A Crimson Warning lem-6

by Tasha Alexander

“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?”

  “I hope so, for the artist’s sake.”

  “It’s an interesting approach, preempting the news,” I said. “Not that it is likely to make much of a difference in the long run.”

  “She may gain a shred of respect for having come forward herself,” Colin said. “Finish up now, and get dressed. We’ve lots to do today.”

  * * *

  Our search of Mr. Dillman’s home revitalized me. The numbers we’d found on the ribbon convinced me he was guiding us to a library, and in a matter of minutes, I’d laid hands on his reader’s ticket to the British Museum Reading Room. “This is just what we needed,” I said. “Now we know where to go.”

  Colin was somewhat skeptical of my position, and insisted on going through everything else in the house, but it was to no avail. “I don’t think there’s anything left,” he said, slamming shut the final drawer in Mr. Dillman’s dressing room.

  “You’re the one who reminded me the house has been searched repeatedly,” I said. “And I am convinced what we want is in the reading room.”

  He blew out a sigh and ran a hand through his hair; he was frustrated. “I don’t have a better suggestion, so we may as well try there.”

  The trek to the British Museum was long enough that Colin insisted on taking a cab. We didn’t have the luxury of enough time for a walk. As we turned onto Oxford Street, I tugged at my husband’s arm.

  “Tell the driver to stop,” I said. He did as I requested without asking for further explanation. “Look.”

  Out the window, on the corner, stood Lady Glover and Winifred Harris, deep in heated conversation, the latter towering over the former. They both looked upset, and I was ready to surmise they’d been arguing when Mrs. Harris took Lady Glover’s hand, her face full of sympathy. Lady Glover took a step closer and now they looked more like conspirators than enemies.

  “If only there were some way to hear what they’re saying.” Colin stretched as if having his head closer to the window could enable just that.

  “When we’re finished at the library,” I said, “let’s call on Lady Glover and find out.”

  We’d reached Great Russell Street, and stood in front of the imposing entrance of the British Museum, one of my favorite places in the world. But there would be no browsing antiquities today. We stepped into the courtyard and made our way straight to the reading room, where, beneath the enormous blue-and-gold plaster dome, I accosted the first available clerk. Upon seeing Colin’s credentials, he was quick to offer his assistance.

  I opened my notebook and showed the numbers to him. “Does this sequence mean anything to you? Could it be a list of catalog numbers?”

  The clerk shifted on his feet and bobbed his head back and forth. “It doesn’t look quite right for that.”

  “It’s possible the numbers aren’t in precisely the right order,” I said.

  “That’s unusual,” he said. “And will make finding them extremely difficult.”

  “What should the format be?” Colin asked.

  “Five digits followed by a letter and another number. There could also be another number in parentheses.”

  “The letters could be from the paper in Mr. Dillman’s pocket,” I said, and flipped to the page in my notebook where I’d written them down. “We have five three-digit numbers: 118, 104, 152, 187, and 930. What remains is 28, which would combine with any of them to give us the five digits. That, along with one of the letters could be a catalog listing.”

  “It’s conceivable,” the clerk said. “If you write out each possible combination, I can try to sort you out.”

  “That would be most appreciated,” I said.

  “If I do find matches for any of them, would you like to request the books from the stacks?” he asked.

  “Please,” I said.

  “Do you have a reader’s ticket?” he asked. “I can’t get the books if you’re not registered.”

  Colin waved his credentials again. “This is Crown business,” he said. “As quickly as you can, please.”

  The man hesitated, as if the library gods would strike him down for committing such an offense. “I’ll have to check with the deputy superintendant.” He conferred with a distinguished-looking man behind the centermost of the round reference desks, and returned to inform us he’d been granted permission to continue. Once he’d gone, we went to the nearest empty reader’s desk. Colin hung his hat on a peg beneath it while I sat in the mahogany chair and rested my hands on the black leather surface of the work space. It was more than an hour later when the clerk returned to us, carrying a small stack of books.

  “Do you require any further assistance?” he asked.

  “Not at the moment, no,” Colin said. “Thank you.”

  I gave my husband half of the books.

  “What are we looking for?” Colin asked.

