taken to another room for questioning. I was shown to a small office where, plied with tea and repeated enquires after my health, I felt a world away from what had transpired in the park. Nearly two hours passed before my husband returned.

“Ready to go home?” he asked.

“Tell me what’s happening first,” I said.

He sat in front of me on the edge of a large desk. “They’re both deaf,” he said. “We brought in language specialists who are schooled in French sign language, but neither of them showed any knowledge of it. They can’t read or write, either.”

“Do they communicate with each other?”

“They must,” he said. “But they were careful not to in our presence.”

“What will be done with them?” I asked.

“We’ll detain them for further observation and will follow them when they’re released.”

“I want to go with you.”

“I’d welcome the company,” he said. “Particularly now that I know your tackling skills.”

“How badly are you hurt?” I asked, gently touching his swollen lip.

“Not at all. He got the worse of it. I’ll be fine in the morning.” He took my hands in his. “What about you?”

“Shaken up, but unharmed,” I said.

“It was brilliant how you tackled her,” he said. “I was beaming with pride.”