“I wouldn’t be too worried,” Colin said.
“What about Bucephalus?” Ivy asked. “Who was behind the attempted poisoning?”
“Barnes,” Colin said. “He thought he’d make a bid to get us off the case, hoping I’d bow out if Emily was upset enough. When she stood firm after that scare, he sent her the note leading her to the body, thinking that might prove distressing enough to put her off.”
“He did have a flair for drama, didn’t he?” Jeremy asked. “Which I suppose explains his choice of red paint.”
“Barnes told us he’d made the bottle to help Dillman,” Colin said. “But in fact he left it for Dillman as a warning. He invented the whole story of Dillman coming to him for help. He waited until after he knew Dillman would have found the bottle, but heard nothing about it. No gossip, no rumors. He then realized his technique wasn’t dramatic enough. No one in England knew what it meant. So he switched to paint, which could neither be ignored nor hidden.”
“He used the deaf factory workers to splash the paint,” I said. “He was confident no one else would be able to decipher their primitive sign language.”
“And rightly so,” Colin said. “Scotland Yard weren’t able to understand them at all.”
“Barnes was lucky no one had guards in front of their house waiting to catch the painters,” Jeremy said.
“Some people tried that,” Colin said. “The vandalism was always done before the first light of dawn. Apparently, at least twice the ill-treated wretches in his employ didn’t leave paint as instructed because they saw signs of being watched.”
“Which lucky families dodged the attention?” Jeremy asked.
“Barnes wouldn’t tell,” I said.
“What about Foster and his mysterious visit to Westminster Abbey?” Jeremy asked.
“He’s come forward and confessed everything,” Colin said. “He was the one sending the notes to Lady Glover that we all believed came from our villain. They’ve had a relationship for some time—that is information not to leave this room—and he was sorry she felt so unappreciated by her husband.”
“And receiving letters from a criminal was supposed to make her feel better about herself?” Ivy asked.
“You saw for yourself it did,” Colin said. “He knows her well. He’d hidden the sealing wax and seal, along with a stash of paper in the Abbey, on the off chance someone found it in his possession and thought he was behind the whole nasty business, not just some false letters.”
“He picked the spot because he’d formed a habit of ending his days—which were often more like late nights—with a stop in the Abbey for quiet contemplation and prayer. The caretakers were used to this and took no notice of him. He realized he could easily hide and remove his things so long as he did it when the tourists were all gone. He hadn’t counted on having to fetch it all in a hurry during the day when he could be seen.”
“So why did he do it then?” Ivy asked.
“He was afraid I’d learned about the purported election fraud,” I said.
“Fraud he had nothing to do with,” Colin said.
“Yes, well, we have somewhat disparate views on that subject,” I said. “He thought he should gather up any evidence that could make him seem connected to the crimes and then he rushed to Mr. Barnes’s house to seek his advice on what he should do. When he saw the rooster heads, which he recognized as the sort of thing Barnes had told him was used by islanders, he misunderstood. He thought it was his friend’s way of warning him not to come inside. So he raced to the Abbey instead to remove the evidence he’d left there.”
“You did an excellent job keeping Barnes distracted for so long,” Jeremy said. “I don’t know what would have happened if he’d stumbled upon us with the unfortunate roosters. But what of the business of him lying about his dinner party?”
“Mr. Barnes saw Mr. Foster in the corridor after I’d left his office,” I said. “Mr. Foster told him what had happened and asked to meet him at Barnes’s house. Mr. Barnes wanted a handy excuse to head home.”
“So Foster was running about like a fool,” Jeremy said. “I know, Hargreaves, you’re fond of the man’s politics. I won’t bother to argue with you on that count. But you must admit he’d make a terrible criminal. He has so little foresight. Do you think such a man could really be a decent prime minister? I’d prefer someone who could be devious if the situation required it.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure Mr. Foster wouldn’t fit the bill,” I said.
“What about the servant Lady Glover saw collecting the letter she left on her doorstep?” Ivy asked.
“She invented that,” I said. “I think she’d be much happier if she chose to return to the stage.”
“So, in the end, of all our suspects, only Mr. Foster turned out to be really good,” she said.
“I’m not entirely convinced of his much-lauded character,” I said. “But shall do as instructed and speak no further on the subject.”
Colin pulled a face, then laughed. “I do wish you all could have seen Emily in Scotland Yard. She made quite an excellent report—thorough and well organized.”
“They were more than a little shocked that you let me make it,” I said, smiling.
“It’s time they learn they’re going to have to accept you as a force that won’t be ignored,” he said. “I have a suspicion, though, that is something they’ll find easier before long.”
“Poor Mr. Foster,” Ivy said. “He must be terribly upset to have lost his closest friend in such an infamous manner. Mr. Barnes has proved a master of psychological torment.”
