A Crimson Warning (28 page)

Satisfied, I continued home, where I found Ivy and Jeremy waiting for me in my Impressionist-filled drawing room.

“We asked Davis if we could wait for you,” Ivy said. “Jeremy said the two of you have quite a story for me. He refused to breathe a word of it until you got back.”

“Indeed we do,” I said. “But first, I have some information about our bottle.”

“It makes perfect sense, doesn’t it?” Ivy said, after I’d filled them in on everything I’d learned. “Instead of leaving the bottle for his nemesis, Mr. Dillman used it to protect the papers.”

“Would the charm bring to harm whoever found it?” Jeremy asked.

“I hope not,” Ivy said. “Do you think we should be worried?”

“No, I don’t,” I said. “I don’t believe in magic and evil spells. But this does make me want to take a much closer look at the papers we found with it.”

“Let’s do that,” Jeremy said.

“We can’t,” I said. “Colin has them. So I suppose we should tell Ivy what happened to us last night.” We recounted for her all that had happened in the park.

“I’ve never heard anything so terrible!” Ivy said, leaning so far forward in her chair I feared she would fall over. “Are you all right?”

“Perfectly,” I said. “My head is fine today.”

“And you?” she asked Jeremy.

“I’m only thankful the ingrate hit the back of my head,” he said. “It would have been much worse if he’d mangled my face.”

“Vanity will be the end of you,” Ivy said.

“I think we should go back to Hyde Park,” I said. “Scotland Yard insist they found nothing significant in the lodge, but I don’t think they looked hard enough. Are you two game? We cannot let Lady Glover suffer the same fate as Cordelia.”

“I certainly wouldn’t let you go alone, not even in broad daylight,” Jeremy said. “I never would have dragged you there last night if I had thought I’d be putting you in danger.”

“I don’t believe we were in much danger,” I said. “And now I feel even more secure. If they’d wanted to kill or abduct us, they could have easily done so last night. The fact that they didn’t suggests to me that we’re not causing them much worry.”

“They just needed us out of commission long enough to move Lady Glover,” he said.

“There’s something strange about it, isn’t there?” I asked. “You’d think they’d be more concerned about us tracking them down.”

“Maybe they’re about to collect the ransom and let their prisoner go,” Ivy said.

“Perhaps,” I said. “Regardless, I want to take another look at that lodge, and I’m going to need both your help.”

The afternoon had turned still chillier, and heavy rain clouds were on the verge of expunging the last blots of blue left in the sky. Armed with umbrellas and coats, we rushed to the park, which was relatively crowded given the weather, and made our way to the lodge I’d visited the previous night. There were too many people around for us to gawk in the front windows, so we adopted a different strategy. Ivy and Jeremy walked boldly up to the door and knocked.

“Why aren’t they answering?” Ivy asked, far too loudly.

“I’ve no idea.” Jeremy was using his best reading voice. It was not what could be called natural, but it was certainly audible to everyone nearby. “They’re expecting us.”

A main pavement ran only a few feet in front of the lodge. My friends’ subterfuge was providing a necessary distraction.

“Hello there!” Ivy called to a gentleman passing by. “Could you please tell me what time it is?” She stepped towards him and he met her near the gate in the fence. Everyone else’s eyes were on her.

I was stunned. Ivy commanded the attention of all the people in the immediate vicinity. She had the presence of a skilled stage actress.

“I despise it when people don’t keep an appointment, don’t you?” she continued. While everyone was focused on her, I moved from my position behind a shrub on the side of the lodge to its back garden. No one had noticed me, and now, safely installed behind the house, no one could see me. I pressed my face against the windows, but could see very little. There was no light coming from the interior as there’d been at night. I would need to get inside to investigate. Having tested all the windows and the back door only to find them firmly fastened, I did the only thing I could think of.

I removed my shoe and struck its heel against a pane of glass, right above the window’s lock. Then, gathering my skirt around my hand, I pushed it inside, released the cloth, and flipped the lock. Now the window opened with relative ease. I looked around, just to reassure myself there was no one watching, and climbed into the lodge. The room into which I descended was a pokey bedroom, small, with no furniture in it. I walked towards the front of the building, to the chamber into which I’d peered yesterday.

