A Crimson Warning

by Tasha Alexander

  “Stuff and nonsense,” he said. “How am I to get excited about something from which I’ve been entirely excluded? What’s a chap got to do to be singled out? Am I not profligate enough?”

  “One would have thought so,” Colin said.

  “You should be glad to have escaped notice,” I said.

  “People are going to start talking,” Jeremy said. “I have a reputation to uphold. I’m half tempted to paint my own steps.”

  “And expose your own scandal?” Colin asked.

  “It’s crossed my mind more than once,” Jeremy said. “But I get hung up every time when trying to decide which of my myriad secrets I should make public.”

  “You’re ridiculous,” I said. “But you do raise an interesting point. Why haven’t you been targeted?”

  “Em, it warms my heart that at last you’ve taken notice of my bad behavior.”

  “You’ve remained unmolested, Bainbridge, because of the nature of your sins,” Colin said. “You have, shall we say, an affection for the ladies, but you never trifle with anyone’s heart. You never interfere where you ought not, and you don’t fall prey to the temptations that might cause a real downfall.”

  “Opium dens, yes,” Jeremy said. “I did try once, but found the whole experience excruciatingly boring. Perhaps I should have made a more concerted effort. If I became a slave to the dreaded stuff, would you try to rescue me, Em?”

  “I’d leave you to rot,” I said.

  He sighed. “How you wound me.”

  Colin shifted in his chair. “Don’t you have anywhere else to go tonight, Bainbridge?”

  “Hargreaves, don’t give me a hard time,” he said. “You’ve won the heart of the most devoted girl in England and made her your wife. All I get is the occasional chance to flirt with her. Don’t take it away from me, I beg you. It would be an unnecessary cruelty.”

  “No, I suppose I mustn’t stop you,” Colin said. “I’d be sending you straight into the arms of vice.”

  “Quite right,” Jeremy said. “And you’re too much of a gentleman to relegate me to such horrors, despite being a Cambridge man.” He pulled two cigars out of his jacket pocket and passed one to my husband. “The best I’ve ever found.”

  Colin took a deep sniff and nodded appreciatively. “I’m impressed, Bainbridge. This is worth a flirtation.”

  “None for me?” I asked.

  “Davis specifically forbade me when I entered the house,” Jeremy said. “He’s very stern, your butler.”

  “Heaven forbid a duke would go against the wishes of a butler,” I said.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. “I know who runs this household. He might refuse me admittance, and I can’t risk that. And at any rate, I’ve not come entirely to complain about my general boredom and disappointment. I’ve business as well.”

  Colin very nearly snorted.

  “Scoff if you will, Hargreaves,” Jeremy said. “But I’ve had a very strange run-in with Mrs. Winifred Harris, Ivy Brandon’s miserable friend.”

  My husband sat forward in his seat. “You have my attention. Why didn’t you tell us this right away?”

  “Lead with business?” Jeremy asked. “Can you think of something more soul-crushing?”

  “What happened?” Colin asked.

  “I was in the park when she accosted me.”

  “Accosted you?” I asked. “Winifred Harris?”

  “Accosted may, perhaps, be too strong a word,” Jeremy said. “But she cornered me at the edge of the Serpentine and left me no way to escape without plunging into the water. She’s quite tall, you know. I feared for my safety. We had a very strange conversation in which she told me she’s heard that Cordelia Dalton is in danger.”

  “And she said this apropos nothing?” Colin asked.

  “Yes,” Jeremy said. “She took me by the arm and spoke in a voice laced with the most tasteless melodrama. Said she’d overheard a gentleman of dubious reputation threatening the girl.”

  “Threatening her how?” I asked.

  “She was vague about the specifics,” he said, “but insisted Miss Dalton will find herself well in harm’s way.”

  “Because of this gentleman?” I asked. Jeremy nodded. “Who is he?”

  “She wouldn’t give up the name. But I must say, I didn’t entirely believe her. She did make me fear for Miss Dalton’s safety, but not because of some mysterious interloper. It felt like she was making a confession to me.”

