A Crimson Warning (27 page)

“Did you see her?” he asked.

“No, just a glimpse of fabric. But I’m certain—”

“Don’t try to exert yourself, Lady Emily,” Lord Carlisle said. “Your butler sent a message saying your husband is not at home. Would you like to stay here tonight?”

“He’s not?” I asked, confused and wondering where he could be at this time of night.

“No. I’m afraid we don’t have any further information.”

“I see,” I said. “Thank you for your hospitality, but I think it best I go home. He’ll be worried if he returns and finds me gone.”

“I do wish you’d let me send for a doctor,” Lady Carlisle said.

“You’re very kind,” I said. “But I’m perfectly all right. No permanent damage done, just a little bump. I’ve had much worse. I would, however, be eternally grateful if you’d lend me your carriage.”

They were reluctant to let me go, but in the end were persuaded to agree that Jeremy could see me home.

“I’m no longer so convinced about the merits of excitement,” he said. “When I woke up and couldn’t find you I thought bringing the police was the best thing to do.”

“You were right,” I said.

“I do wish they’d been able to find Lady Glover,” he said. “It looks like what we saw were some vagrants who had thought they’d find a good place to seek temporary shelter.”

“Vagrants don’t wear turquoise silk with gold beads,” I said.

“Well.” He paused. “Vagrants may not, but there are certain women of ill repute who could have access to such garments.”

“Hmpf.” I wasn’t convinced. “They should be taking what we saw much more seriously after what happened to Cordelia. If this man has moved Lady Glover to another location, he’s more likely to have decided to kill her. This is the time to follow up on every lead as thoroughly as possible.” We’d reached my house. Jeremy offered to come in and sit with me, but I declined. Instead, I went inside alone, then sank down, sitting on the steps in the entrance hall as Davis closed the door behind him.

“Where is Mr. Hargreaves, Davis?” I asked.

“He hasn’t returned to the house tonight since he left with Mrs. Brandon, madam,” he said.

“And he’s sent no word?”

“No, madam. I’m sorry.”

With a sigh, I retired to bed.

*   *   *

I hardly slept that night. Colin slipped into the room as the sun was beginning to rise. He was quiet, assuming, I’m sure, that I was asleep, but I sat up the instant he opened the door.

“Sorry to disturb,” he said. “Are you all right? Davis said—”

“Davis shouldn’t even be awake,” I said. “Where have you been?”

“With Foster. Tell me what happened.”

“I want to hear from you first,” I said.

“I’ll humor you, but only because Davis has already assured me your health is fine,” he said. “Foster doesn’t have any idea of what’s going on in that factory.”

“You can’t believe that,” I said.

“I do. I approached him from every considerable angle, and he didn’t squirm at all. He’s got no clue there’s anything untoward that could come out about him.”

“Did you tell him what we saw there?”

He hesitated, only for a single breath. “No. I thought it best not to yet.”

“Why?” I asked. My head was spinning, and not because I’d been whacked on it. I couldn’t believe for a second they hadn’t talked about it. “He owns the place from whence our attackers came. How can you trust him?”

“We’ll discuss it later,” he said. “I’m worried about you. Tell me everything.”

I did, but with little enthusiasm. I wanted to know what he was hiding from me.

“You’re confident it was Lady Glover in the lodge?” he asked.

“I can’t prove it,” I said. “But the place must be searched as soon as possible.”

“I’ve no doubt Scotland Yard have the matter well in hand. I’ll check in with them as soon as I’ve changed my clothes.”

He rang for his valet and stepped into the dressing room. I followed him.

“You should stay in bed,” he said.

“There’s no need. I feel perfectly fine. My head doesn’t even hurt anymore.” This was true. Doubt in one’s spouse apparently had miraculous healing powers. “I want to hear more about what Mr. Foster had to say.”

“There’s nothing else to tell, Emily. It was a thoroughly underwhelming conversation.”

“Then why did you stay so long?” I asked.

“He pulled out an exceptional whisky and we got to trading stories about school.”

I looked at him through narrowed eyes. “How foolish do you think I am?”

“Not foolish in the least.”

