A Crimson Warning (20 page)

“I want to go home,” Mrs. Dalton said. “I want to go now. We don’t need protection any longer. We’ve nothing left to protect.”

“I understand how upset you are,” I said. “But please wait until you’ve spoken with Colin.”

“I won’t,” she said, standing up. “I won’t do anything else you tell me to. My daughter is dead, Lady Emily. And you did nothing to save her.”

21

The Daltons had exited the premises within half an hour. I didn’t try to stop them. If they wanted to face their grief in their own home, who was I to argue? I had Davis send word to Colin to go to them as soon as he was finished in the park, and then collapsed in tears in my library. Jeremy sat on the overstuffed arm of the leather chair onto which I had flung myself.

“I don’t know what to do with you, Em,” he said, picking up a small stone statue of a cat, the goddess Bastet, which Colin had purchased in Egypt years ago. “I’m not allowed to comfort you in any of the ways I’d ordinarily use in such a situation.”

“Do you find yourself often in this sort of situation?” I asked.

“Well, not precisely
this
situation. But, you know, ladies overwrought with emotion. And you know I’ve never been much fond of cats.” He retuned the statue to the table, stood up, and rang for Davis. “As my normal channels are forbidden, I shall have to treat you like a gentleman instead and prescribe my cure for all male tragedy.”

Davis stepped into the room and Jeremy consulted with him in a voice too quiet for me to hear. My butler did not look pleased, but was not about to go against the wishes of a duke, and had soon returned to the room bearing a heavy tray.

“I can’t bring you Mr. Hargreaves’s favorite, sir,” Davis said. “Not without his express consent.”

“And what would his favorite be?” Jeremy asked.

“The Glenmorangie,” Davis said.

“A very good choice,” he said. “Would Lady Emily’s permission be enough?”

“It would not,” Davis said. “Just as his permission alone wouldn’t grant you access to Lady Emily’s finest port.” He bowed and left the room after having removed seven bottles and fourteen single malt glasses to the table next to Jeremy’s chair.

“I don’t want this, Jeremy,” I said.

“You only think that,” he said. “There’s no better way to forget what we saw. We’ll start with something from the West Coast Highlands.” He opened the bottle and poured a splash into each of two glasses. “Oban, because I’ve always thought it tastes like Christmas. Cheers.”

He downed his in one gulp. I sipped mine slowly.

“Thoughts?” he asked.

“It’s fine, but I’m always going to prefer port,” I said.

“I don’t think I like finding dead bodies, Em,” he said, refilling his glass. “I’m not suited to it.”

“Is anyone?”

“Your husband, apparently. You, possibly.” He took a large swig. “Finish that, Em, so we can move on to the next. But do try to pay attention to the taste.”

Mindlessly, I obeyed. The whisky burned in my throat and warmed my stomach.

“What you saw in France was worse, wasn’t it?” he asked. The previous summer I’d found the brutally savaged body of a young woman. The image still came to me in nightmares.

“Much worse.” I held my empty glass out to him. He took it from me and replaced it with another.

“Glenkinchie,” he said. “You’ll find this quite different. It has an almost grassy sweetness.”

I sipped. “Grass?”

“With a bit of straw on the finish,” he said. “Gorgeous.”

“Mrs. Dalton was very angry with me,” I said.

“She wasn’t angry with you, Em. She’s angry with the wretch who killed her daughter.”

“I know you’re right,” I said. “But I feel so much guilt. I’m consumed with it.”

“Is there anything more you could have done?”

“There must have been something, or she’d still be alive.”

“I don’t agree,” he said, filling the third set of glasses.

“I can’t keep up with you,” I said.

“It won’t go bad. You can take your time.”

“I didn’t believe he’d hurt her,” I said, tears welling up again. Jeremy, who was now sitting across from me, leaned forward and wiped them away with his thumb.

“Of course you didn’t. What civilized person could believe otherwise?” He passed me the next glass. “This is my favorite of what we have at our disposal. Thought I should give it you sooner rather than later or you might not be in a state to adequately appreciate it.”

I took a sip and cringed.

He smiled. “Laphroaig 27 year. The strongest-flavored whisky I’ve ever had. Smoke and peat.”

“Am I supposed to think drinking something that tastes like peat is a good idea?”