  “You think she’s the one threatening Miss Dalton?” Colin asked.

  Jeremy threw up his hands. “I’ve not the slightest idea. I merely pass along what I heard in the hopes it would be of interest to you.”

  “It is,” Colin said. “And I thank you, though Emily may not. I’m afraid I’ll have to leave you both so that I might look further into this matter.”

  “Can I offer you any assistance?” I asked.

  “Not right now, Emily,” he said. “But count on me requiring it later.”

  22 June 1893

  Belgrave Square, London

  My subterfuge is beginning to take a toll on those around me. Robert asked me, in jest, if I was afraid our house would be painted red. I completely overreacted, and now he’s convinced something’s happened to make me doubt him. It never occurred to him the paint would be left because of something I’d done.

  He’s being doubly attentive now, spending less time at his club, and taking a more active interest in little Rose. Instead of just coming up to the nursery to tell her good night, he’s taken to having Nurse bring her to the drawing room so that he might play with her before tea. It’s quite sweet, but I can’t enjoy it altogether, knowing that it was prompted by misunderstanding.

  How did I let things come to this?

  14

  “Winifred?” Ivy’s light eyes widened so much I worried they might pop out of her head. “You think she would harm Cordelia Dalton?”

  We were sitting in her garden, eating vanilla ices and watching her little daughter bat at flowers and take tentative, wobbly steps in unsuccessful efforts to catch the butterflies that darted amongst the blooms. Rose’s chestnut curls were a miniature version of her mother’s, as were her pink cheeks and slender nose.

  “I’m not entirely sure,” I said. “But she’s judgmental to the point of being vindictive. It wouldn’t be a leap for her to want to take matters into her own hands.”

  “You can’t possibly think she’d have murdered Mr. Dillman?”

  “Her words are awfully bold,” I said. “And hurtful. I could well believe she has more than just them in her arsenal. The conversation she had with Jeremy rattled him. Will you poke around for me and see if she’s up to anything? You know I can’t call on her after that disastrous ride we had in the park.”

  “She’s still furious with you,” Ivy said. “But everyone’s on edge at the moment. It’s unbearable, all of this. I’m tired of the constant tension. The Riddingtons’ house was splashed red weeks ago and they’re still waiting for their secret to be revealed. They’ve been on pins and needles so long it’s almost inhuman. How much longer will they be tormented?”

  “I don’t know how they’re bearing it,” I said.

  “And I can’t get poor Lady Musgrave out of my mind. How she’s suffered! And for what? The villain never exposed her husband’s secret. I’ve heard rumors that more than one gentleman has threatened to do himself a harm rather than risk seeing his door painted red.”

  “The scandal would be just as bad.”

  “Perhaps,” Ivy said. “But they wouldn’t be around to suffer the consequences.”

  “What a debacle,” I said. “And a definite sign of weak character. Do what you can to learn more about Winifred. At least you can take comfort in the fact that you’re taking action rather than being a passive observer.”

  * * *

  I was home for less than half an hour before Colin burst into the library and commanded me to follow him. He’d bustled me into the waiting carr
iage before I’d had time even to secure my hat.

  “We’ll be dropped at Scotland Yard,” he said. “And then proceed on foot. Our attackers are about to be released.”

  “You came back specially to get me?”

  “You said you wanted to come. I promised I wouldn’t go without you.”

  “I adore you,” I said. “What’s our strategy?”

  “It won’t be complicated,” he said. “We’ll follow at a discreet distance. I don’t think they’ll make it difficult for us.”

  “They were ready to make it difficult in the park.”

  “Their time under guard was not pleasant. They’ll be focused on nothing but getting home.”

  I winced, uncomfortable at the thought of their detention. Not that they hadn’t deserved it. But a dark cell, not enough food, and harsh treatment combined with the heavy silence in which the couple lived must have been deeply unpleasant.

  “One of my colleagues brought them back for a final attempt at questioning. It was to no avail, but worth a try,” Colin said, and then called to our driver. “Stop here, please.”

