“What other secrets are you keeping from me?”
“They wouldn’t be secrets if I told, would they?”
24 June 1893
Belgrave Square, London
I spent a great deal of time with Winifred today. It was altogether ordinary for the most part, except for the fact that I felt so guilty trying to pry into her secrets when guarding my own so carefully. It’s funny how one begins to notice things only after one starts to look for them. She’s extremely protective of her correspondence—hides it whenever someone comes into the room, even one of her servants. And she keeps a journal locked away in a drawer of her desk, the key hidden round her neck.
She told me she knows what secret of the Riddingtons is going to be exposed, but wouldn’t give me any details. It seemed to amuse her to keep them from me. She also admitted to having called on Lady Althway before Mrs. Fanning’s ball to confront her about her affair with that rake, Mr. Croft.
Yet she’s shown no sign of real malice towards any of the victims. That she’s a harsh judge of their sins cannot be doubted, but she holds everyone around her to the same standards. I’ve nothing to tell Emily that would suggest she’s behind this paint business. She’s just better at seeking out secrets than most of us. Could that be considered a failing?
Of course it could. But only if she’s using the information to hurt others, and so far as I can tell, her only goal is to encourage those she loves to behave with care and decorum.
16
The summer had been exceptionally warm and dry, and after a short break, the heat had returned with a vengeance. I could hardly remember when it had last rained—a situation beyond unusual in England. All of my clothes felt too heavy for the season, even those of the thinnest muslin. Inside was worse than out, for even with every window in the house flung open, the air hung heavy and stale. It was as if the atmosphere itself was bogged down, worrying about Cordelia. I was sitting on my terrace, overlooking the garden, but even being outside provided little relief. I fanned myself with enormous plumes of ostrich feathers and ignored the copy of The Aeneid in my hands. I could think of nothing but Cordelia.
“Virgil does not have the hold on you Homer enjoys,” Colin said, stepping out from the house. His tone was light, but I saw a deadly calm in his eyes.
“Is everything all right?” I asked, putting the book down on a table.
“Far from it,” he said. “I’ve just come from the Daltons’.” He handed me an envelope that had been closed with yellow sealing wax. I opened it and read:
I’ve decided there may be no point in negotiating with you, and, therefore, am not quite sure what I’ll do with your daughter. Thought I should let you know, so that you don’t start making all kinds of plans for her.
Or maybe you should. Everything depends upon my whim now.
“What can we do?” I asked. “This is grotesque and cruel.”
“And unfortunately there’s little, if anything, to be done at the moment,” Colin said. “He’s given us nothing new to act upon. It’s a very bad situation.”
“Should I go see Mrs. Dalton?” I asked.
“No,” Colin said. “She’s not in a state to receive visitors. And who could blame her?”
“You assume the worst?” I asked.
“Not yet,” Colin said. “But the Daltons certainly do, and as we’ve no firm evidence to persuade them otherwise, there’s nothing we can do to offer them hope. I wish they would let us involve the police. This matter is getting out of hand.”
“Perhaps it’s time to inform Scotland Yard, even if it’s not what the family wants,” I said.
“I don’t want to go against Dalton’s express wishes,” Colin said. “It’s a delicate matter. If I did, and his daughter is harmed…”
“What would you do if it were our daughter?” I asked.
“I would have called upon every resource I could.”
“Doesn’t Cordelia deserve as much?” I asked.
“Unfortunately, that’s not our decision,” he said.
“I can’t bear it,” I said. “There must be something we can do.”
“Keep checking with Lady Glover,” he said. “Make sure you know the instant she receives another note. Beyond that, we can only wait.”
* * *
A week passed with no further news of Cordelia. Colin spent countless hours skulking about, interviewing contacts he had who he hoped might know something about her disappearance, but turned up nothing. He spoke to every member of every family whose house had been splashed red, and then to all of their servants, desperately trying to identify something that connected them, but it was all to no avail. As for me, I called on Lady Glover every day, hoping she would receive something from her mysterious correspondent, but nothing came. She was more than a little disappointed, I thought, to have lost his attention, and this led me to believe she was either telling the truth about the situation or she was an extremely good actress. Colin was still not convinced she hadn’t written to herself.
The Daltons, understandably, were in an absolute state. We pleaded with them to let us take the case to Scotland Yard, who could begin a citywide search for Cordelia, but her parents would have none of it. They were adamant about following her kidnapper’s orders, and were certain he would kill her if he thought for a moment they’d contacted the police.
One morning at breakfast, Colin told me paint had been found on another house, and I could do nothing but close my eyes.
“How long will this go on? Mr. Dillman is dead, Cordelia is missing. We’ve no clues worth anything,” I said. “All of town is in knots wondering what’s going to happen next. It’s becoming unbearable.”
“You’re not concerned about us falling victim to this man?”
“The rational part of me isn’t,” I said. “But what’s rational about any of this? This person has instilled paranoia and terror in everyone. It’s permeated all of London. Tell me you aren’t on the edge of reason, just from being surrounded by so much tension?”
“It’s deeply unpleasant,” he said.
