A Crimson Warning

23

Ivy had been sitting, silent, in my library for nearly an hour when I told her we had to leave. She’d asked question after question about Cordelia, about the abduction, about what had been done to try to find her, about everything except the state of her body when Jeremy and I found it. After that, she’d gone quiet, very calm, and very still. I did not disturb her until the last possible moment.

Then, telling her that I was to meet Lady Glover to discuss what could be correspondence from the murderer himself, I asked her to accompany me, explaining that taking action to seek justice for Cordelia’s killer was the most important thing either of us could do. This snapped her to attention, and we made our way to Piccadilly, then cut down St. James’s Street to Pall Mall. I sighed as we passed Berry Bros. & Rudd, wishing we had time to pop in to see if they had any port I ought to be laying down. Trafalgar Square was full of people and pigeons—one of the feathery creatures had perched on top of Lord Nelson’s tricorn hat, lending an air of absurdity to the otherwise elegant admiral and his column.

We stepped into the museum, crossing through the portico’s graceful arches and to the stairs that led to the galleries. Halfway up I stepped carefully across the mosaic floor of the landing, not wanting to trod on Calliope or Apollo. From above, light filtered through the opaque glass of the dome, illuminating the elaborate plasterwork and its gilt decoration.

Lady Glover was waiting for us inside the room containing the gallery’s Botticellis. Specifically, in front of Botticelli’s painting of Venus and Mars.

“She is lovely, don’t you think?” she asked, kissing me on both cheeks as a greeting. “I’ve been told she looks rather like me.”

I studied both the lady and the painting, and sighed. “A reasonable claim, I suppose. But then, I have seen you in Roman attire, which makes the comparison easier, doesn’t it?”

“The other Venus is pedestrian,” Lady Glover said, motioning to another painting in the gallery. “I’ve heard rumors it’s not a real Botticelli. Apparently there was quite a scandal, but I think it’s all been covered up.”

“I didn’t come here to talk about art, Lady Glover,” I said. “Cordelia Dalton is dead. We need to focus. You have received another note?”

“I have.” She glanced around the room, an elegant space papered in a rich dark-green silk. “Do you think it’s safe to show it to you here?”

“I can’t imagine anyone knows what you’re doing,” I said.

“I could have been followed,” she said.

“This person is writing to you,” I said. “He’s not instructed you to keep his messages secret, has he? And he’s never threatened you.”

“True, true,” she said. “But I like to think that if he killed that poor Cordelia Dalton he could do the same to me.”

“I’m not sure like is the word you want,” Ivy said, her voice sharp.

“It is, Mrs. Brandon,” she said with a wide smile. “I do enjoy a little excitement.”

Her cavalier attitude did not sit well with me.

“I find your enthusiasm distasteful,” Ivy said. “You might find you’d feel differently if you were actually under threat.”

“But I am!” she said. “He’s singled me out, hasn’t he? Chosen me as the one to whom he sends his words. We can’t do anything for Cordelia now. You should be concerned about me.”

“Show me the letter,” I said.

After another show of reluctance, she gave it to me.

Confer with me of murder and of death.

There’s not a hollow cave or lurking-place,

No vast obscurity or misty vale,

Where bloody murder or detested rape

Can couch for fear, but I will find them out;

And in their ears tell them my dreadful name,

Revenge, which makes the foul offender quake.

For a moment I wondered if I had judged her too harshly. This quote—Shakespeare again—was more frightening than those she’d received before. But she was nodding her head and smiling as I reread the words. She was enjoying this too much.

“Titus Andronicus is not my favorite of the plays,” I said, folding the paper and sliding it back in its envelope. “Revenge describes well what he seems to be after, but this passage makes it feel more personal than it did before, doesn’t it? It’s not just paint flung to expose the hypocrisy of society. It’s more pointed than that.”

“Are you going to reply?” Ivy asked.

“Well, of course,” Lady Glover said. “No one else in London has the man in the palm of her hands.”

“I don’t think you’d want him there,” I said. “Have you shown these letters to Scotland Yard?”

“Absolutely not. I won’t have them taken from me.”

“They could study the handwriting,” I said.

“What good could possibly come of that?” she asked. “It’s not as if they have some book filled with handwriting samples from every murderous wretch in Britain.”

“May I at least share it with my husband?” I asked.

“Yes, but only if you communicate to him in no uncertain terms that he is to be much, much kinder to me when he calls to return it. He disappointed me terribly last time.”

“I’ll be sure to deliver the request,” I said, tapping my foot on the marble floor, impatient.

“I’ll count on you.”

I wasn’t quite sure why she thought fluttering her eyelashes at me would help. “I need something from you, though. Tell me what you were doing on Oxford Street with Winifred Harris?”

“I’ve no idea what you mean,” she said, tugging at her long, black gloves to straighten them.

“Since when are you and Mrs. Harris friendly?” I asked.

“I despise the woman,” she said. “She’s never been anything but terrible to me.”

“I was under the same impression until I saw the two of you in rather cozier circumstances this morning. And now you’re summoning me with a letter, one that seems to raise the stakes, and you are refusing to give me any of the information I need. What are you and Mrs. Harris up to?”

“Nothing at all,” she said. “I was courteous to her this morning as I have no interest in creating public scenes.”

“I suppose that’s why zebras pull your carriage,” I said.

“One has nothing to do with the other,” she said.

“Tell me what she is to you.”

“I can assure you it’s nothing to do with the paint,” Lady Glover said. “And our meeting was anything but cozy.”

“Then tell me what it was,” I said.

“I think we should go outside,” Ivy said. “People are beginning to stare.”

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.”