“Because he believed her to be in possession of some sort of evidence that would incriminate him,” Colin said. “Did your wife have any such thing? Documents, perhaps?”
“Hargreaves, you know as well as I that my wife has nothing of the sort,” Lord Glover said. “She’s an affable one, isn’t she? Wouldn’t think of blackmailing anyone for anything.”
“I didn’t mean to suggest she was blackmailing someone,” Colin said.
“She did have a keen interest in this case,” I said. “Were you aware she was corresponding with a gentleman who claimed to be responsible for the paint?”
“I remember her mentioning something about it,” he said. “Can’t say I paid it too much attention, though. Who can keep track of such things? She’s always got some sort of intrigue to attend to.”
“Weren’t you concerned about what she was doing?” I asked. “Writing to a known criminal?”
“Truth be told, Lady Emily, I never believed the letters were from the genuine article. She did—well, she liked the excitement, you see. I wouldn’t be half surprised if they were written by some young bloke who fancies himself in love with her and wants attention.”
“I can understand your position,” Colin said. “But it does appear now that there was something more nefarious afoot. And knowing that, is there anyone you suspect of wishing her ill?”
“Doesn’t sound to me like this bloke has the vaguest interest in her,” Lord Glover said. “It’s my money he wants.”
“All right, let’s start there,” I said. “Do you have any enemies?”
“I wouldn’t be a successful businessman if I didn’t.”
Lord Glover had received his peerage after a distinguished run as the head of a brewery. He’d built his fortune—an enormous fortune—with the modest sum he inherited at twenty when his father died. His mother, whose family was old, titled, and distinguished, but impoverished, was ashamed he’d decided to earn a living when the family money ran out. But in the end, she accepted what he’d done. Not, however, until he’d been made a baron.
“So who would be the most likely suspects?” Colin asked.
“I really don’t know, Hargreaves,” he said. “Can’t Scotland Yard figure it out? I’m a busy man.”
“Aren’t you worried about your wife?” I asked. “Cordelia Dalton is dead, most likely at the hands of the same person who has taken Lady Glover.”
“Heaven help whoever he is,” he said. “They’ll have their hands full.”
5 July 1893
Belgrave Square, London
It’s all over the papers this morning that Lady Glover has been kidnapped. I feel terrible, particularly as I was so angry at her at the National Gallery. She was so glib, though, so pleased with this vandal. But now I see she was only naïve, and in need of more help than I knew. I can hardly sleep for worrying that she’ll suffer the same fate as Cordelia.
Regarding my own troubles, I’ve sent three letters that have gone unanswered. The accounts are all still in order. Nothing has happened that should have alarmed him. But why isn’t he replying? I can’t very well go all the way to Newcastle and investigate. This is turning into an absolute nightmare.
Yet I can’t say I regret entirely what I’ve done. How could any wife have acted differently? I must remain calm—become calm—and have confidence in the discretion with which I handled the matter. I was extremely careful. No one could find out what I did.
Except him. And the solicitor. And the bank.
I must try not to think about it.
25
“I do hope,” I said the following morning over breakfast, “that should I ever be kidnapped you’d show a bit more concern than Lord Glover.” I’d slept later than Colin, and went to him in his study once I’d got dressed.
“He’s more upset than you think,” Colin said. “Just doesn’t want anyone to see.” I found this unlikely, but Colin did know both husband and wife better than I did, so I was willing to concede the point without argument. I was not, however, convinced. Regardless, every measure was being taken to find Lady Glover.
We’d stayed at the Glovers’ until well after midnight, conferring with Scotland Yard on the matter of the kidnapping. At present, there were no leads to follow. All we could do was wait, just as the Daltons had, for further word from the madman.
If, indeed, that was who had taken Lady Glover.
“Why do you think he switched from handwritten notes to one pieced together from newspaper letters?” I asked. “That doesn’t seem logical to me. Unless he’s not the same person who sent the Shakespeare quotes.”
