A Crimson Warning (2 page)

It was I who had corrupted Ivy, just as I’d corrupted myself. While locked up in mourning after the death of my first husband, I’d undergone an intellectual awakening and taken up the study of Greek. I’d learned to read the ancient language, reveled in the poetry of Homer, and become a respected collector of classical antiquities. As I became more enlightened, I’d also come to despise the restrictions of society, and in the course of rejecting them, had come to discover the simple pleasure one could afford from a glass of port, a drink ordinarily forbidden to ladies. Now, at the prodding of another dear friend, I’d expanded my studies to include Latin, and had convinced Ivy to learn it as well. She might not have been quite so enthusiastic a student as I, but she had a sharp mind and was learning quickly.

The lemonade cooled us and we sank into more relaxed postures as the blue light of dawn reached for the dark sky. I wondered how much longer Colin would be. His work as one of the most trusted and discreet agents of the Crown took him from me at odd times of the day and night, and I had come, after more than a year of marriage, to trust his competence absolutely. His missions might be dangerous, but no one was better suited than he to handle them. When he at last staggered into our garden that night, his evening clothes were tattered, his face black, and the bitter smell of smoke heavy on him.

“Colin!” I cried, jumping out of my seat. He raised a bandaged hand to my cheek, a crooked smile on his face.

“Don’t be alarmed, my dear, I’m perfectly fine.” He dropped onto a chair and Robert poured a tall glass of the now lukewarm lemonade for him, emptying the pitcher. “But I’m afraid I do come with terrible news. Mr. Michael Dillman is dead, burned to death in his warehouse south of the river.” He swallowed hard and ground his teeth.

I hadn’t known Mr. Dillman well, but there was no one in London unfamiliar with his stellar reputation. He ran a successful export business and treated the men who worked in his warehouses more decently than was the current custom. He paid them generously and ensured his personal physician was on hand whenever their family members fell ill. Several charities depended on his generosity, and he was a great supporter of the arts. Yet, despite all this and a not insignificant fortune, he wasn’t much of a fixture in society. He could be socially awkward, not because he was unkind or disinterested, but because his personality tended to a quiet shyness rather than the buoyant joviality required during the season. I regretted that I had not taken the time to know him better.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Someone chained him to the bars on the office window and set the building on fire. I’m sorry, Robert, to speak of such horrors in front of your wife, but I see no point in disguising the truth. The newsmen were there almost as soon as I was. There will be no hiding from the story.”

“He … he was to be married next week,” Ivy said, her voice thin. “Cordelia showed me her wedding dress not two days ago.”

“Cordelia Dalton?” I asked. Ivy nodded. Cordelia was a quiet, thoughtful girl who’d made her debut the previous season. She’d not made much of a splash amongst the fashionable set, but that was likely due to a failing on their part rather than hers. We’d discussed novels when our paths crossed at parties, and she always seemed more interested in reading and sketching than in dancing. I was quite fond of her.

“I’m more than sorry, Ivy,” Colin said. “Your friend will need your comfort now.”

I did not listen to the rest of the conversation; the words no longer made sense to me. I could not stop imagining the hideous scene, the terror the poor man must have felt when he realized what was happening, the pain he must have endured before succumbing to death.

I shuddered. And remembered that only a few hours earlier, I’d had the audacity to complain about the heat in a ballroom.

6 June 1893

Belgrave Square, London

How quickly things change! I was pleased when Colin asked Robert and me to bring Emily home from the Londonderrys’ ball. Not because Colin had been called away for work, but because I was looking forward to quiet time with my dearest friend and discussing all the gossip of the night. Polly Sanders has all my sympathy, and I do wish there was something I could do to secure her happiness. But the moment Colin arrived with his dreadful news, Polly’s plight seemed utterly insignificant.

I felt almost paralyzed when he told us Mr. Dillman had been murdered. Emily was equally affected, though she retained her composure better than I. She’s more experienced in such matters. But I know she gets little crinkles that creep around her eyes when she’s upset, and I saw enough of them tonight to tell me I was not alone in my reaction. I hope I never see enough of this sort of brutality to control my emotional response. To acquire such strength would swallow who I am.

