A Crimson Warning (22 page)

“Show me the letter,” I said.

After another show of reluctance, she gave it to me.

Confer with me of murder and of death.

There’s not a hollow cave or lurking-place,

No vast obscurity or misty vale,

Where bloody murder or detested rape

Can couch for fear, but I will find them out;

And in their ears tell them my dreadful name,

Revenge, which makes the foul offender quake.

For a moment I wondered if I had judged her too harshly. This quote—Shakespeare again—was more frightening than those she’d received before. But she was nodding her head and smiling as I reread the words. She was enjoying this too much.

“
Titus Andronicus
is not my favorite of the plays,” I said, folding the paper and sliding it back in its envelope. “Revenge describes well what he seems to be after, but this passage makes it feel more personal than it did before, doesn’t it? It’s not just paint flung to expose the hypocrisy of society. It’s more pointed than that.”

“Are you going to reply?” Ivy asked.

“Well, of course,” Lady Glover said. “No one else in London has the man in the palm of her hands.”

“I don’t think you’d want him there,” I said. “Have you shown these letters to Scotland Yard?”

“Absolutely not. I won’t have them taken from me.”

“They could study the handwriting,” I said.

“What good could possibly come of that?” she asked. “It’s not as if they have some book filled with handwriting samples from every murderous wretch in Britain.”

“May I at least share it with my husband?” I asked.

“Yes, but only if you communicate to him in no uncertain terms that he is to be much, much kinder to me when he calls to return it. He disappointed me terribly last time.”

“I’ll be sure to deliver the request,” I said, tapping my foot on the marble floor, impatient.

“I’ll count on you.”

I wasn’t quite sure why she thought fluttering her eyelashes at me would help. “I need something from you, though. Tell me what you were doing on Oxford Street with Winifred Harris?”

“I’ve no idea what you mean,” she said, tugging at her long, black gloves to straighten them.

“Since when are you and Mrs. Harris friendly?” I asked.

“I despise the woman,” she said. “She’s never been anything but terrible to me.”

“I was under the same impression until I saw the two of you in rather cozier circumstances this morning. And now you’re summoning me with a letter, one that seems to raise the stakes, and you are refusing to give me any of the information I need. What are you and Mrs. Harris up to?”

“Nothing at all,” she said. “I was courteous to her this morning as I have no interest in creating public scenes.”

“I suppose that’s why zebras pull your carriage,” I said.

“One has nothing to do with the other,” she said.

“Tell me what she is to you.”

“I can assure you it’s nothing to do with the paint,” Lady Glover said. “And our meeting was anything but cozy.”

“Then tell me what it was,” I said.

“I think we should go outside,” Ivy said. “People are beginning to stare.”

We brushed past a group of overly interested ladies and wound our way back through sumptuous gallery after sumptuous gallery until we had stepped outside into Trafalgar Square. Clouds had begun to form in the sky, and a cold gust whipped summer out of London’s air. I held tight to my hat as I leaned against the square’s empty fourth plinth.

“What is going on between you and Winifred Harris?” I asked.

“She’s a wretched cow,” Lady Glover said. “The worst sort of lady, and I use the term loosely. I’m surprised her entire house hasn’t been covered with red paint. Perhaps I should do it myself.”

“I share your lack of enthusiasm for her,” I said. “What, specifically, has spurred your ire?”

“You are well aware that I had a career before I met Lord Glover.” The wind strained the ribs of her parasol, so she shut it.

“Yes,” I said. “You were an actress. We’ve discussed this.”

“But not in detail,” she said. “When a girl in such circumstances is first looking for work, she’s not always in a position to find herself being offered the best roles.”

“And?”

“I was desperate for money, you see … starving,” she said. “And I didn’t want to find myself on the streets. So no, don’t think I did that.”

“What
did
you do?” I asked.

“I posed for a series of artistic photographs that were later sold on postcards,” she said. “It was years ago—in another lifetime. It never occurred to me someone like Mrs. Harris would find them.”

“Are artistic photographs so terrible a thing?” Ivy asked.

Lady Glover lowered her voice. “I was nude.”