  We alighted from the vehicle. Colin motioned for me to open my parasol, which I did. He positioned it so our faces could not be seen by anyone exiting Scotland Yard, but still allowed him a sliver of sight between it and the brim of his top hat.

  “That’s them,” he said. We waited twenty beats before following and crossed the street to the other side. This gave us a better view of the couple, who looked even more browbeaten and dingier than they had in the park. I winced, but there was no time for compassion at the moment. We increased our pace to match theirs.

  They kept their heads down as they passed the edge of St. James’s Park and then turned onto the Strand, their postures looking more relaxed as they moved farther east. By the time St. Paul’s loomed well behind us and the Tower was long past, they’d begun to move with easy fluidity. The same could not be said for me.

  We’d been walking for an inordinate length of time, nearly an hour, and while we were still in London, it was like no London I’d known before. The streets of the East End were filthy, the houses grim, the pavements filled with pedestrians in shades of gray. Not just their clothes, but their skin and hair, even their eyes seemed to lack color. A small boy ran towards us and grabbed at my skirts, pleading for me to give him money. Colin pressed some coins into his hands, and brightness flooded the child’s face, washing away the gray. His eyes were blue; I couldn’t see that before. My heart ached as he disappeared into a shadow-filled alley. He wouldn’t be going home to high tea and a soft bed.

  We let our quarry slip farther ahead of us as the streets narrowed and our clothing set us apart from the others with whom we shared the pavement. Another quarter of a mile later, they pulled open the door of a large building. Colin stepped back and peered up at the letters above the door.

  “A match factory,” he said. He didn’t immediately follow them inside. Instead, he took me by the arm and marched me around the perimeter of the building. Long windows lined the seemingly endless brick walls of the largely nondescript structure. Even though the windows were closed, clouds of a hideous, sulfurous odor oozed from them, the scent so strong I pressed a handkerchief to my nose. We went back to the door, opened it, and stepped in.

  The entrance had nothing to recommend it beyond an increasingly strong smell of sulphur and some other odor I didn’t recognize. The paint on the walls was peeling, the floors covered with dirt and grit. There was no sign of our miscreants. We walked through a door labeled OFFICE and soon were sitting across from a red-faced, portly man who was clearly suffering from the heat of the day. He’d removed his jacket, and his shirtsleeves were in a disastrous state. He wiped his sweaty brow with the back of his hand, then wiped his hand on his trousers.

  “Mr. Majors at your service. What can I do for you, sir?” he asked.

  “You’ve two employees who’ve just arrived back after some days away,” Colin said. “I’d like to know more about them.”

  “Can’t say I know what you’re talking about.”

  My husband pulled out his identification. “They’ve been with Scotland Yard and weren’t forthcoming in the least with our officers.”

  “Are they under arrest?”

  “No,” Colin said. “They were released after questioning.”

  “So why do you need them?”

  “That’s my business,” Colin said.

  The man shrugged and bellowed to a wiry-looking colleague in the next room. “Who was it what skived off work?”

  “Useless Dodson and useless Florence.” The other man didn’t look up as he spoke.

  “Are they related?” I asked. “Married?”

  Our host, such as he was, snorted. “You bloody well ought to have noticed they don’t speak. They’re dumb, the both of them. You think I’m sitting with them for tea and asking if his affections are honorable?”

  “Where do they live?” Colin asked.

  “Here,” Mr. Majors said. “We’re a full-service establishment.”

  “They live here?” I asked. “In a factory?”

  “It’s a sight better than the workhouse, madam,” he said. “All of them here are afflicted, you see. Families don’t want ’em, but don’t want ’em in the workhouse, either. So they give us their outdoor relief what the government gives ’em and we see to their needs. In exchange for some work, of course. Fair is as fair does.”

  “Can you put us in touch with their families?” I asked.

  “They ain’t got none, those two,” Mr. Majors said.

  “So how did you arrange to get their relief?” I asked.