“Can you blame him?” I said. “Look at how he was treated. Should we expect different, if we lay such cruel judgment on a person simply because of the identity of his father?”
“It doesn’t mean he should go about murdering people,” Jeremy said. “It isn’t civilized. And I, for one, want to go on the record to say that I never gave a fig who his father was. All things considered, I couldn’t be happier with the outcome of this.”
“I could be,” I said.
“How so?” Colin asked.
“I can’t decide which I’m more interested in knowing: Why our steps have been painted red or what your involvement was in the ever mysterious Anderson matter. Perhaps the two are related.”
“Anderson? That old thing?” Jeremy asked. “Nobody cares about that anymore.”
“Even he knows?” I glared at my husband, half serious, half in jest.
“Only because I was there,” Jeremy said.
“You were there?” I asked. “What happened?”
Colin buried his face in his hands.
“It was your lofty husband’s first foray into service for the Crown,” Jeremy said. “A group of us were at Balmoral, part of the royal party, and some useless lady-in-waiting, Miss Anderson, let one of the queen’s favorite collies escape. She was beside herself … convinced she’d lose her position and be ruined. Hargreaves, here, took it upon himself to save the girl’s neck. She was rather a pretty thing, wasn’t she, Hargreaves?”
“The dog or the girl?” Colin asked.
“I won’t torment you,” Jeremy said. “He spent two solid days searching for the wretched creature. By the time he returned to the castle, Her Majesty had been asking for the dog repeatedly and we’d all run out of excuses to explain where it might be. Enter the divine Hargreaves, covered with mud, but with the collie well in hand. The queen has been devoted to him ever since. I believe you found the whole incident slightly mortifying, didn’t you, Hargreaves?”
“Why?” Ivy said. “I think it’s a lovely story! What became of Miss Anderson?”
“Sophie Anderson married my brother two months later,” Colin said. “In the end, she preferred her gentlemen to stay out of the mud.”
“Right,” Jeremy said. “I quite forgot myself when I called her useless. I should show your sister-in-law more respect.”
“No offense taken, Bainbridge.”
I watched my hu
sband closely. “Mr. Barnes wouldn’t have found that story worthy of red paint. And, knowing my own past as well as I do, I’m confident there’s nothing interesting enough in it for him.”
“So you’re saying the paint was for me?” Colin asked.
“I am.”
“No doubt you’re correct.”
I saw Ivy and Jeremy exchange worried glances, and I considered the situation before me. “Thinking about it, I don’t care what you’ve done. I trust you implicitly. Your work has, no doubt, required morally dubious action from time to time, but far be it for me to question your judgment. You’re welcome to your dark secrets. I know everything I need to about what kind of a man you are.”
“What an enlightened girl I’ve married,” he said, kissing my hand. “Thank you, Emily. Your faith means everything to me.”
So lost was I in the warmth of his eyes, I didn’t notice Davis standing in the doorway. He cleared his throat loudly. “Lady Bromley to see you, madam.”
“Heavens, she waited to be introduced,” I said, noticing that at the sound of her name I’d already sat up straighter.
My mother was beaming as she walked into the room. “My dear Mr. Hargreaves, I come with the best of news. How wonderful that you’re surrounded by friends to hear it with you.”
Colin stood up. “Lady Bromley, I think it’s probably best—”
“No, no,” she said. “This is to be my treat. Her Majesty is allowing me specially. You, dear sir, for the many services you’ve rendered for queen and country, are being offered an earldom.”
“An earldom?” Jeremy all but jumped to his feet. “Thank heavens it’s not more. I couldn’t have him with precedence over me. That would be unbearable.”
“You need not worry, Bainbridge,” Colin said. “I couldn’t possibly accept such an honor.”
“Don’t be silly,” my mother said. “Of course you’ll accept. Isn’t it delightful, Emily? You’ll be a countess! I couldn’t be more pleased.”
“I won’t accept,” Colin said.
My mother ignored him.
“What an honor,” Ivy said. “It is a wonderful thing, you must admit, and very well deserved.”
“I shan’t even discuss it,” Colin said. “Although you may inform Her Majesty I would be quite pleased to see my wife’s name on the New Year’s Honors list. Can you see to that?”
“Emily?” My mother balked. “Whatever for?”
“Until you can answer that question for me, with sincerity and no hesitation, I shall never consider accepting an honor of my own,” Colin said.
My mother so forgot herself she let her mouth hang open. “I don’t even know how to begin to respond to that.”
“Hence our problem,” he said. “Do think on it, though. I’m of the opinion the Royal Order of Victoria and Albert, Fourth Class, would be just right. In the meantime, we’ve port and cigars waiting for us. I don’t suppose you’d care to join?”
“I most certainly would not!”
“Then I suppose we’ve nothing further to discuss,” he said. My mother sputtered incoherently for a moment and then stalked out of the room, not bidding farewell to any of us. Jeremy collapsed in laughter, Ivy at his side.