The chairs were gone, as were the newspapers. The bookcase remained, empty, as did the table. But the table had a dark stain in its center. I touched it. It was damp. I bent over and sniffed.

Cognac.

They must have spilled some in their hurry to clean out the room.

It was decent evidence, but not enough to convince Scotland Yard Lady Glover—or any woman of rank—had been in the room. I covered the room in measured steps, studying every detail that I passed. The wide, deep windowsills were clear and entirely dust-free, which did not suggest long-term vacancy. The floor itself left something to be desired—there was dried mud and scattered leaves on it … mud that must have been old, for it had been so long since it had rained.

As I turned direction, continuing my study of the floor, something caught my eye: a golden crystal bead. One that had clearly fallen off the dress of the lady who’d been here last night. I picked it up. There was nothing else of interest on the floor. The fireplace showed signs of recent use—I wondered if Scotland Yard had noticed—but rather than the faded embers one would expect to find from burning coal, the hearth was filled with ash like that from burnt paper. I pulled a sheet from my notebook and scooped some onto it, folding the page to form a sort of pocket around the ash.

Finally, I crouched in front of the bookshelf. Not even a crumble of newsprint remained in it, but on its top, stuck to the wood, was the slightest bit of wax.

Yellow sealing wax.

I left part of it in situ. The rest I scraped off with a fingernail and wrapped in another sheet of paper. Ivy and Jeremy had started knocking on the door again, our prearranged signal to alert me it was time to go. I crawled back through the window and to the path on the side of the house. I peeked around the edge, making sure it was a good time to make my entrance, then stepped onto the pavement and waved at my friends.

“Whatever can you two be up to?” I asked, trying to modulate my voice to sound like Ivy’s had during her earlier stellar performance. I would never be the actress she was.

“We were trying to pay a call, but they’re not home,” Ivy said. “What a bother. Shall we go for tea?”

It had started to drizzle, but not quite hard enough to justify opening our umbrellas. She and Jeremy met me on the pavement.

“Success?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “I’ll show you everything when we’re home.”

31

We walked back to Park Lane as the rain began to fall more steadily. Cold and damp, we shuffled into the library and called for tea. Fortification was in order. On a long table, we laid out everything we’d gathered over the course of the investigation: the bottle, the ash, the wax, the bead, and a letter from our villain that Colin hadn’t returned to Lady Glover. The only thing missing were the papers pertaining to Mr. Foster’s ownership of the match factory.

I picked up the wax I’d collected from the park lodge and compared it to that on Lady Glover’s letter. They were identical. I searched through my desk, then Colin’s, but could not find the scathing missive Winifred Harris had sent to me, sealed with yellow wax.

“We have no time to waste,” I said. “Ivy, can you call on Winifred and try to get a sample of her sealing wax? I’m going to meet with Mr. Foster. Given that he has the most to lose, it seems likely to me he knows something about the papers Mr. Dillman was hiding.”

“What about me?” Jeremy asked. “Am I to be left with no occupation?”

“I never thought the most useless man in England would desire such a thing,” I said, grinning.

“I’d love it if you came with me,” Ivy said. “You can distract Winifred while I get the wax.”

“It would be my pleasure to offer you any assistance I can, Ivy,” he said. “Anything in the service of Crown and country. Just don’t make me flirt with her.”

As soon as they left, I went to Colin’s desk, pulled out a sheet of his stationery, and, using his pen, wrote a note to Mr. Foster in what I hoped was a reasonable approximation of my husband’s handwriting. I chose my words carefully and did not doubt for a moment he would arrive on my doorstep as soon as he could.

I explained my plan to Davis and then paced, waiting for Mr. Foster to arrive. It took him less than half an hour. Davis showed him into the library, brought him a whisky (I tried to insist on the Glenmorangie, but my butler would have none of it, not even in the cause of justice), and we let him sit there for a little while before I descended upon him.

“I realize you were expecting my husband,” I said. Davis had stayed in the room, standing tall and motionless next to the door, but Mr. Foster was too much of a gentleman to comment. “But I’m the one who needs to talk to you.”