“An excellent observation, my dear,” Colin said. “It’s quite strange.”
“I know you rejected the idea last night, but I think we have to look at Mrs. Harris,” I said. “She was blackmailing Lady Glover.”
“If she wanted to raise more money, all she would have had to do was demand it of Lady Glover. Why kidnap her?”
“Her husband has more than she does,” I said.
“And if Lady Glover had needed more than she could afford to keep Mrs. Harris at bay, she would have persuaded her husband to increase her allowance.”
“I still don’t trust Winifred,” I said.
“As you shouldn’t,” he said. “But I don’t like her for this—really, for any of it. She’s judgmental enough, but not so clever as to be able to carry it off.”
“I wouldn’t underestimate her,” I said. “When someone’s judgmental enough, she can generally do whatever necessary to accomplish her bitter agenda.”
“I won’t deny the possibility,” he said. “But I still don’t like it.”
“Poor Lady Glover. She has the attention of every gentleman in London except her own husband,” I said. “That was obvious after speaking to him for two minutes, no matter what you say.”
“I admit they may have an unconventional marriage,” Colin said. “But I’m sure he is fond of her. Let’s hope he gets the opportunity to treat her better. At any rate, Scotland Yard are taking the matter extremely seriously. How could they do otherwise after what happened to Cordelia?”
“Of course,” I said. “They can’t risk a repeat of that tragedy. What I don’t understand is how Lady Glover fits in. It’s clear Cordelia was murdered because of some sort of evidence her killer believed Mr. Dillman had given her. But what’s Lady Glover’s connection? Did Cordelia say something that led him to consider Lady Glover a threat to him as well?”
“That, my dear, is what I’m working to find out,” he said. “I’ve got my whole day mapped out, starting with another search of the Glovers’ house.”
Davis brought the mail to us, first handing Colin a note that had arrived via messenger. I sorted through the rest, setting Colin’s in front of him before starting to divide mine into three piles: invitations that needed only a yes or a no, correspondence requiring detailed responses, and everything that could be ignored. The third stack was not so high as I would have liked.
Colin passed me the hand-delivered note before I’d opened any of mine.
Colin, darling, this vagabond is watching me write—is directing me to write—to you and my husband and anyone else he’s decided might care about my fate. I’m to tell you I’m being well looked after, but to remind you that if the ransom isn’t paid as directed, he’ll start hurting me.
He’s very scary, Colin, and very fierce. And is looking rather too pleased to see me write such words about him. Please take his threats seriously so that we can play cards again.
—Valerie Glover
“There’s nothing on the envelope to indicate from where it was sent. Scotland Yard may be able to tell something from the paper,” he said.
“We should find out if Lord Glover has had a letter,” I said.
“Excellent idea.” He gulped his coffee and shoved the paper back into its envelope. “I’ll head there at once.”
Davis stepped into the room again. “Mrs. Brandon, madam. She asked to see you at onc
e. May I bring her here?”
“Yes, please do,” I said. Ivy appeared a moment later, looking nothing like her usual spirited self. Her eyes were puffy from lack of sleep, and her forehead bore the marks of tension.
“Are you quite well?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “Did you get one of these, too?” She held up an envelope and thrust it at me.
Dearest Ivy, I’m absolutely beside myself with fear and angst. My captor is standing over me, watching me write to you. He wants my friends to understand just how perilous my situation is, and I chose you to write to as I know you’ve a kind heart and will do everything you can to ensure my husband follows his directions as quickly as possible. I’m terrified of what will happen if he doesn’t.
“Lady Glover,” I said.
Ivy nodded. “What am I to do?”
“When did this arrive?” Colin asked.
“This morning,” she said. “Not half an hour ago.”
“And it came regular post?” I asked.
She nodded again.
“This is quite disturbing,” Colin said. “And is making me believe all the more firmly she’s been taken by the same man who took Cordelia. Having her write letters is just in his vein. He wants her family and friends to worry while they wait. I’m off to Glover at once.”