  “I’m not sure.” I held up the spine of the first volume in the stack. “Use Mr. Dillman’s numbers. If one doesn’t appear in the catalog listing, take it to be a page number.”

  The task took longer than I would have expected. We both took copious notes on what we found on each of the pages in question, but neither of us was struck by anything we read.

  “Could the pages be the key to a code?” I asked.

  “Perhaps, if we had anything that had been written in code,” Colin said.

  “Maybe we just haven’t found it yet.” I sat down at the desk. “I’m convinced there’s something here we’re missing.” I looked around the domed room. General reference books stretched around three levels of its circumference. “What about the stacks themselves? Maybe it’s not a specific book that’s important, but its location.”

  We hunted down our clerk, and asked him if we could be admitted to the famous Iron Library, the labyrinthine stacks that held the entire collection save the volumes of general reference that lined the walls of the reading room. He did not look entirely pleased, but agreed to again consult the deputy superintendant, who looked even less pleased than his employee. Nonetheless, he came over to us, inspected Colin’s credentials, and nodded.

  “It’s highly unusual, sir,” he said. “But I wouldn’t stand in the way of Crown business.” He took the books from us, and led us himself through a door into what seemed to be an endless expanse of bookcases. The floor and the shelves were all fashioned from iron, hence the name. I had to walk carefully so the heels of my shoes wouldn’t slip through the metal grating of the floor.

  “The first came from right there,” he said, climbing up and showing us the empty space on the shelf.

  “May I?” Colin asked.
r />   “Yes, but please be careful,” the deputy superintendant said.

  Colin reached up and pulled the books to either side of the space from the shelf, cradling them in his arms.

  “Nothing behind,” he said, replacing them.

  “I’m happy to return them for you,” the deputy superintendant said.

  “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t dream of disrupting your order. I understand completely the chaos that would ensue,” Colin said. Once they’d all been returned, he removed the books from the neighboring shelves. “And still nothing.” He put them back and asked to be taken to the next location. We repeated this at the remaining spots.

  “What are we missing?” I asked. “There must be something.”

  “What, exactly, are you looking for?” the deputy superintendant asked.

  “Are you familiar with the murder of Mr. Michael Dillman?” I asked.

  “Yes, indeed. The papers were full of the story.”

  “We have reason to believe Mr. Dillman hid something here,” I said. “Something that may help catch the man who killed him. We’re not sure precisely what, but it seemed that the numbers we showed you were a clue to the location.”

  “Are you quite certain you want the library?” he asked. “Those numbers could also correspond to items in the museum catalog.”

  “That was another theory we had,” I said. “But we thought we’d try the library first.”

  “Is there anything else I can do for you?” he asked.

  “No, thank you,” I said. “You’ve been most helpful.”

  “Do not hesitate to ask for me should you require anything further. It will be my pleasure to assist you.”

  Colin and I discussed our options, and quickly reached the conclusion that it would make sense to try the museum. As soon as we entered its hallowed halls, we were greeted with considerable enthusiasm. My first husband had donated many objects to the noble institution, and I’d continued to support it in every way I could. In short order, a gentleman came to assist us. I explained the situation and showed him the numbers and their corresponding letters.

  “Yes, I see,” he said. “It’s difficult to say, Lady Emily. These don’t look as if they could be complete catalog numbers. There would be more digits.”

  “Is it possible they’re meant to be combined?” I asked.

  “Of course, but again, there’s really not enough to go by. Have you tried the library?”

  “We’ve just come from there,” Colin said.

  “If you’d like, I’ll see what I can come up with, but I can’t promise anything,” he said. “I may not be able to tell you anything but which departments the letters represent.”

  “Even that would help,” I said.

  “Very good. May I send you a note with the results?”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’d very much appreciate it.”

  “And if you could, please go as quickly as possible,” Colin said. “Lives may depend upon it.”

  “Of course, sir. I’ll do my best.”

  4 July 1893

  Belgrave Square, London

  Cordelia is dead. I can hardly bear to write the words. And all this time I didn’t even know she’d gone missing! I understand why Emily couldn’t tell me, but I’m disturbed nonetheless. Mostly, though, I’m consumed with sadness to have lost a friend to so heinous a crime.