I knew there was no possibility I could keep the shock I felt from showing on my face. My cheeks must have been crimson, and my eyes widened to the point of straining. Nonetheless my change of expression could not have begun to touch the look of horror on Ivy’s delicate features.

Lady Glover shrugged. “It could have been much worse.”

“How?” I asked, then pressed my hand against my forehead and shook my head. “No, don’t answer. Is Mrs. Harris threatening to expose you?”

“She’s blackmailing me. Says that if I don’t pay her an outrageous sum every month, she’ll expose me.”

“Her own version of red paint?” I asked.

“She told me it wouldn’t matter whether there was paint,” Lady Glover said. “The end result would be the same.”

“What is the end result, Lady Glover?” I asked. “Please know I don’t mean to offend you—you know I’m fond of you. But it’s not as if the ladies of society have drawn you to their collective bosom. Wouldn’t these pictures only confirm what they’re already convinced they know?”

“Yes, yes,” she said. “But if I don’t appease her, what will my friends think? Gentlemen aren’t forgiving of everything. I’ve made a decent life for myself, and I’m not going to see it ruined.”

“You’re not going to pay her, are you?” Ivy asked.

“What else is there to do?”

“Colin may be able to help you,” I said. “What she’s doing is illegal, and she must be stopped.”

“She’ll get her due,” Lady Glover said. “Of that I’m sure. I’ve half a mind to write to our Shakespearean friend and tell him all about her. Request some paint if I can.”

“Then you’d be no better than she,” I said.

“Lady Emily, I’m only interested in being as good as myself.”

*   *   *

Colin was extremely troubled by the letter sent to Lady Glover.

“
Titus Andronicus
is a bloody, violent play,” he said. He started pacing again, never a good sign. “And this passage, in the current context, is disturbing. Do you still have the note Lady Glover sent you asking you to meet her at the National Gallery?”

“I do,” I said.

“I want to take it with this one to Scotland Yard.”

“Why both?” I asked. “Do you suspect Lady Glover penned both of them?”

“I do,” he said. “Particularly because of what she said to you—that she was going to suggest Mrs. Harris for paint.”

“She was awfully glib when she first showed us the note. I would have thought she’d be upset.”

“Something’s rotten here,” he said.

“I agree, but I’m not convinced Lady Glover is the person we’re after,” I said. “And what of Mrs. Harris? Where would she have come across those postcards? Surely that’s not a coincidence.”

“No, but it’s possible they were”—he coughed—“in the possession of her husband.”

I raised an eyebrow. “An interesting possibility, to be sure, but wouldn’t that still be something of a coincidence?”

“That would depend on how popular that particular batch of cards was. My understanding is that they were quite the rage amongst a certain set.”

“How would you know such a thing?”

“I’ve heard it discussed,” Colin said. “Lady Glover needn’t worry about her ‘gentlemen friends.’ They’re all perfectly aware of her sins and forgave them long ago.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” I said. “But if the pictures were to become public, she’d find herself in a difficult position. What gentlemen accept in quiet club gossip is quite different from what they’ll publically condone.”

“True,” Colin said. “She has a sticky enough time with society now. If the old dragons had solid proof of her indiscretions, every husband in town would be forbidden from speaking to her.”

“And what of her own husband? We’ve no idea if he’s aware of the full breadth of her past activities.”

Davis entered the room. “Sorry to disturb, sir. A gentleman from the War Office is here to see you on what he insists is urgent business.”

24

Our caller was not just any gentleman from the War Office, but the head of the whole department. His mustache reminded me very much of the Prince of Wales, and his erect bearing suggested a man who had spent many of his younger years serving the empire on the front lines rather than from behind a desk. He and Colin exchanged pleasantries and he bent over my hand with perfect politeness, but his eyes twitched when my husband told me to stay in the room while they spoke.

“Er, right,” he said. “I’ve come, Hargreaves, on a rather sensitive matter.” He looked at me.

“Lady Emily has served the queen in sensitive matters,” Colin said. “She’s instrumental to my work. No doubt you heard of what she did in Constantinople.”

The man cleared his throat. “Quite. Yes. Well. No time to fuss about, is there? This business of the red paint—we’ve received some rather disturbing information about one of the gentlemen involved. A Captain Riddington.”