* * *
Once again relegated to waiting, Ivy and I sat, reading aloud from The Iliad. It was our version of seeking comfort, a vain attempt to distract us from what we imagined Lady Glover must be suffering.
“The other chiefs and princes slept soundly all the night long: but not Agamemnon. No sleeps visited his eyes; the lord and commander of that great host had too much to make him anxious.”
“I’m not sure this is making me feel better,” Ivy said. “Perhaps we should try something else. Can’t you read a bit about Hector and Andromache?”
I started to flip through the volume, but was interrupted by Davis.
“Madam,” he said. “A colleague of mine is here to see you. I’ve put him in the blue drawing room.”
I nearly gasped when I saw Mr. Dillman’s butler standing nervously in the center of the carpet.
“I apologize for coming to you like this,” he said. “But I thought you would know best what to do with this. You’ve handled this matter with such thoroughness and discretion. I know I can trust you.” He handed me a folded sheet of paper.
My lovely, sweet girl—
The memory of your ivory skin radiant in the candlelight burns in my heart. To see you tonight was, as always, like a dream, and no one could argue that shade of jade green doesn’t suit you, no matter what that dreadful neighbor of yours says about your new ball gown. I do wish you wouldn’t take criticism to heart, but you are a dear, sensitive thing, aren’t you? It’s part of the reason you’re more valuable to me than gold.
So greet that old dragon with stone silence next time you see her—and worry about her no further. She is not worth any more of your time.
To finish on a lighter note, if, when we’re married, you still insist on having that dreadful bronze statue in the garden, I won’t argue. I want nothing more than for you to be the happiest girl in the world. Which is why, as I hope you’ve noticed, I’ve written this letter on the finest paper I could find. I know how you like that.
I am your most devoted,
Michael
“Where did you find this?” I asked, fighting to keep tears from filling my eyes. I wished Cordelia had been able to read it. I passed it to Ivy.
“I feel quite stupid, really,” he said. “It was in my own ledger book, between the endpapers in the back. I’ve no idea how it got there.”
“Mr. Dillman put it there,” I said, my mind springing to life and vanquishing my sadness. “He hid it in plain sight, figuring that you would give it to Cordelia when you found it.”
“I would have, were she not—” he started.
“And if she’d read it, she’d have known exactly what to do with it,” I said. “Luckily, I do, too.”
“You do?” he asked.
“Ivory, jade, gold, stone, bronze, and paper,” I said. “Clues to what we need to be looking for in the British Museum.”
26
I thanked the butler, and Ivy and I headed straight for the British Museum. In the carriage on the way over I organized my notes. First, I considered the departments: Ancient Egypt and Sudan, Ancient Near East, Oriental Antiquities, and Medieval and Modern Europe. There were two references to both Ancient Near East and Oriental Antiquities, so I expected to need two objects from each. We had six numbers to go with them, and the six materials.
“Pity there’s nothing Greco-Roman,” Ivy said. “You’d have anything identified along those lines in approximately three minutes. But I suppose these things are never easy, are they?”
We piled out of the cab in Great Russell Street and headed for the entrance of the museum. We went straight for the desk, where I asked if my friend, Mr. May, was available. He was an assistant keeper in the department of Greek and Roman Antiquities, but had a vast knowledge outside of his field and a sharp intellect whose match I’d never met. We’d become congenial on my many trips to the museum, and he helped me on occasion with my work on Homer. I explained the situation, and he grasped it at once.
“Let’s start with Egypt and Sudan,” he said. “That will probably be the most difficult as the galleries will be so crowded. I always prefer to get the hardest out of the way first.” I’d copied out the numbers—118, 104, 152, 187, 28, and 930—along with the list I’d generated from Mr. Dillman’s letter, for each of us.