“You’re on notice, Colin Hargreaves,” I said. “I know you’re hiding something from me, and I don’t like it one bit.”

“You know perfectly well I can’t tell you everything,” he said. “Don’t be cross. I will give you one thing. Mr. Stanbury, whose house was splashed with red paint some time ago, owns a significant interest in the match factory.”

“Have you spoken to him about it?”

“I will today.”

I rang for Meg and asked her to bring me breakfast. I wanted to be at the British Museum the moment it opened, and didn’t have time to dillydally. With Colin remaining adamant about keeping the details of his chat with Mr. Foster private, I half wished I had something to bash him on the head with. I had a strong suspicion what he was hiding from me had nothing to do with Crown secrets. From what I had overheard, it had everything to do with two men planning something underhanded.

“You’re going to let Mr. Foster hide his role in this, aren’t you?” I asked as I prepared to leave for the museum. “Because you agree with his political views? Maybe let Mr. Stanbury take the fall?”

“I told you, Emily, I’m not discussing it.”

“Fine,” I said. “I will respect that, though I don’t like it at all. But you need to tell me how all this fits into the case we are currently investigating. Is he involved?”

“It’s highly unlikely.”

“Really?” I asked. “So did he murder Mr. Dillman—or have someone murder Mr. Dillman—to keep the evidence out of the public eye? And the red paint was just a coincidence?”

“You’re following a very dangerous line of speculation,” he said. “This situation is more complicated than it appears at first glance. I’m not convinced Mr. Foster knows anything about the factory. For now, we’ll have to leave it at that.”

“He owns it,” I said. “How can you believe he knows nothing about it? I don’t, not for a minute. And until you tell me something that points me definitively in another direction, I’m going to pursue every possibility. Including this one.”

When I reached the museum, Mr. May, to whom I’d sent a note almost as soon as I’d woke up, was already waiting for me. We went to his office, where I unwrapped the bottle for him. He took it from me, handling it gingerly. “I’ve not seen anything quite like it,” he said. “It’s primitive and contemporary at the same time.”

“But you think it’s modern?” I asked.

“The bottle dates from before 1850, I’d say. See this?” He turned it up so I could look at a rough round scar on the base. “That’s a pontil mark, made by the rod the glassblower would use to hold the piece when it was finished. They’re not made that way any longer. The bottoms are more smooth now.”

“And what of the objects inside?”

“A toad, a spider, nails—that may or may not have been rusty when placed inside—and muddy water.” He rolled the bottle in his hands as he itemized everything he saw.

“Was the water muddy to start, or did it get dirty from the nails and the toad?”

“It was muddy to start,” he said. “There’s too much muck on the bottom and sides to have come from even an extremely dirty toad.”

“What does it mean?”

“I’m not certain, but it appears to be some sort of primitive religious charm. African, perhaps. It could be meant to offer protection.”

“Would anyone else in the museum have a better idea of what religion, specifically?”

“We could speak to the keeper who handles ethnography in his collections. He may know more.”

Mr. May fetched the man from his office, who then studied the bottle for a good ten minutes before speaking.

“I certainly don’t recognize it,” he said. “Sorry not to be more helpful. The only thing it brings to mind is voodoo, the sort practiced by some people in the West Indies. I agree with you, May, about the age. It’s not new.”

“What would such a thing be used for?” I asked. “Mr. May suspects it’s meant to provide protection?”

“Again, I’m not an expert. But I could well imagine that a person who hid it with sensitive papers—as you said it was when you found it—would have wanted something he believed would offer protection. If, that is, he dabbled in such things.”

“Thank you, both of you,” I said. “This has been immensely useful.”

“I’m so pleased, Lady Emily,” Mr. May said. “And if you learn anything else about the bottle, would you let me know? I’d be fascinated to hear more details.”

6 July 1893

Belgrave Square, London

Nothing further on Lady Glover.

I spent a more or less pleasant day at home—pleasant, that is, when I managed to ignore the fact that my friend has been kidnapped. Rose is enchanted by butterflies and chases them around the garden. I don’t know when I’ve encountered a lovelier scene. Yet even when watching my daughter play, I’m consumed with anxiety and fear of exposure. I feel as if my stomach is eating at itself.