Poor, poor Cordelia. When I think of what she must be feeling I can’t help but cry. Robert says it’s unbecoming to take on someone else’s misery, and I’m certain he’s right, yet I can’t find a way to stop. I remember the joy that consumed me as I became a wife. Cordelia will never feel that. Even if, years from now, she finds affection somewhere else, how could she ever escape a constant dread that her happiness is about to be ripped away from her?

I suppose it can happen to any of us, at anytime. I feel so fortunate to have escaped a similar fate. My husband languished in prison, but only for a relatively short period of time (although at the time it did not seem so). He wasn’t taken from me forever, he was returned to me, and now I’ve the sweetest daughter on earth. What does one do to deserve such luck?

I’m off to see Emily now. She’s persuaded me—much against my will—to accompany her to some dreadful meeting. I never could refuse her anything. I have two hopes: one, that it won’t last too long; two, that it is more interesting than Latin. Surely the latter is a certitude.

2

Violent death was no stranger to me. In the past few years, I’d been intimately involved in apprehending four heinous murderers, one of whom had killed my first husband, Philip, the Viscount Ashton. Only a year ago in Normandy, I’d found the brutalized body of a young girl, and had been kidnapped and cruelly tormented by her killer, whose subsequent trial and execution had enthralled Britain and the Continent. Try though I might to shake the images of these ghastly events from my mind, I found I could not do so, and now the news of Mr. Dillman’s death was taking its own gruesome hold on me.

“We were dancing, Colin,” I said. “Dancing.”

“It’s a disturbing contrast, I agree,” he said, smearing ginger marmalade on a piece of toast. We were sitting next to each other at the round table in our sunny breakfast room. On the bright yellow walls hung a Roman mosaic, an
emblema,
its tiny pieces of glass carefully laid out to depict an elaborate scene of Apollo driving his golden chariot across the sky, sunbeams streaming from the crown on the god’s head. I’d purchased it in a small village near Pompeii, and promised the British Museum I would eventually donate it to them. I couldn’t yet bring myself to part with it.

“More than disturbing, I’d say.”

“There’s nothing to be done about it, Emily,” Colin said. “You’ll drive yourself mad if you keep tally of such things. Not everything in London is gaiety and balls.”

“I’m well aware of that,” I said. “I—”

He reached for my hand and interrupted me, his dark eyes fixated on mine. “I know you are, my dear. Forgive me if you thought I was implying otherwise. I know how well suited you are to our work.”

“Thank you,” I said, squeezing his hand back. “You can’t believe Mr. Dillman was killed by one of his employees? He treated them far too well for any of them to want to do him harm.”

“We can’t rule anything out at this stage of the investigation.”

“You wouldn’t have been called in if they thought this was some sort of common crime.”

“Quite right, Emily.” He smiled. “And that’s all I can say at the moment. What do you have planned for today?”

I studied his handsome countenance, taking careful note of the intensity in his eyes and decided not to pursue the subject further. Not yet, at any rate. I capitulated and moved to another topic. “Your mother wrangled Ivy and me invitations to this morning’s meeting of the Women’s Liberal Federation.”

“And you’re going?”

“Yes. First, because you’ve made it clear you don’t need my help with this investigation. Second, because I’d like your mother to feel pleasantly disposed towards me when she moves back to England. But most important, because I’m being brought round to the idea that I should have the vote.” I sat up a little straighter and pushed my plate away from me.

“Heaven help us. Next thing you know, you’ll want to stand for Parliament.”

“You’d object?”

“They’d be lucky to have you,” he said. I questioned his sincerity, but appreciated that he did not outright balk at the suggestion. “But what would
your
mother say?”

“More like what
will
she say,” I said. “To her, the mere act of considering the possibility of getting the vote for women is anathema. I’ll live out the remainder of my days in disgrace.
He who submits to fate without complaint is wise
.” I swallowed my last drop of tea.

“Epictetus?” Colin asked.

“Euripides,” I said.

“Ah. At any rate, disgrace is a powerful motivator, to be sure. Which interests you more: casting a vote or scandalizing your mother?”

I folded my napkin neatly and placed it on the table. “Isn’t it marvelous when two noble causes can be addressed in one fell swoop?”