The first room we entered contained mummies and artifacts that had been buried with them. I knew the mummies were not what we sought, but there was plenty else to investigate. We combed through canopic jars and amulets and sarcophagi, but turned up nothing. Our luck proved no better in the next room, either. When we were halfway through the third, Mr. May pulled me aside.
“I think we’re making a mistake,” he said. “How much did Mr. Dillman know about the Egyptians?”
“I can’t say I know,” I said. “He loved the museum, but I’m not sure he would have considered himself an expert in anything regarding it.”
“That’s exactly what I thought. Come.”
Ivy and I followed him back into the second Egyptian room, where he led us to a case holding several examples of The Book of the Dead.
“A layman may have mistaken papyrus for paper,” he said. At once, we all began checking the numbers.
“Here!” Ivy said, beckoning to us. “I’ve found a 104 and think it may be what we need. It’s from the papyrus of Ani.”
The scene on the papyrus was an image of scales—on one side of them sat a human heart, on the other, a tall white feather.
“The Egyptians believed when a person died, his heart would be weighed against the feather of Ma’at—justice,” Mr. May said. “If his heart was too heavy and didn’t balance, he was thrown to the monster you see there.” He pointed to a figure that was part lion, part hippopotamus, and part crocodile. “The devourer, as he was called, would eat him, and he’d be denied the afterlife.”
“Who officiates the weighing?” I asked.
“Anubis—the jackal-headed god standing in front of the scales. If the heart did balance, the deceased was declared justified, and would be presented to Osiris, god of the underworld.”
“Judgment certainly feels appropriate in the current circumstances,” I said. I copied down the full catalog listing, EA 10470/3, and crossed 104 and paper off my lists. “Where shall we try next?”
“Let’s continue in the Ancient Near East galleries. We’ve two things to search for there, do we not?” We marched through several galleries to a room containing objects from ancient Turkey.
“I never spend enough time up here,” I said, astonished at the array of objects before me. As always, the sense of history overwhelmed me. “Perhaps I’m too focused on Greece.”
“It’s imp
ossible to be too focused on Greece,” Mr. May said. In theory, I could not have agreed more, but I was beginning to think perhaps I should consider broadening my horizons.
We split up and began our quest. This time it was easy—in a matter of minutes, I was calling to my friends.
“Here,” I said. “An ivory griffin-headed demon from Anatolia.”
“It’s beautiful,” Ivy said, bending over for a closer look.
“It probably was part of a throne and meant to provide protection,” Mr. May said. “Eighth to seventh century BC.”
There were two griffins in the case—one black, one white—displayed next to each other. Ours, the white was, in my estimation, the finer, if smaller, of the two. It was more delicate, and the intricate detail was breathtaking. Every feather on the creature’s wings was exquisitely carved, as were the rippling muscles visible on its legs. The darker material of the other seemed to hide more of its detail despite its larger size.
“Protection and judgment. Perhaps Mr. Dillman trying to make a point to Cordelia,” I said.
“It’s so sad,” Ivy said. “But I suppose we must not lose focus. Where to next, Mr. May?”
“I think we should remain here,” Mr. May said. “We’ve got a second reference for this department, do we not?”
He was correct. Unfortunately, however, our quarry was not so easily found this time. Over the expanse of the Ancient Near East galleries, I looked at what felt like hundreds of objects: gold jewelry, stone statues and reliefs, bronze weapons. But nothing had the right numbers. I circled back to where we’d started, deciding to take each substance in turn. I would begin by focusing on stone.
Nearly an hour later, I still hadn’t met with success. I rubbed my eyes and closed them, wanting to make them focus better. Mr. May came up beside me.
“I’ve found it,” he said, leading me to a case on the far side of the room. He pointed to a row of small heads that looked like they might belong to deranged dogs. “Pazuzu. He can be good or bad. He either spreads evil or stops disease. So he provides a bit of protection, when he’s not busy being an underworld demon. Obviously we want the bronze one.”
A Crimson Warning Page 19