“I’m terribly sorry I wasn’t able to see you when you called earlier,” he said, all politeness. “I was locked in a meeting it seemed might never end. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course.” Part of me wanted to confront him about the papers I’d found wrapped around the bottle, but I knew I couldn’t do that. Instead, I pulled out the bottle. “Does this mean anything to you?”

“A dirty old bottle?” He leaned back in his seat. “I can’t say it does.”

“You’ve never seen anything like it?”

“Never. But surely you haven’t summoned me here under false pretence to discuss some old piece of rubbish?”

“No, I was hoping you could explain some of the finer points of politics for me. I’m coming up against some interesting bumps in my work for the Women’s Liberal Federation.”

“I hadn’t realized you were still pursuing it,” he said. “I thought Mr. Dillman’s death had changed your direction.”

“It has to a large degree, but I’m not privy to everything my husband is. There are frequent occasions on which all I can do is wait. I’m told patience is not a quality I possess in abundance.”

He smiled. “No, I imagine it wouldn’t be. What are your political woes? I’m happy to help you pass the time until more exciting work comes your way.”

“If women do get the vote, I can’t imagine anything could be more exciting,” I said. “So let’s see if we can help make that happen, shall we? Several gentlemen I’ve spoken to have offered various levels of support for our cause.”

“Excellent news.”

“Yes, except it’s come to my attention that some of them, in their personal lives, have attached themselves to projects, shall we say, that are less than desirable.”

“Projects? Do you mean affairs?”

“No, no,” I said. “Nothing of the kind. Business, I mean. They’re engaged in business practices that fall short ethically.”

“And what is your concern?”

“Do we want our movement to include them, given their moral shortcomings?”

“The unfortunate truth is that gentlemen do fall short sometimes, particularly when it comes to business. They let their desire for wealth trump their desire to conduct themselves ethically.”

“I can’t condone that,” I said.

“Nor can I,” he said. “It’s an issue that’s troubled me greatly for years. I’ve done much work trying to ensure better conditions for the working class, but try to convince their employers to help when it requires cutting back even slightly on their profits.”

He smiled again, his composure utterly intact. This was not a gentleman concerned his own role in such scandalous dealings was in danger of being revealed. Or rather, this was not a gentleman concerned I was a person likely to cause him any problems, despite my role in the investigation.

“It’s outrageous,” I said. “I recently had occasion to become better informed about the way the working class live. Something must be done. Given that I feel so strongly on the subject, how can I overlook the failings of those persons supporting the vote for women?”

“That, Lady Emily, is the problem of politics. You should speak to Mr. Barnes. He’s an expert on refusing to compromise when it comes to morality. Because he works to shape policy from a distance, he insists on higher standards. He can distance himself from anyone who doesn’t measure up. As a result, people on both sides of the divide listen to him—they know his opinions and analyses aren’t tainted by overwhelming desire to win the next election.”

“Like you.”

“Yes,” he said. “Like any of us whose fortunes rise and fall with the whims of the people.”

“I don’t know how you can bear the pressure,” I said. “I couldn’t.”

“One doesn’t enter politics unless one is thrilled by every aspect of it. Elections are titillating times during which anything can happen.”

“But what if the outcome is all wrong?” I asked. “That must be infuriating.”

“The loser always thinks the outcome is wrong,” he said, pulling his brows in close together. He tugged the sleeves of his jacket. “Which is why it’s best to never find oneself in the position of losing.”

“I’ve heard stories of unscrupulous politicians going to great lengths to ensure victory. Surely that’s no way to secure the right outcome? A man willing to cheat has proven he’s a bad choice to hold office.”

“What made you think of that?”

“Nothing in particular,” I said. The truth was, it had seemed to me a fairly obvious jab at political scandal.

“It’s not something that happens,” he said. “Not really. Not these days. People can’t just go about stealing elections, no matter what anyone tries to claim.” His voice had an edge to it I’d not heard before.

“I imagine it happens more than anyone cares to admit,” I said. “Unscrupulous men who care about winning above all? I can easily picture their sort arranging to have ballot boxes stuffed.”