A Crimson Warning

by Tasha Alexander

  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. Hargreav
es 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.

  “What happened here?” I asked, inquiring of the servant on her hands and knees, scrubbing the bottom of a white square pillar that stood between sections of the fence.

  “Madam?” She looked down, seemingly afraid to speak to me.

  “I’m Lady Emily Hargreaves, a friend of Polly’s,” I said. “Who did this?”

  “It was a vandal of some sort, madam. We don’t know who. I’ve been at it for more hours than I can count, but it’s right near impossible to remove. They’ve sent someone off to get turpentine.”

  “When did it happen?” I asked.

  “It was like this when we woke up yesterday morning. Terrible thing, ’specially now. The missus doesn’t need any more trouble.”

  “No, she certainly doesn’t,” I said. “Don’t let me distract you from your task.”

  “Yes, madam.” She returned to her work, her face tense with effort.

  We continued towards Lady Carlisle’s house in the bottom of the street. “This is dreadful,” Ivy said. “Poor Polly is all but ruined. And now this? It’s grotesquely unfair. Who would have done such a thing to her house?”

  “I can’t imagine,” I said. “Isn’t it enough that the family have suffered such pain and humiliation? Why would someone want to draw further attention to their plight?”

  We’d reached our destination. I looked up at Number One Palace Green. It was smaller than the other homes on the street and looked as if it had been built more recently, although its red bricks fronted a relatively plain façade. I pulled open the iron gate and felt a twinge of nerves as we walked up concrete steps to the narrow, arched entrance to the house. I felt as if I were on the precipice of something important, as if I were about to enter a world full of other people who shared values similar to my own, a place where I would not be ostracized for my intellectual interests and social radicalism. I took a deep breath and lifted my hand to knock on the door.

  * * *

  In retrospect, I admit precipice might not have been quite the right word. The ladies of Women’s Liberal Federation, while charming and welcoming, weren’t as different from the rest of society as one might have thought. I’d expected—or perhaps hoped for—firebrand politics. Instead, we entered a pleasant drawing room papered in a William Morris design and found ourselves in a crush of violently fashionable ladies. Their sleeves, in every bright color of fabric, were so wide one could hardly squeeze past them. We drank tea and enjoyed genteel conversation that focused as much on needlepoint and which balls everyone planned to attend that evening as it did the issue of we ladies gaining the vote. It was pleasant, but a little anticlimactic.

  “I confess I’d worried they would be more radical,” Ivy asked, her voice hushed as she scooted her chair closer to mine. The meeting had started in earnest, though many of the ladies weren’t paying much attention.

  “I thought they would be, too,” I said, not voicing my disappointment to find they were not.

  “Can you hear me, Lady Emily? I need to know if we can count on you.” Lady Carlisle’s voice carried over the group, and I felt like a child caught talking out of turn at school. “Will you distribute pamphlets with us?”

  I had heard everything she’d said about these pamphlets, which the group planned to hand out to specially selected ladies in the most unobtrusive way possible so as not to put off any possible recruits.

  “I should like very much to be in charge of handing them out to the Conservative MPs, if that would be allowed,” I said. “I’m not afraid of direct opposition.”

  “Well, now,” Lady Carlisle said. “I do admire your determination.” Our hostess was well known for the fervent support she lent to her favorite causes: temperance, Irish Home Rule, and free trade. It was she who had directed the movement for the Women’s Liberal Federation to pursue an aggressive agenda to get votes for women, a policy that had caused a schism in the group. Nearly ten thousand members had resigned and started their own organization, the priorities of which did not include supporting such controversial stances.

  “As soon as I have the documents in hand, I’ll set off for Westminster. I’d like to confront them there,” I said. “I want to present myself as if I’m already a constituent and coming to them with a concern. I think they’ll respect me for taking a direct approach, even if they don’t agree with our position. My goal will be to identify those who show the slightest hints of sympathy and then I’ll begin cultivating relationships with their wives.”

  “What an interesting idea,” Lady Carlisle said. Her smile suggested she was pleased, and I wondered if she was glad to have found someone else who shared a more radical vision. “I look forward to hearing about your results. You shall all have pamphlets and distribution lists by the end of the week. And unless anyone has something else to add, I believe that concludes our business for today.”

  Ivy and I milled around the room for another quarter of an hour, drinking tea and listening to the usual sort of society gossip. No one mentioned Mr. Dillman’s brutal death out loud, though I knew it was on everyone’s mind. We’d all seen the sensational coverage given to his murder by the morning papers. Instead, most of the chatter focused on Polly Sanders. The words said about her were not kind, and she was not the only person to suffer under the rule of icy tongues.

  “That hideous Lady Glover sent out another round of invitations,” one of the ladies said to another. “I do hope no one has the bad form to accept.”

  “I don’t understand why she even bothers,” the other said. “No one is going to befriend her, no matter what airs she puts on.”

  “Have you ever met Lady Glover?” I asked Ivy, keeping my voice low. “She drives her phaeton through Hyde Park with zebras pulling it.”

  “Yes, I’ve seen them,” Ivy said. “She makes it rather hard to miss.”

  “Zebras, Ivy. Zebras,” I said. “Why are we not better acquainted with this woman?”

  “Because the matrons of Society have never forgiven her for having got her start as a pantomime girl at the Surrey Music Hall,” Ivy said. “Or so I’ve heard. Apparently there are some crimes even a good marriage can’t erase, no matter how much money is involved.”

  “She lives just down the street from me,” I said. “Perhaps we should call on her.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  “Don’t be silly,” I said. “It’s an excellent idea.”

  “What is an excellent idea?” Lady Carlisle asked, coming to my friend’s side.

  Ivy looked at me questioningly,
and I knew she was afraid of what I might say. Undaunted, I took a deep breath and soldiered forward.

  “Calling on Lady Glover,” I said. “I’ve been longing to question her on the care and maintenance of zebras in town.”

  6 June 1893

  Belgrave Square, London

  I’m home again, thank goodness!

  The Women’s Liberal Federation are frightfully boring. Worse even than Latin, which does at least have Emily’s enthusiasm to recommend it. I nearly fell asleep twice in the meeting. Are there any causes less soporific to be found? I do so want to be useful, but is it too much to want to be entertained as well? I don’t want to disappoint Emily, but I may have to focus my own efforts on a charity instead of politics. Robert suggested I support the Church of England Central Society for Providing Homes for Waifs and Strays. I’m certain I’d be better at serving children than convincing gentlemen I should have the right to vote, particularly as I’m not sure I even want it.

  Is it so wrong to let our men take care of us? I’ve enough to do managing a household, dealing with my servants, seeing to the care of my daughter. I like the womanly arts, and want to focus on them. But is that selfish? Not all ladies are looked after so well as I. Would having the vote improve their lives?

  Perhaps it would, but I haven’t the slightest clue how. It seems a hopeless business.

  3

  Colin was in his study when I arrived home from the meeting. He loved this room the way I did the library, and I teased him that this was because he no longer owned any of the books in my favorite room, after having given all of them to me (along with every bottle of port in his cellar) when he asked me to marry him. He’d decorated, as he should have, with an eye to satisfying no one but himself. Old Masters hung against the navy silk walls—Raphael, Botticelli, and a sketch by Da Vinci. He’d bought the marble fireplace mantel while traveling in Italy soon after he’d finished at Cambridge. Shipping it back to England had proved problematic, so he’d hired four local men to transport it for him. They still worked for him, now serving as footmen, and I often practiced my Italian on them.