Still no word has come from Newcastle.

The tension continues here in London. Lady Glover’s kidnapping has made everyone’s nerves more raw. They’re all looking for red paint and accusing each other of sins more nefarious than their own. How much longer can this go on?

30

The sun was high and bright when I left the museum, but dark clouds had started to take over patches of the sky and the air had a chill reminiscent of autumn. It felt more like England than it had in weeks. I hailed a cab and went straight to Mr. Barnes’s office, feeling my best hope was to appeal to someone who’d lived in the West Indies.

“I have a strange question for you,” I said as soon as I was seated in a comfortable leather-backed chair. “Do you know anything about voodoo?”

“Voodoo?” he asked, straightening a pile of papers on his desk.

“I found something I have reason to believe may be related to it,” I said, pulling it out of the bag in which I’d been carrying the bottle and handed it to him.

He removed it from the bag and touched the glass. “This isn’t voodoo,” he said, his voice soft and soothing. “It’s Obeah, a religion common amongst the natives in the West Indies. The Europeans were often terrified by it.”

“Why?” I asked.

“They didn’t understand it,” he said. “It’s all spells and shamans and things unfamiliar to them.” He turned the bottle over in his hands and half smiled, his lips closed. “I never expected to see this again.”

“You recognize it?”

“I made it,” he said. His voice, rich and smooth, was softer than usual. “Not the bottle itself, but I put the contents together. Are you horrified?”

“Should I be?” I asked.

“It’s not as if I practice black magic,” he said. “But I do remember the spells my nanny swore worked. Mr. Dillman came to me one night—I assume you found this with his possessions?”

“Yes,” I said.

“We didn’t start off as terribly close friends,” he said. “But I saw him on a fairly regular basis at political functions and we realized we shared very similar values. He had progressive ideas about business, and I thought he could offer excellent advice to those making pertinent policy decisions. We came to trust each other very much.”

He sat back down, holding the bottle. “One night, he came to see me unexpectedly. He was agitated and desperate. He wouldn’t tell me what was going on, but was obviously in need of some friendly comfort. All I could get out of him was that he was terrified someone was trying to destroy him. Without knowing additional details, there was not much I could do for him that would be of real help.”

“What a terrible situation to be in,” I said.

“It was, but I managed to console him with rather too much claret. Before long, he was saying that he wished there was some way he could strike back at someone—I don’t know whom—who had crossed him in a business deal. He became angry and frustrated and fixated on bringing this man, or these men, down. At that point, I thought it best to find some way to distract him from his troubles, and island superstition seemed as good a way as any.”

“So you put this together for him?” I asked.

“As I said, there had been rather too much claret consumed,” he said. “I found an old empty bottle and we set off to fill it in an appropriate manner. By the end of the evening, his spirits had been restored. He took the bottle, telling me he was going to give it to the man causing his grief.”

“He didn’t tell you anything at all about what specifically was troubling him?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “And I didn’t see a need to press him on the subject at the time. You can imagine how this has haunted me since his death. I should have pushed him harder.”

“So what, exactly, does one do with something like this?” I asked, reaching for the bottle.

“You put it near your enemy’s door and it will bring to him just a touch of trouble,” he said.

“Who was he going to use it on?” I asked.

“He wouldn’t tell me,” he said. “When I heard what had happened to Dillman, I felt ill. I went to Scotland Yard at once and told them everything. They were decent to me, but I could tell they thought I was a little crazy. Still, it seemed the right thing to have informed them, even if it came to naught.”

I thanked him for his candor, but was not quite trusting enough to take him at his word. After I left his office, I stopped at Scotland Yard to corroborate Mr. Barnes’s story. The detectives were less than pleased to see me, but showed signs of amusement when I asked them my question.

“Right,” one of them said, thumbing through a file. “I do remember something like that. Yes, here it is.” He held up a paper to show me. “All documented, black magic and everything. Mr. Barnes was half mortified telling us, the poor man. Did the right thing, though, coming forward, even if it didn’t prove significant to the case. Wish more people were as concerned with justice as he is.”