A Crimson Warning

9

While the Fannings and Althways struggled with the revelations of the previous evening, the rest of London waited, wondering when the Musgraves and Riddingtons would see their secrets exposed. Colin and I, longing for a quiet night at home away from rumor and gossip, planned an elegant dinner for ourselves. Settled into our dining room, which had been modeled on banqueting chambers found in ancient Roman villas, mosaics covering all the walls, we started with asparagus soup. Then salmon, followed by curried eggs and sweetbreads (I despised them, but my husband’s opinion was quite the opposite), lobster cutlets, then capon with ham and green peas. We skipped the game course—it seemed too hot for it to me—and prepared to move straight to sweets.

Just as the footmen were clearing to make way for our final course, Davis entered the room, his head bowed, his expression serious. He crossed straight to my husband.

“Sir, your presence is urgently required in the blue drawing room.”

Colin folded his napkin and placed it on the table. I moved to follow him.

Davis cleared his throat. Colin raised his eyebrows.

“If I may speak, sir?” Davis asked.

“Of course, Davis,” Colin said.

“Madam may prefer to remain where she is.”

I needed no further motivation. I sprung from my chair and followed my husband. Davis did not hide his displeasure, walking more stiffly than ever as he took us to the sitting room. I knew him well enough to understand he wasn’t prone to overreaction, and that the dear man was only trying to protect me. He hesitated before opening the door to the sitting room. Colin nodded at him, and with a sigh, our butler ushered us inside.

A shaking, liveried servant jumped to his feet, nearly dropping the brandy snifter in his hand. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “Mr. Davis said it would be all right—”

“If Davis saw it fit to install you in the sitting room and give you brandy, he must have had an excellent reason for doing so,” I said. “We never question his judgment. Do sit back down.”

I took a chair across from him; Colin remained standing.

“Please identify yourself,” he said.

“I am Lord Musgrave’s valet, sir. I’ve come on his behalf … well, not precisely. He’s dead, sir, taken his own life.”

Air flew into my lungs. The newspapers were all keeping close track of which families in town had suffered vandalism on the fronts of their homes—and equally close track of whether their secrets had yet to be revealed. Weeks had gone by since red paint marked the Musgraves, but so far, no one had discovered why they had been targeted.

“It’s a dreadful scene, sir. Blood everywhere.”

“Who found him?” Colin asked.

“I did, sir.” The man looked longingly at his brandy. “He’d been in the bath rather longer than usual. I went to inquire if he needed more hot water. The door was locked, and I could raise no response from my master.”

“How did you open the door?” I asked.

“I’ve a key to the room,” he said.

“Have you summoned the police?” Colin asked.

“No, sir. Not yet. Lady Musgrave wanted you first, and asked me to fetch you. Will you come?”

“Of course,” he said. “Emily, I’ll need your help with the lady of the house.”

We piled into the waiting carriage and made our way to the Musgraves’ house in Cadogan Place, not far from Sloane Square. Lights gleamed from every window of the façade, as if they’d been lit in an attempt to deny the grisly event that had just occurred. A dour butler threw open the door before we’d reached it. Lady Musgrave, appearing from behind him, waved her arms frantically.

“Inside, quickly, quickly, please!” she said. “We’ve no time to lose.”

Colin took the lead and bolted to her. “Is Lord Musgrave in need of medical attention? I was under the impression—”

“No, no,” she said. “Nothing of the sort. But you must come upstairs at once and tell me who murdered him.” She took his arm and wrenched him forward. I followed, nearly tripping as I ran up the two flights of stairs that led to Lord Musgrave’s bedchamber.

Lady Musgrave’s earnest pace slowed once we’d crossed the threshold of the room. “He’s through there,” she said, motioning across the room to an open door. Colin strode ahead, stopping me before I could take a single step.

“Let me go first,” he said.

“It’s all a terrible mistake, you see,” Lady Musgrave said to me once he’d disappeared from our sight. “His valet said he’d done a harm to himself, but that can’t possibly be true. And even if it were, imagine the scandal! It’s simply unacceptable.”

How does one reply to such statements? I was saved from finding out by my husband’s return. “Emily? Are you up to it?”

I nodded and went to him. We passed through Lord Musgrave’s dressing room into a small chamber containing the man’s bath. In the tub, submerged to the neck in bright red water, was the man of the house, an ugly gash slicing his jugular. I looked away.

“Oh.” It was all I could manage.

“You’ve seen worse,” Colin said, and I appreciated both his confidence in me and his recognition of what I’d done in the past. “I can’t identify any signs of a struggle. The instrument of his destruction is in the tub.”