Finished with my toast, I went behind the house to the stables for my horse. The grooms were ready for me, knowing I always rode at the same time. “Good morning, madam.” One of them stepped forward, holding Bucephalus’s reins. I’d named him after Alexander the Great’s famous equine, not only because of my admiration for the ancient hero, but out of respect for my first husband, who’d called his horse the same.
“Thank you,” I said. “It’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it?”
He nodded. “I thought you should know, madam, we found someone sniffing around before sunrise today.”
“Here in the stables?”
“Yes, madam,” he said. “He was trying to put this in Bucephalus’s food.” He handed me a small glass bottle.
“Poison?” I nearly dropped the odious object. “Where is he now? Did you catch him?”
“We locked him right up, madam, don’t you worry. Knew we could hold him safe till you and the master was finished with breakfast, so didn’t see the point in interrupting you.”
I reached out and touched his arm. “In the future, please don’t worry about interrupting us. I do very much appreciate the consideration, but never hesitate to tell me when something like this happens.”
“I’m sorry, madam—”
“No need for apologies, I assure you,” I said. “I’m extremely pleased that you have the man. I will return momentarily with Mr. Hargreaves and we will deal with him.”
I rushed into the house and collected my husband, who was perhaps a bit less generous than I about the grooms having decided not to disturb us before breakfast. He contained his anger, however, scribbled a note summoning Scotland Yard, and in short order we were back at the stables. The grooms, more sheepish in Colin’s presence, led us to the small room in which they’d locked the perpetrator.
Colin took the keys from them and opened the door. Inside, a grubby-looking man sat tied to a chair.
“Who a
re you?” Colin asked.
“He doesn’t speak, sir,” one of the grooms said. “We tried everything.”
Fresh bruises on the man’s face gave weight to the words.
“There’s nothing more we can do with him,” Colin said. “Scotland Yard will be along to collect him. They’ll see if he can sign, but I don’t expect an outcome any different from that we had with our friends from the park.”
“I’m sure he’s in Mr. Majors’s employ,” I said.
“We can let the police follow up on this,” Colin said. “We know what they’ll find. And they’ve already got the factory under surveillance.”
“Thank you for being so vigilant,” I said to the groom. “I can’t bear to think what might have happened.” My voice cracked and I felt tears hot in my eyes. I blinked them away, but could not stop my hands from shaking.
“Will you still ride, madam?” the groom asked.
“Yes, she will,” Colin said. “And I shall as well.” He turned to me. “Give me a minute to change into something appropriate. It’s been too long since I’ve gone to Rotten Row.”
* * *
Ordinarily, the sight of Colin in riding clothes, particularly in his tall, polished boots, sent delicious shivers through me. But today nothing could wipe the anxiety from my mind, and I wasn’t able to muster enough enthusiasm to approach anything about our ride with my usual wild abandon.
“Try to look lighthearted,” he said. “Our villain is trying to put you off the case by upsetting you.”
“Do you think so?” I asked.
“There’s no question in my mind,” he said. “Which suggests that something you’re pursuing is on the right track. Don’t show any cracks now, Emily.”
When we returned home, I found it difficult to hand Bucephalus back to the grooms. I felt too out of sorts even to sit in the library, and installed myself in the green drawing room, where we’d hung paintings done by Monet and Renoir, talented artists and dear friends. I read the same fifty lines of The Aeneid over and over, unable to make any sense of the Latin. Ivy found me in a state when she called to see what had kept me from meeting her at Rotten Row.
“Horrifying! Absolutely horrifying,” Ivy said, after I’d recounted for her the events of the morning. “Poor Bucephalus! You must have been beside yourself.”
“I was. It was awful. Thank heavens they caught the man before he did any harm.”
“I think it’s terribly brave of you to be soldiering on.”
“What else is there to do?”
“I’d be tempted to lock myself in my bedroom,” Ivy said. “And refuse to come out until it’s all over.”
“I don’t believe you,” I said. “You can put on all the ladylike airs you want, but you’ll never convince me you don’t like adventure.”
“You know me too well.”
“How is the ineffable Mrs. Harris?”
“Still extremely displeased with you,” Ivy said. “I’ve been spending quite a bit of time with her and while I agree she may not be entirely motivated by kindness, she’s not all bad, Emily.”
“People rarely are.”
“I have noticed that she’s not using her yellow sealing wax all the time anymore. She’s switched to red for most of her correspondence.”
“When does she use the yellow?”
“I don’t really know,” she said. “She doesn’t write that many letters, to tell the truth. I’ve taken to sitting with her in the afternoon—I’d suggested we could answer notes together, to make the task a more pleasant one. She welcomed the idea, although not with much warmth, and set me up the next day at a small table in her music room. That’s where she likes to write.”
“And you’d bring letters requiring answers with you?”
“Precisely. I had told her I wanted her guidance. That I knew I was sometimes swayed to accept less-than-desirable invitations and that I needed her to help me cull from my acquaintance those she thought beneath me.”
“Ivy! You actually said that?” I asked.