  “Like I’ve been telling you, madam, I keep them out of the workhouse. Nobody’s going to argue with that.”

  “Do they have contact with anyone on the outside?” I asked.

  “Those two got nobody who gives a toss about them,” he said. “I only took them in because I was feeling soft when they turned up at the door on a snowy day last year. Let the Christmas spirit get the better of me, did I.”

  “You know nothing about their backgrounds?” Colin asked.

  “Sir, if Scotland Yard couldn’t get them to make sense, you think I can?” he asked. “I helped them apply for the benefit.”

  “How did you know their names if they couldn’t speak?” I asked.

  “They had a grubby sheet of paper with their details on it,” he said. “From their family, I suppose. I’ve another deaf one as well, showed up in similar circumstances.”

  Colin’s eyes narrowed. “Take us to their quarters,” he said. “And I’m going to need to see the rest of your establishment as well.”

  Mr. Majors looked as if he’d like to grumble, but must have thought the better of it. He motioned for us to follow him as he picked up a gnarled walking stick that had been leaning against the wall.

  “It’s good there’s somewhere better than the workhouse,” I whispered, leaning close to Colin.

  “This won’t be better,” he said. “It will be deeply unpleasant at best.”

  We entered an enormous room, the factory floor. The air hung so heavy with stink I struggled for breath. The workers were crowded in the space, some of them standing over large vats, stirring with wooden paddles as the contents bubbled over hot fires. Others sat at long benches, dipping the slim tips of wooden sticks into the malodorous mixture, then laying them out to be collected by another crew, who carried them to another room, presumably to dry. Colin and I were a curiosity here, and one of the dippers looked up and smiled, revealing a mouth devoid of all teeth. I did my best not to recoil.

  “Phossy jaw,” Mr. Majors said. “Still happens sometimes. It’s the phosphorus what does it, mixed in with the sulphur. Not much we can do but remove their teeth.”

  “He’s missing an arm as well,” I said.

  “Can’t find work that way, can he? We’re the only ones who’ll take in people like him.”

  As I looked around, I saw that all of the wo
rkers—men and women, with a handful of children as well—had some sort of infirmity. Missing limbs, deformed facial features, club feet. The heat of the room pressed hard on me as I watched them work.

  “How much do you pay them?” I asked.

  “We take care of them, madam,” Mr. Majors said. “Like I was telling you, their families give us their benefit. It’s a service we’re providing, you see.”

  “The government pays relief to families who keep their afflicted members at home,” Colin said. “It keeps them from the workhouse and is cheaper in the end, I suppose.”

  “We give them medical care, too,” Mr. Majors said. “Come see.”

  We followed him again, out of the main workroom, and I nearly retched when we crossed into what he called the infirmary. Rickety cots, their linens worn and dirty, were pushed so close together there was no space for a nurse to walk between them—not that there was a nurse anywhere to be seen. Every makeshift bed was full, and the stench in here were worse than that of the sulphur and phosphorus. This place smelled of death and decay, of blood and urine. Our presence was greeted with barely coherent moans as the patients struggled to sit up and reach for us. I didn’t need to understand their words to know they needed help.

  “Back down, the lot of you,” Mr. Majors said, prodding the man nearest to him with his stick. “Leave your betters alone.”

  “Don’t touch him,” Colin said, his voice sharp. “Take us to Dobson and Florence.”

  Mr. Majors looked unimpressed. “As you will have it. But they won’t be of any use to you, any more than they’re of any use to me. I should throw them on the street after what they’ve done.”

  “You know what they’ve done?” I asked.

  “They had a little holiday, didn’t they? Sure enough got tangled up with Scotland Yard at the end, but it was a holiday, too. What makes you so interested? They take some of your fine jewels?”

  “Do not speak to my wife in that tone,” Colin said. “We’re here on Crown business. You’ll have enough trouble coming your way without standing in the way of my purpose.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing,” Mr. Majors said. “I’m running a fine establishment here. You seen a workhouse lately?”