“It’s an excellent idea,” he said. “Take another taste. Slowly.”

I did as he instructed. “It’s so strong!”

He pulled two cigars out of his pocket. “Do you think Davis would forgive me, just this once?”

“Absolutely not,” I said. “But I will not stand for you telling me that matters right now.”

I found the whisky much improved by the addition of the cigars. Although the effect might, too, have been caused by the quantity ingested—Jeremy did insist he was pouring very small amounts, but I was unused to this quantity of spirits.

“I want you to taste them each, then decide which is your favorite,” he said. “And I’ll give you a real pour of that one.”

“I’m not quite sure how you consider this small,” I said, taking the next glass.

“You’ll like this one. It smells like summer fruit. Clynelish, from the North Coast Highlands. Elegant and creamy.”

I took a sip. “This is nice. I almost like it.”

“I knew you’d come around.”

“Thank you, Jeremy,” I said. “I don’t know how I’d get on right now if I didn’t have you to distract me.”

“I’m rather indispensable, you know.”

I held up a hand when he reached for the next bottle. “No, not yet. I couldn’t possibly. This may be your male-tragedy cure, but you must remember I am a lady.”

He leaned forward. “I had noticed that, Em, when I was about nine. It was rather alarming.”

I giggled.

“Maybe just a little more,” I said. “This is an extraordinary cigar.”

“Your taste is excellent, darling.” Now he was laughing. Which made me laugh more, and soon we were both collapsed in mirth.

“So, is this what gentlemen do at their clubs?” I asked.

“It’s not nearly so entertaining at clubs,” he said, pouring again. “Lagavulin, from Islay. This has a spectacular finish—dark fruit beneath the peat.”

“Not bad,” I said. It appeared I was acquiring a taste for whisky. “I wonder if the Daltons will bury Cordelia near Mr. Dillman.”

“Must we return to morbid?” Jeremy asked.

“Together in death. I suppose that is morbid.”

“Decidedly.” He poured more Lagavulin into his glass and gulped it down. “I’d prefer to discuss just about anything. Including the Women’s Liberal Federation.”

“That’s quite a claim,” I said. “Can it be true?”

“Have I ever lied to you?” His eyes lingered on mine longer than they ought to have.

“Oh, Jeremy. You know I—”

“Just tell me, Em. Could it have been different? If you’d never met Hargreaves?”

Images of the two of us spun in my head—memories from childhood, the kiss we’d shared in Vienna when he told me he loved me. But I could not wrench my eyes away from his.

“It might have been different,” I whispered.

He dropped to his knees in front of me. “Emily—”

“No, Jeremy. No.” I stood up and stepped away from him. “It can’t be like that now.”

Just as I was about to become seriously concerned about the state of our friendship, he shook his head and started to laugh again.

“Oh, I know, Em,” he said. “But you’re bloody near irresistible to me. We need more whisky.” He returned to his chair and reached for the next bottle on the table. “Talisker, from the Isle of Skye.”

“It smells salty,” I said.

“Good. And the taste?”

“Sweet at first, but then peat.”

You’re learning,” he said.

“I don’t know about that.”

“Do you think Cordelia’s still in the park, or will they have moved her by now?” he asked.

“They’ve probably moved her.”

“To the morgue?”

“I suppose so.”

“I don’t know how you stomach all this, Em,” he said. “You’re stronger than I am.”

“I don’t like this part. But it’s worth it if I can find the person who did it to her.”

“Me, I’m inclined to crawl into bed and refuse to come out until he’s been hung, drawn, and quartered.”

“We don’t do that anymore,” I said.

“Maybe you don’t, but I certainly do. There’s nothing like the protection that comes from one’s bedcovers. My nurse taught me that when I was very small and she never, ever steered me wrong.”

“I was referring to hanging, drawing, and quartering,” I said.

He pulled open the last bottle. “I think you’ll like this. Cragganmore, from Speyside. Fruit, caramel, and toffee in the nose.”

“I do like toffee,” I said, taking the glass and raising it to my lips. “This is good. It feels so rich on the tongue.”

“I knew I’d bring you round to my way of thinking,” he said. “And as I’ve got such finely honed powers of persuasion, perhaps I ought to consider spending more time in the Lords. Get people rethinking the idea of acceptable punishment.”