“Yes,” Colin said. “We’ve been wondering when his secret would be exposed. The poor family have been beside themselves waiting.”

“Well, I don’t think it’s likely they’ll be feeling anything akin to relief soon. A package arrived at my office yesterday detailing a battle that took place during the Zulu War.”

“Captain Riddington was serving at that time, if I recall correctly,” Colin said.

“He was. He was one of the most decorated soldiers in the combat—due in no small part to his deeds at Kambula. But now, it seems, the information upon which the honors were based were incorrect. His commanding officer, who was also a friend of his from school, invented much of the report. We’ve already spoken to several members of the unit, and they all corroborated the new version of events. Far from being a hero, Riddington hid instead of fought.”

“That’s outrageous,” Colin said. “Was Riddington aware of what the officer was doing?”

“Hard to say, but he certainly knew he didn’t deserve any of his medals.”

“What will happen to him?” I asked.

“He’ll be immediately stripped of the honors,” the man said. “We’ll see what shall be done beyond that.”

“What about his commanding officer?” I asked.

“He died some years back,” the man said.

“Riddington’s offense is grievous,” Colin said. “To lie about such a thing when so many others gave their lives is the sort of thing that merits its own circle of hell.”

“Quite,” the man nodded. “I’ve half a mind to support this campaign of red paint. Riddington deserves censure.”

“He does,” Colin said. “But we can’t allow an unknown madman to mete out justice as he sees fit. May I see the letter he sent?”

“It’s not a letter, actually, but a printed pamphlet.” He pulled it out of a small, leather case he’d brought with him and handed it to my husband.

“I was hoping for handwriting,” Colin said, flipping the pages and then holding the paper up to the window. “No watermark.”

“A man who wishes to remain safely anonymous,” our visitor said. “Can’t say as I blame him. Although if he’d stuck to exposing this sort of infraction, he’d have more supporters than he could count.”

“I’m afraid you’re correct,” Colin said. “This sort of vigilance would be welcomed.”

“We wanted to keep you informed, as we’ve been told you’re the one running this show,” he said. “You may keep the pamphlet.”

“Thank you,” Colin said. “Does Riddington know yet?”

“Riddington’s always known. But I’m setting off to see him next and will have him relinquish the medals.” He rose from his seat.

“Thank you again,” Colin said. “And I’m sorry you’ve such an unpleasant task ahead of you.”

“Not unpleasant in the least. Just glad the coward is finally getting what he deserves.”

*   *   *

Captain Riddington’s public humiliation started almost at once. When I went riding the next morning, Hyde Park was full of copies of the pamphlet we’d received from the War Office. Stacks were heaped on every bench, at the foot of every statue, and in all the boats waiting to be rowed on the Serpentine. While other people’s secrets had garnered at least some measure of quiet sympathy from the public, Captain Riddington’s did not. By the evening, a pile of white feathers, the symbol of cowardice, had been deposited on his doorstep.

The red paint had long been stripped from his house, but now new graffiti appeared. Someone had written
Coward
and
Liar
in bold, black letters on the walls and pavement, and the shattered remains of broken eggs dripped down his door. Had he dared show his face in society, he would have been cut dead, but he refused to see anyone. He must have known there was nothing he could say to defend his actions. Proving the truth of his character, within days, he’d packed up his family and fled to the United States. No one ever saw him in London again.

His exposure changed the tenor in town. In general, people were no longer so tense as they’d been before. It was as if this latest incident changed the collective view of what had been happening. Some even spoke openly of supporting what was now being called The Campaign of Red Paint, viewing it as a necessary evil if we were to rid the empire of the unworthy. A scary sentiment at best.

Not everyone took this view, but those with painted houses and secrets not yet revealed faced increasingly obnoxious treatment. Someone had spit on Mr. Stanbury when he was going into the opera, and his wife admitted to me she’d had four invitations rescinded before she’d finished breakfast one morning. Our would-be-archaeologist in Belgrave Square had fled to Egypt, despite it being the wrong season in which to dig. Ivy had seen him leave his house, his face a mask of panic.