A Crimson Warning lem-6

by Tasha Alexander

  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 fro
m 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.”

  He balled his right hand into a fist and released it, again and again in rapid succession. “No, Lady Emily, you’re off the mark on this one. It doesn’t happen except in fiction.”

  Unethical business practices didn’t cause him any unease, but his entire demeanor had changed when he spoke about elections. That gave me enough for the moment. I would figure out what to do with it later. “What do you think of this business with Lady Glover? It’s terrifying, isn’t it?”

  “I imagine she’s undaunted, even in the face of abduction,” he said. “She’s a brave girl and will come out of this with stories to dine on for years.”

  “You’re not worried about her?”

  He sighed and flushed just a little. “I am. But I’m trying not to give up hope altogether. Too easy to fall into despair if one thinks on it too much.”

  “After what happened to Cordelia Dalton, we’re all on edge.”

  “Of course,” he said. “Try not to trouble yourself with it. It will be sorted out. Forgive me, but I must be off. I’ve a meeting with the prime minister. It’s been a pleasure speaking with you.”

  “It’s always a delight to spend time with you,” I said.

  He got up to leave, but turned back as he was about to leave the room. “Emily, next time you want me to come to you, there’s no need to pretend it’s your husband who’s in need of company. I assure you I’ll always give you my utmost discretion.”

  * * *

  Four hours after Mr. Foster left me, the Post ran a special evening edition. A boy from the East End who rented his affections by the hour had sold them his story, and all the lurid details of his encounters with Mr. Stanbury had been exposed for public consumption.

  * * *

  Colin came home at nearly seven o’clock. “You’ve seen the paper?” he asked, tossing a copy of the Post on my desk.

  I nodded. “We need to talk about Mr. Foster. I saw him this afternoon.”

  “You didn’t speak to him about the papers you found, I hope?”

  “No. I knew you’d want me to leave that to you,” I said. “But I’ve learned quite a bit today, and your friend, Mr. Foster, may not have quite the character you’d like to think.” I told him everything that transpired.

  “Well done, Emily,” Colin said.

  “Don’t you think it’s odd that Mr. Stanbury’s secret was exposed so soon after I’d unnerved Mr. Foster? Mr. Stanbury, who’s also connected to that dreadful match factory?”

  “Foster got agitated when you mentioned election fraud, not the mistreatment of working class,” he said. “Why would that push him to do anything to Stanbury? And Stanbury’s secret didn’t have to do with the factory. I’m telling you, Emily, the factory isn’t what you think.”

  “I despise the place,” I said.

  “I know,” he said, placing his hand softly on my cheek. “I’ve spoken to our solicitors and set up an account for you to use. We will look for a building in a suitable location and you can design a better plan for Mr. Majors’s charges.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I still don’t trust Mr. Foster, though I am sorry I seem to have made him think I was sending for him on false pretenses.”

  “You did send for him on false pretenses.”

  “Yes, but not those false pretenses. You must make a point of letting him know we’re blissfully happy so he doesn’t get the wrong idea.”

  “Gentlemen don’t speak to each other in such ways,” he said.

  “Could you not make an exception, just this once?”

  “Absolutely not,” he said. “It’s a good lesson for you.”

  “You’re a savage,” I said.

  “Good work with the bottle, though. And I’m pleased you got Scotland Yard to assist you without me.”

  “I was rather happy about that myself. But we need to return to the subject of your good friend, Mr. Foster. You’re going to have to tell me what happened with him last night.”

  “I’ve already shared all I can,” he said.

  “So would you prefer that I draw my own conclusions from the bits of conversation I overheard? ‘We’re not going back. That would be untenable.’ Or do you prefer, ‘What am I to tell everyone? Scotland Yard? My wife?’”

  “How did you hear that?” he asked.

  “I called at the house to fetch you when Jeremy and I decided to look for Lady Glover. The butler wouldn’t admit me, so I went in through the servants’ entrance and skulked through hallways until I heard your voice. I was planning to announce myself to you, but then I heard what you were saying.”

  “Emily!”

  I looked away from him, knowing he must be furious.

  “Did no one see you?” he asked.

  “Two maids and the butler. It’s amazing what walking with an air of authority can accomplish.”

  He dropped his head into his hands. I stood up, bracing myself for the inevitable reprimand. I crossed my arms and waited.

  “You are bloody good at this, aren’t you?”

  This took me by surprise. “I thought you’d be angry.”

  “I probably should be. But we’re working together on this, Emily, and if I’m to accept you as a partner in life as well as in work, I can hardly balk when you show this sort of initiative, even if I’d like to.”

  “Marrying you was an extremely good decision,” I said.

  “Yes, well, I do feel I ought to remind you of that periodically,” he said.

  “Do so as often as you feel necessary,” I said. “You won’t find me objecting.”

  He kissed me. “Tell me what else you learned today.”

  I went through everything, omitting no details, and showed him everything we’d collected.

  “Poor Foster!” he said. “He must have been dead worried when you started questioning him.”

  “He was—but only when it came to talk of elections. That seems to be the one thing that can cause a crack in his composure. He should, perhaps, be more concerned about the possible exposure of the papers Mr. Dillman hid.”

  “He’d be embarrassed by that, but not ruined. He’s a good man, Emily, and I’ll do everything I can to protect him from political trouble.”

  “You and Mr. Barnes,” I said. “Maybe Mr. Foster isn’t so good as you both think. I assume the match fact
ory is what Mr. Barnes was worried about. And now you’re ready to dismiss it. Why?”

  “Reginald Foster is the man who ought to lead this country when Gladstone’s done.”

  “Even if he’s embroiled in business practices that are destroying lives?”

  “Would you rather see the country run into the ground by some incompetent lout?” he asked. “I’m as upset by the factory as you are, Emily, and I’m convinced we can find a way to improve the lives of those people. But when it comes to politics, I’m inclined to take a long-term view and support the man best able to lead the empire.”

  “What if he killed Mr. Dillman to keep his secrets private? And what if those secrets aren’t limited to the factory, but also to election fraud?”

  “Prove it, Emily, and we’ll find ourselves having a very different conversation.”

  7 July 1893

  Belgrave Square, London

  I am no good at subterfuge. I’m afraid everyone around me is beginning to suspect something’s wrong. The only time I can forget what I’ve done and act normal is when I’m helping Emily. Partly, I suppose, because I’m working to stop the person who could destroy me, and partly because active employment gives the mind less time to worry.

  Perhaps it’s hideous of me, but I truly enjoyed our adventure in the park. I loved playing a role, pretending to be in another life. A life in which I was doing something that might help save Lady Glover. A life in which my secrets didn’t exist.

  I’d never realized how debilitating secrets can be. Am inclined to confess everything, but only once all this is over. If it ends, and the villain is caught before I’m exposed, I’ll own up to what I’ve done. There’s no getting away with things like this, only periods of time where one forgets to be frightened of what would happen if everyone knew. I don’t want to face that ever again.

  I’m not quite so good at liberating objects from people’s houses. Thank goodness Jeremy was with me at Winifred’s. Still, I can’t feel good about what we’ve done or what we learned.