  And I’m scared, as well. Is this paint business more sinister than it appears? Will there be more death? Or are we to take comfort in the fact that, beside Mr. Dillman and Lord Musgrave, none of our villain’s victims has suffered anything but humiliation? Poor Lord Musgrave. His death silenced all the rumors about him.

  I had a most disturbing experience today while walking home from calling on the Duchess of Devonshire. Perhaps my nerves are getting the better of me, but I could have sworn someone was following me. I looked behind me, half convinced I’d see no one out of the ordinary, but that was not the case. There was a boy, most likely thirteen years old, who stopped walking just as I turned around. When he saw my gaze fall upon him, he ran.

  He stood out amongst the fashionable people filling the pavement. His clothes weren’t tattered, but neither were they smart. He had that wan look of one suffering from consumption.

  And I’m convinced he must be his son. The man who, through no fault of his own, stands between ruin and me. I’ve tried and tried to distract myself, but I cannot do it. I must find some way out of this mess.

  In the meantime, I want to speak to Emily. I must find out everything she knows about what happened to Cordelia.

  23

  Ivy had been sitting, silent, in my library for nearly an hour when I told her we had to leave. She’d asked question after question about Cordelia, about the abduction, about what had been done to try to find her, about everything except the state of her body when Jeremy and I found it. After that, she’d gone quiet, very calm, and very still. I did not disturb her until the last possible moment.

  Then, telling her that I was to meet Lady Glover to discuss what could be correspondence from the murderer himself, I asked her to accompany me, explaining that taking action to seek justice for Cordelia’s killer was the most important thing either of us could do. This snapped her to attention, and we made our way to Piccadilly, then cut down St. James’s Street to Pall Mall. I sighed as we passed Berry Bros. & Rudd, wishing we had time to pop in to see if they had any port I ought to be laying down. Trafalgar Square was full of people and pigeons—one of the feathery creatures had perched on top of Lord Nelson’s tricorn hat, lending an air of absurdity to the otherwise elegant admiral and his column.

  We stepped into the museum, crossing through the portico’s graceful arches and to the stairs that led to the galleries. Halfway up I stepped carefully across the mosaic floor of the landing, not wanting to trod on Calliope or Apollo. From above, light filtered through the opaque glass of the dome, illuminating the elaborate plasterwork and its gilt decoration.

  Lady Glover was waiting for us inside the room containing the gallery’s Botticellis. Specifically, in front of Botticelli’s painting of Venus and Mars.

  “She is lovely, don’t you think?” she asked, kissing me on both cheeks as a greeting. “I’ve been told she looks rather like me.”

  I studied both the lady and the painting, and sighed. “A reasonable claim, I suppose. But then, I have seen you in Roman attire, which makes the comparison easier, doesn’t it?”

  “The other Venus is pedestrian,” Lady Glover said, motioning to another painting in the gallery. “I’ve heard rumors it’s not a real Botticelli. Apparently there was quite a scandal, but I think it’s all been covered up.”

  “I didn’t come here to talk about art, Lady Glover,” I said. “Cordelia Dalton is dead. We need to focus. You have received another note?”

  “I have.” She glanced around the room, an elegant space papered in a rich dark-green silk. “Do you think it’s safe to show it to you here?”

  “I can’t imagine anyone knows what you’re doing,” I said.

  “I could have been followed,” she said.

  “This person is writing to you,” I said. “He’s not instructed you to keep his messages secret, has he? And he’s never threatened you.”

  “True, true,” she said. “But I like to think that if he killed that poor Cordelia Dalton he could do the same to me.”

  “I’m not sure like is the word you want,” Ivy said, her voice sharp.

  “It is, Mrs. Brandon,” she said with a wide smile. “I do enjoy a little excitement.”

  Her cavalier attitude did not sit well with me.

  “I find your enthusiasm distasteful,” Ivy said. “You might find you’d feel differently if you were actually under threat.”

  “But I am!” she said. “He’s singled me out, hasn’t he? Chosen me as the one to whom he sends his words. We can’t do anything for Cordelia now. You should be concerned about me.”

  “Show me the letter,” I said.

&n
bsp; 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?”