I forced my eyes back to the scene and saw the straight razor still in the dead man’s hand.

“Is there anything to suggest it wasn’t suicide?” I asked.

“No. The door was locked from the inside. None of the windows appears to have been opened.”

I circled the room, studying everything. “There’s dust on the sills,” I said. “No one has touched them in weeks—particularly the maids.”

“I’ll question the servants just to be sure no one heard anything suspicious,” Colin said. “But the conclusion seems obvious.”

“He certainly had motivation.” I frowned. “He preferred death to facing disgrace when his secret was exposed.”

“What a terrible waste,” Colin said. “He’s only heaped more scandal on his family.”

“Lady Musgrave will not be pleased.”

She was not. We took her downstairs, pressed a stiff drink into her hands, and told her our conclusions. She ranted, pounding her fists on a table, and stamping her feet. “It can’t be! It can’t be! You must tell everyone he was murdered and the crime so well committed it can’t be solved. That sort of thing happens all the time!”

“I’m afraid it doesn’t, Lady Musgrave,” Colin said. “I’ve sent for the coroner. He will examine the body in more detail—”

“So you could be wrong, then?”

“I’m afraid not. You yourself admit you heard nothing suspicious in the house tonight.”

“We could be dealing with an extremely clever villain, Mr. Hargreaves,” she said. “Perhaps one of my own servants. Do you think I should dismiss them all?”

“I wouldn’t,” I said. “You’ll only provide more fodder for gossip.”

“You’re right, you’re right, I know you’re right. How could he do this to me?” Her angry desperation faded as her eyes grew moist. “Leave me alone to face whatever he’s done to incite this red-paint maniac?”

“You’re sure it was something he did?” Colin asked.

“Of course I am.” She pursed her lips. “I have made a special point of leading a life free from reproof. It’s been tedious in the extreme and, as a result, I shouldn’t be left to deal with someone else’s mess.”

“Have you any idea what he did?” I asked.

“No.” She dabbed her eyes with a lacy handkerchief. “He was extremely discreet in his private life. We’ve been married nearly thirty years and have become somewhat distant. He must have had some sort of mistress. The usual sort of thing. Nothing interesting enough to have drawn such attention.”

Colin’s eyes clouded for just an instant. “Lady Musgrave, would you object to my sifting through your husband’s papers? Just in case there’s something significant to be found.”

“Evidence that he was murdered?” she asked.

“No, I’m afraid there’s no chance of that,” he said. “But if I can discover what he was trying to hide, I’ll do whatever’s possible to minimize the scandal.”

“I would appreciate that, Mr. Hargreaves,” she said. “And I know I can trust you. My husband spoke so highly of you.” She lowered her voice. “He told me what you did during the Anderson business.”

“Did he?” His face was all composure, but I noticed a trace of color creeping up his neck. He lowered his eyes and brushed nonexistent lint from his sleeve, not meeting my inquiring stare.

“Like him, I’m all discretion,” she said. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“Would you object to my starting now?” Colin asked, the words tumbling from his mouth in a rush before I could inquire about the Andersons. “His study would probably be the best place.”

“Go right ahead. Through that door, cross three rooms. It will be the second door on your left. Your wife and I can chat while you work,” she said. “I wouldn’t want her sullied by anything untoward you might find.”

Personally, I would have happily observed—and assisted in—the discovery of anything untoward, but I didn’t see how I could impose myself given Lady Musgrave’s wishes. Colin returned less than a quarter of an hour later.

“Your husband’s desk is completely empty aside from a handful of pens and pencils, Lady Musgrave,” he said. “The fireplace shows evidence of a large number of papers having been burned.”

12 June 1893

Belgrave Square, London

I came dangerously close to confessing all my sins to Emily this morning when we were riding. She asked if I’d heard any rumors about Colin’s involvement in some business involving a family called Anderson. I haven’t, and know nothing. If only Anderson weren’t such a common name; I can think of at least six families called that. I could see Emily is worried, most likely because she’s as afraid as I am of facing scandal.

Perhaps that’s not quite true. She wouldn’t be as afraid as I am. Why would she be? She hasn’t done anything wrong herself. It’s Colin she’s worried about. His work must be fraught with situations the public could find questionable. He’s so honorable I can’t imagine he’s done anything in his personal life he’d want to hide, although my friends would assume the same about me. Maybe there is something it would be better if Emily didn’t know.

I guess the truth is we never know every detail about another person.

I asked Robert if he knew anything about the Andersons. He had nothing to say on the subject.