I don’t know why, but this made me laugh. Hysterically. “Good heavens, I’d all but forgot you’ve a seat there. Have you ever even been?”

“Until now I’ve not had a suitable agenda to pursue,” he said, laughing with me.

“It took punishment to inspire your political passion?” I asked.

“Can you think of something better?”

“Hundreds of things,” I said. “This cigar, for example.”

“You’ve descended to the ridiculous.”

I would have agreed with him if I could have stopped laughing long enough.

“What’s going on here?” Colin asked, opening the door and looking at the two of us with more than a hint of irritation on his face.

Jeremy waved a hand at him. “Consolation, my friend. Your wife needed consoling, and whisky was all I could offer her in the circumstances. Would you like some?”

“No, I wouldn’t,” he said.

“Did you speak to the Daltons?” I asked.

“They’re in bad shape,” he said.

“I know. Very angry.”

“It’s entirely justifiable,” he said. “I’m sick that we didn’t stop this.”

“As am I,” I said.

“Which is why I plied her with drink,” Jeremy said. “Don’t be cross with me, Hargreaves.”

“Believe me, I’m not,” Colin said, taking the chair next to mine. “I’m thankful you were here to distract her. It’s the rest of it that’s tormenting me. More paint has been found—and the news of Cordelia’s death has already reached the far-flung corners of town. If you thought people were on edge before, wait till you step outside again. London feels on the verge of implosion.”

Jeremy rang the bell, and Davis appeared. “The Glenmorangie for your master, good man. I’ll brook no argument.”

Davis looked at Colin, who nodded before turning to Jeremy.

“I don’t suppose you have another one of those cigars?”

22

The Glenmorangie may indeed have been the best whisky, but the following morning, I found myself devoid of pleasant memories of any of them. Colin pulled the curtains back in our room and I groaned as the light hit my face. I rolled onto my stomach and dove under my pillow.

“You can’t hide from me,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Why not?
All I know is that I know nothing
.”

“Socrates won’t help you now.”

“I can’t believe Cordelia is dead,” I said, feeling hot tears sting my cheeks. “And I’ve no interest in moving a single muscle today. It all feels too hopeless.”

“We have to go to Dillman’s to investigate your theory, remember?”

I lifted the pillow enough that I could peek at him with one eye. “I’ll be ready in an hour. It’s not as if rushing can help her now.” I heard the door open.

“I’ve brought Lady Emily’s breakfast, like you asked.” Meg’s voice was far too cheerful for the time of the morning, but the smell of bacon and egg was beginning to bring me round. I sat up and let her arrange the tray over my legs.

“I didn’t think I was hungry,” I said, applying myself with unexpected vigor to the plate. “Anything new to report yet today?”

“I thought I should let you sleep. I’ve been to two houses with freshly painted red fronts.”

“And?”

“Nothing yet that will help us there,” he said. “The occupants are all in panic, as you can imagine.”

I gave him a piece of my toast. “Have you spoken to the Daltons again?”

“That was the worst part of my morning. I took him to identify the body.”

“Oh, Colin.” I squeezed his hand. “I’m so sorry. Was it awful?”

“He faced it bravely and is doing as well as can be expected. He’s summoned his sons home from India.”

“It’s heartbreaking, all of it,” I said.

“It is.” He took a bite of the buttered toast, then added some marmalade.

“Whose houses have been painted?” I asked.

“The Stanburys and that chap in Belgrave Square who fancies himself an archaeologist.”

“Yes, I remember him,” I said. “He’s a neighbor of Ivy’s.”

“Stanbury wouldn’t tell me anything, but it’s clear he knows why he’s been targeted.”

“And the archaeologist?”

“He’s convinced he’s being punished for having criticized the methods of his more professional colleagues.”

“The Riddingtons’ secret still has not been exposed,” I said. “How long have they been waiting?”

“Too long,” Colin said. “They must be going mad.”

“Have you learned anything further about what happened at the Royal Academy?” I asked.

“Quite a lot, actually.” He handed me the
Times.

“Heavens,” I said, as I read. Mrs. Tubney, whose canvas had been destroyed, had taken out a full-page ad, apologizing to a long list of merchants to whom she owed money. Gambling, she confessed, had decimated her fortune, and she promised to stop buying things on credit. “Do you think she paid cash for her portrait?”