“I did indeed and it worked like a charm. She couldn’t wait to exert more influence over me.”
“You’re very good at this, you know,” I said.
“Why thank you, Emily,” she said, her face glowing. There was no one in Britain lovelier than Ivy when she was happy. Her pink cheeks and porcelain skin could not have been more beautiful. “I’m sure it won’t surprise you to learn you were the first person she suggested culling. But as open as she was to helping me, she was quite the opposite when it came to her own letters.”
“Did she discuss any of them with you?”
“No,” Ivy said. “As I said, she writes very few. Instead, she spends her time on journal entries. She’s got at least five volumes, she told me. Needless to say, I’ve not the slightest idea what she puts in them.”
“Perhaps she deals with her correspondence when you’re not there.”
“No, she told me she doesn’t send or receive much.”
“Does she sit near you when she writes?” I asked.
“No. Her desk is on the far side of the room from my little table. She keeps herself all hunched over, too, so that no one walking by could get even a hint of what she’s doing.”
“This is useful, Ivy,” I said. “Thank you so much for undertaking the task.”
“It’s my pleasure entirely,” she said. “I do like being of assistance.”
“Excellent,” I said. “Then you can come with me to Lady Glover’s.”
17
“Lady Glover’s?” Ivy asked. “I don’t know. I—”
“No discussion.” I took her by the arm and led her—dragged her, really—to the Glovers’ house, only a short walk from my own. The butler admitted us at once, and we followed him through six jewel-toned drawing rooms before reaching his mistress.
“Emily! What do you think of it?” She spread her arms and looked around the room. “It was inspired by you, of course. Only a quick redecoration as of yet. I’ll have it done more thoroughly when we’re back in the country shooting grouse, or whatever dreadful bird is on the wing in August.”
She’d done a credible job turning the chamber from French contemporary to medieval fantasy. A suit of armor stood in one corner, and in the one opposite was a display of horse armor, complete with rider on top. Lances, swords, and an assortment of shields hung from one wall, while the other three were covered with fine tapestries. All of the furniture was heavy and dark. Candelabras on the large table in the center of the room provided the only light save that coming through the windows, which she’d somehow managed to replace with panels of stained glass.
“How did you do this in so little time?” I asked.
“Money makes all things possible,” she said. “What do you think, Mrs. Brandon?”
“I … I…,” Ivy faltered in search of words. “It’s extraordinary. I feel as if I’m in the keep of some Scottish castle.”
“Oh dear,” Lady Glover said. “I was aiming for fifteenth-century France. But it’s a start.”
“How does Mr. Foster like it?” I asked.
“He’s not yet seen it,” she said. “I’ve been keeping him in the Egyptian room, even if he does fancy himself a courtly knight. It’s still my favorite.”
“And your husband?” Ivy asked. “Which is his favorite?”
“His dreadful smoking room,” she said. “Which has been in dire need of refurbishment since approximately 1817. I think he refuses to update it just to ensure I won’t disturb him in his little sanctuary. He knows I can’t bear to spend a moment there as it is.”
“You must know I’ve come to you with the same question I have every day,” I said.
“And today, at last, I have a positive response for you,” she said, pulling a rolled paper from her décolletage. I stifled a laugh and took it from Lady Glover as Ivy did her best to hide her embarrassment.
“We shall have shortly discord in the spheres.” Across the bottom of the page, just as before, was
an ominous swish of red paint.
“It’s As You Like It,” Lady Glover said. “I admit to having to undertake quite a search to find the quote. I didn’t expect something from the comedies, you see.”
“No, why would you have?” I frowned. “I wish he’d given some indication of whether he received the reply you’d sent to his first note.”
“Well, of course he received it,” Lady Glover said. “I saw him collect it from my stoop.”
“And you didn’t see fit to share this information with me?” Frustration was replacing my feeling of discomfort.
She fluttered her eyelashes. “A lady must have some secrets.”
“What did he look like?”
“Well, I suppose I must admit—but only to you—that he didn’t come for it himself. He sent a servant of some sort.”
“Was he in livery?” I asked.
“No.” She sighed and leaned forward. “Truth be told, he was rather scruffy for a manservant.”
“How do you know he wasn’t some beggar off the street?” Ivy asked.
“Well, he wasn’t that filthy. At least, not quite.”
“I don’t suppose you had someone follow him?” I asked.
“I followed him myself,” she said. “It was quite an adventure. At least I’d thought it would be. But he went nowhere interesting—just into the back door of Claridge’s Hotel.”
“How is that not interesting?” I asked.
“Because he was summarily ejected not two minutes later,” she said. “And then went towards the East End. I stopped following at that point. The neighborhood was appalling and I quite feared for my own safety.”
I wondered if he had gone to Mr. Majors’s match factory.
“Was there anything that stood out about his appearance?” I asked.
“He must have been in a fight recently,” she said. “He was rather banged up, though the injuries did not look fresh.”
I would have bet anything it was Dobson.
“And you still think he’s the servant to a gentleman?” Ivy asked.
“Dear girl, I never said my correspondent was a gentleman! Do you want tea, either of you?”
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