“Forgive me,” Colin said. “It was crass, I know. But I don’t care who I offend or what ire I draw, be it your mother’s or the queen’s. I will see you appreciated in your own right, my dear, no matter what it takes. And until you are, I shall never, ever, accept an honor of my own. Not even should you decide you fancy having a noble husband.”
“No husband could be more noble,” I said.
“That’s quite enough of this romantic nonsense,” Jeremy said. “I’ve been promised port and cigars. Hargreaves?”
“Some things, Bainbridge, are more important than port and cigars,” Colin said, taking me into his arms and pressing his lips hard against mine, right in front of our friends. “Having just taken care of my favorite of those things—thank you for the kiss, dear wife—I’m going to tend to the rest of them straight away. Do you think I’ll have any trouble persuading the queen to see me on such short notice?”
Author’s Note
Research is one of the best parts of writing historical fiction, particularly as truth is often more fantastic than fiction. My character, Lady Glover, is based on London’s infamous Lady Meux. After being a pantomime girl at Surrey Music Hall and a barmaid at Horseshoe Tavern, she won herself a £20,000-a-year allowance from her wealthy husband, a brewer, after her marriage. She collected Egyptian antiquities and had a menagerie of exotic animals at her country house, along with a Turkish bath, and a roller skating rink. Like Lady Glover, she drove a carriage pulled by zebras in London. No fortune in the world could gain her the good will of society, however. She described herself as “a woman not received.”
Mrs. Fanning and Lady Althway sharing a lover was inspired by an incident in the life of Lady Londonderry, the leading Tory hostess of the time. A sharp, well-read woman, she had the respect of nearly everyone but her husband, who refused to speak to her in private after he learned of her affair with a gentleman called Harry Cust. How was the affair exposed? Gladys, Marchioness of Ripon, another of Mr. Cust’s mistresses, found in her lover’s house a stash of letters written to him by Lady Londonderry. The marchioness read them aloud to guests in her home, causing a scandal and a lifetime feud. Lady Londonderry begged her husband’s forgiveness years later as he lay dying, but he refused to give it. Later, the marchioness begged the same from Lady Londonderry, who was as unforgiving as her husband. I would hope Mrs. Fanning and Lady Althway come to better ends.
The New Poor Law of 1834 included a provision called “outdoor relief,” given to the elderly and disabled who chose to stay in their own homes instead of taking up residence in a state-run facility. It is this relief our villain seeks to exploit in his match factory.
Catherine, one of William Gladstone’s daughters, was instrumental in founding the Women’s Liberal Federation in the late 1880s. By 1892, ten thousand members left in a schism caused by a disagreement over women’s right to vote. Rosalind, Countess of Carlisle, was an influential member of the federation, eventually serving as its president.
Obeah is an Afro-Caribbean form of witchcraft full of violent rituals and often tied to slave rebellions in the islands. The British outlawed it, giving punishments as severe as death to those caught practicing what many colonists viewed as devil worship. For the slaves, however, Obeah offered not only religion, but also a sort of justice, something they could not assume they would get from their owners. Islanders and colonists alike feared obeah practitioners as their spells, dances, and secret rites fueled imaginations and nightmares.
Acknowledgments
Myriad thanks to …
Charles Spicer, a dream of an editor. An author couldn’t ask for better.
Allison Strobel, Andy Martin, Matthew Shear, and Sarah Melnyk, my wonderful team at Minotaur.
David Rotstein and Elsie Lyons, for designing a drop-dead gorgeous cover.
Anne Hawkins, my wonderful agent and dear friend.
Kate Kelland and Daniel Pett, for giving me a magnificent insiders’ tour of the British Museum.
Stephanie Clarke, archivist, and Charles Hoare, librarian, for assisting my research at the British Museum’s library.
Aimee Grabowski Frey, for putting me in touch with the ultimate whisky expert.
Robert Strickler, who made sure Jeremy and Emily thought the right things about the right whiskies.
Stu Gruber, whose generosity and kindness are much valued and appreciated, as is his infinite knowledge of British medals, decorations, and awards. Someday we’ll have to let Emily learn to shoot.
Rob Browne, for one particularly spectacular plot suggestion. Sometimes the little things make an enormous difference.
Brett Battles, Bill Cameron, Kristy Kiernan, Elizabeth Letts, and Lauren Willig, whose friendship and advice make writing even more fun.
Nick Hawkins, for hot dogs,
cookies, postcards, and friendship. Not to mention taking Andrew to football.
My parents, for making books a part of my DNA.
Xander, whose quick mind and knowledge of history never cease to amaze me. Katie and Jessie, the most excellent stepdaughters ever.
Andrew Grant, for always knowing what I need before I do. Like two-in-the-morning champagne and pineapple.
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