Davis stepped into the room. “Mrs. Brandon is here, madam,” he said.

Ivy entered the room in a swish of silk, her skin glowing with the flush of summer heat. “Good morning,” she said as she gave her hand to Colin. “You don’t mind that we’re doing this, do you?”

“Not at all,” he said. “I always believed it was only a question of time before Emily became a suffragette. In fact, I’ve known it longer than she has. I do, however, draw the line at her chaining herself to the gate at Downing Street.”

“He keeps insisting it will come to that,” I said to Ivy. “But I can’t imagine anyone would ever do such a ludicrous thing.”

“It would make a powerful statement,” Colin said. “Don’t, however, take it as a suggestion. Enjoy your meeting.” He kissed me and picked up the
Times
.

I adjusted my straw hat, Homburg shape with a large brim, and we set off for Lady Carlisle’s house in Kensington. Crossing Park Lane, we entered the sprawling expanse of Hyde Park at the Grosvenor Gate and made our way along crowded paths shaded by towering trees. Sunshine and warm weather had brought most of society outside, and the park was a favorite gathering place on summer mornings. All around us, couples tilted their heads close together as fearsome chaperones walked beside them, ready to poke with well-placed parasols any overeager gentlemen. Friends waved to us, calling out greetings, but we had no time to stop and chat.

Until we saw Winifred Harris.

I would have liked to pretend not to have noticed her, but the figure she cut was too imposing to miss, not only due to her larger-than-average height and girth, but also because of her booming voice. I walked faster, but to no avail.

“Ivy, dear!” she called, then stood, unmoving, as if waiting for us to come pay homage to her.

Ivy smiled and crossed to her friend. “My dear Winifred,” she said. “What a delightful surprise to see you.”

“It can’t be much of a surprise, Ivy,” Mrs. Harris said, squinting at us through a fashionable lorgnette that was attached to her too-snugly tailored jacket. “It’s the Season. Where else would you expect to find a woman of my standing at this time of day? Hyde Park is the only place to be seen.”

“I only meant it was a pleasant surprise for me,” Ivy said. “I never meant to suggest you would—”

“Yes, yes,” Mrs. Harris said. “How is your husband, Lady Emily? I understand he’s embroiled in this unpleasant business that occurred in Southwark last night.”

“He’s involved in the investigation, yes,” I said.

“A very dodgy business,” she said. “I do hope his insistence on working doesn’t harm your reputation. It’s unseemly for a man of his fortune to seek gainful employment.”

“He’s never shirked from his duties to the Crown,” I said. “The queen quite depends upon him.”

“He’s charming enough—and handsome enough—for us to tolerate nearly anything he does. But you don’t quite share his status, my dear. It would behoove you to be very careful when choosing how you occupy yourself. People are prone to talk. You should keep well clear of the investigation. I know you’ve insisted on doing otherwise in the past.”

“Mr. Hargreaves is taking care of everything,” Ivy said. “You’ve no need to worry on Emily’s behalf.”

“Only intervenes when he gives her permission, does she?” Mrs. Harris asked, as if I weren’t standing directly in front of her. “I’m glad to hear someone in the family has a drop of sense.”

“Forgive me, Mrs. Harris,” I said. “Ivy and I will be late to the Women’s Liberal Federation if we don’t beg our leave at once. It was as lovely to see you as it always is.” The sentiment was strictly true. If she chose to take from my statement that I found it empirically lovely to see her, that was her choice. Pulling Ivy by the arm, I dragged her back to the pavement before she could protest our hasty departure.

We walked along the southern side of the Serpentine, the park’s long, curving lake and then continued on towards the Round Pond, where countless children were playing with toy boats. The pavements were slightly less crowded here, and became even emptier as we passed Kensington Palace and moved out of the park and into Kensington Palace Gardens, one of my favorite streets in all of London. Tall plane trees lined both sides and elegant houses stretched the half-mile length of the edge of the park. We turned left to reach Palace Green, the southernmost part of the road, but stopped before we’d taken ten paces. There was Polly Sanders’s house. Its noble edifice was gracious and neat, but the front door and the steps, along with the fence in front of the property—all of which had been gleaming white—were covered with a swathe of dark red paint.