A Crimson Warning

by Tasha Alexander

  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 office
r?” 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.

  Colin had continued to methodically make his way through Mr. Dillman’s business associates, but had found nothing that linked him either to a scandal or to any of the other parties who’d fallen victim to red paint. “It’s incredibly frustrating,” he said. “Have you had any word back from the British Museum yet?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Unfortunately, they don’t have anything for us but the names of the departments. There wasn’t enough of the numbers for them to provide anything else. I was thinking perhaps I should speak to the Daltons and see if I could take another look at the letters Mr. Dillman sent Cordelia. I hate to disturb them, but it may be necessary.”

  Just then, something banged against our front window. We both rose to our feet at once and moved to investigate. Another sound, this one more like a cascade of pebbles.

  “What the—” Colin pulled the curtain aside to reveal a boy, dressed in Lady Glover’s livery, pulling his arm back to throw more pebbles at us. He stopped when he saw my husband, dropped the handful of rocks, and looked in the direction of his employer’s house. Colin opened the window. “What do you mean by this?”

  “I … I … my … Lady Glover sent me, sir!” His voice was young and reedy.

  “Go to the front door at once,” Colin said.

  We met him on the front steps, where Davis, having opened the door, gave him a stare so withering I nearly felt myself shrink before him.

  “You will not throw rocks at this house again,” he said.

  “No, sir. I wouldn’t, sir.”

  Davis did not take his eyes off the boy. “Will that be all, sir?” he asked Colin.

  “Yes, thank you, Davis. You, boy, come inside.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t, sir, there’s no time,” the boy said.

  “What do you mean?” I asked. “Why are you here?”

  “It’s my mistress, madam, they’ve come for her,” he said. “And the last thing she did as they was driving … were driving … her away was to shout for me to get you. Said I shouldn’t speak to anyone but you. That’s why I threw the rocks, madam. I didn’t think I should talk to your butler.”

  “Where were they taking her?” Colin asked.

  “I don’t know, sir, but she’s gone, sir. Taken in a black carriage.”

  Given that one would be hard-pressed to find a carriage in London that wasn’t black, this was not a particularly helpful detail. Colin looked at me quizzically and I nodded, ready to follow him down the street.

  We were at the Glovers’ in a matter of minutes, and found the house had descended into a chaos that fell only just short of madness. Lord Glover was not at home. We sent word to his club and began to interview the staff while we waited for his return. The servants were more than ready to talk to us—eager, in fact—and it took no considerable effort to get them all to quiet down and speak in turn. In the end, Colin directed them, one at a time, into a sitting room decorated in rather more restrained taste than I would have expected to find in Lady Glover’s house.

  “It’s the only place in this house I can tolerate with equanimity,” he said.

  “I’ve never been in it,” I said.

  “That’s because you don’t often call on Lord Glover, I imagine. His wife doesn’t use it. Insists it doesn’t suit her style.”

  Within the better part of half an hour, we put together a picture of Lady Glover’s last minutes at the house. She’d changed into a riding habit, but then decided to drive her phaeton—pulled by her zebras—instead of taking to her horse. As a result, she had been waiting in the stable yard behind the house while her grooms readied the vehicle for her. All at once, two wild-looking men appeared and dragged their mistress away. They chased after her, but she was thrown into a waiting carriage before any of them could reach her.

  Her maid, who witnessed the scene from an upstairs window, reported that Lady Glover’s elegance was unmitigated even as she was being abducted. Her screams when she was first grabbed, the girl insisted, were as beautiful as a song. It was all apparently rather operatic.

  The boy, who ran quicker than the grooms, got close enough to see Lady Glover trying to yell to him out the window. The rest of the story we knew.

  “Did anyone else hear what she said to you?” I asked the boy.

  “No, madam, only me.”

  “And you work in the stables?”

  “I do, madam.”

  “You’re a stable boy yet you wear livery?” I asked.

  “Lady Glover prefers it, ma
dam. Insists upon it,” he said, bouncing back and forth between his feet. “And if I may say, madam, I don’t object at all. Makes me feel quite fine, it does. Splendid, almost.”

  I smiled. “I can understand that.”

  “You will get my mistress back, won’t you, sir?” he asked Colin. “I don’t know what we’d do without her. She’s like no other, you know—no ordinary fine lady. Even made sure I learned how to read.”

  “We’ll do everything possible,” Colin said, patting the boy’s shoulder and giving him a reassuring smile.

  Lord Glover’s arrival needed no announcement. We could hear him coming all the way through the house. He was shouting at servants, giving directions and reprimands all at once, and stepped with the grace of a wildebeest, opening and slamming doors as he went before his staff could take care of them for him.

  “What is being done?” he asked, waving a piece of paper in his hand. “Where do we go from here?”

  “Glover, take a seat,” Colin said. “You’re remarkably quick. Thank you for responding to my summons so quickly.”

  “Summons? I got no summons. I came as soon as these miscreants sent their bloody note.”

  “Note?” Colin took the paper Lord Glover was waving at him.

  If you do not pay us £1000 pounds by the end of the week, your much-cherished wife will be the next corpse to beautify Hyde Park. We will contact you with instructions.

  The words had been formed from letters cut out from a newspaper. Below the message was a swish of red paint.

  “There’s no identifying feature to the paper itself,” Colin said. “But the letters are from the Daily Post. I recognize the typeface.”

  “A thousand quid’s an awfully hefty sum,” Lord Glover said. “Do you think they’d be open to negotiation?”

  “I wouldn’t want your wife to hear you’d suggested such a thing,” Colin said. “Have you any idea who might have taken her?”

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it? That bloody fool with his red paint. He signed the note with it.”

  “But why would he want to kidnap your wife?” I asked.

  “Why did he want to kidnap that unfortunate Dalton girl?”