A Crimson Warning

11

For years, Ivy and I had made a habit of meeting for a morning ride in Rotten Row, and it had long ago become one of my favorite daily rituals during the season. The morning light would fall soft on leaves and grass and make a glowing cloud out of the dust kicked up by our horses’ hooves. We would start off slowly, then I’d pull ahead, goading her to race. She’d protest, worried we’d shock society and horrify the multitudinous other riders. But soon enough she’d be following me, pulling up close, and egging me on.

Today, I regretted not having had more than a small piece of toast and a single cup of tea to fortify me before I’d set off. I hadn’t realized Winifred Harris would be joining us, or just how much fortification dealing with her could require. It took fewer than ten minutes for me to confirm something I’d long suspected: try though I might for Ivy’s sake, Winifred and I would never be close. Our conversation was stilted from the outset, and she scolded me fiercely the second my horse started to move a beat faster than a canter, explaining to us in overwrought detail how inappropriate our previous behavior had been.

“Furthermore, it’s not good form,” she said, just as I’d started to hope she was nearly done. “It’s dangerous, too, as there are so many riders present. But most of all, think of the talk to which it has exposed you. Do you want to draw ire upon yourselves? Do you want to be left off guest lists because you’re considered wild?”

Personally, I was quite taken with the notion. No one had ever suggested to me before that I might be wild. It seemed something to which one might aspire.

“Thank heavens we’re both already married,” I said, knowing my irony would be completely lost on Winifred. “We’d be scaring off every potential husband we met.”

“I don’t mean to be stern with you,” Winifred said, puffing up her broad chest. “Please understand that. But it’s essential we stay vigilant in the protection of our characters. What does a lady have that matters more than her reputation?”

“I can think of lots of things,” I said, but wasn’t allowed to continue.

“One need only look at how Lady Merton’s circle has shrunk since her house was painted. Consider that, Lady Emily, and then consider your connection with the Women’s Liberal Federation. It’s very off-putting,” she said. “People are beginning to talk.”

“Let them,” I said. “I believe in what I’m doing.”

“You’re just trying to get attention. No thinking person can believe women should have the vote. It’s a revolting concept. You should know your place better than that.”

“You know, Winifred, you begin to make me wonder if all women should have the right to vote.”

My insult was lost on her as her attention was elsewhere. “Look at that! Her posture is appalling!” She pulled closer to Ivy and motioned with a subtle gesture to indicate a rider not far from us, but made no attempt to modulate her voice. “Did you see her at the opera last week? Her gown was atrocious and her manners even worse.”

“She is kind, though,” Ivy said. “Her younger sisters adore her.”

“Precisely,” Winifred said. “She’s a good woman, yet she doesn’t bother to care what impression she makes. Which means she has nothing in store but ruin and loneliness. If she’s fortunate, she’ll find a post as a governess.”

I kept silent.

“I can tell you’re angry at me for speaking so openly, Lady Emily. You think I’m hard on my own sex. But I feel the same about gentlemen. Do you see that man over there?” she asked. “An extremely well-known youngest son—there, standing on the pavement perpendicular to us, speaking to a woman in a garish purple hat? I understand his gambling debts are close to ruining his entire family. What sort of a man allows himself to sink to such a level?”

“Isn’t it enough for him to live with what he’s done?” I asked.

“I know how high the standard to which you hold yourself is, Winifred dear,” Ivy said. “But not everyone is so capable as you.”

“We must learn from the mistakes of others, Ivy,” Winifred said. “That is the only reason I condone paying attention—close attention—to what is happening in the private lives of others.”

“Private lives should be just that,” I said, unable to hold my tongue any longer. “No good comes of spreading gossip.”

“Emily, you can’t possibly mean to accuse me of being a gossip!” Her eyes opened wide. “I make these observations only to help my friends because I care about them so deeply. I see all around me the tragedies that can befall those who are not vigilant, and only want to protect those dear to me from suffering a similar fate.”

“What an interesting position,” I said, realizing the futility of arguing with someone like Winifred. “What do you think, then, of this person terrorizing society with his red paint?”

“I cannot approve, of course,” she said. “But I think we’d all have to admit he’s catalyzed a welcome change in people’s behavior. Who will embark on a bad course of action when he knows he might face exposure and censure?”

“So you believe secrets should be told?” I asked.

“I make no judgment on that,” she said. “But I do think we should look within ourselves during this time. I’ve heard rumors the situation will escalate soon, and you’ve not exactly led a blameless life, Emily. A bit more caution on your part might be something you should consider.”

Wickedness. Her eyes narrowed and beamed undiluted wickedness.

“Oh, Winifred, don’t be hard on Emily,” Ivy said. “She’s my dearest friend! You won’t find a more devoted, smarter, or more passionate lady in all of London.”

“Passionate, Ivy, isn’t a quality you should be discussing,” Winifred said. “Its connotation is not what you think.”

That was quite enough for me. “Mrs. Harris,” I said. “Ivy is perfectly aware of the connotations of the word passionate. She’s not some simpering fool in need of social guidance.”

“I’ve never suggested any such thing! This is an outrageous accusation, Lady Emily.”

“You might find yourself in happier circumstances if you’d treat those around you with more respect,” I said.

“I can’t remember when I’ve been so insulted.”

“Most likely because you’re not accustomed to it being done to your face,” I said. “Forgive me, Ivy. I’ve had my fill of riding today.”

I pulled on the reins and turned my horse back towards home. I did not regret what I’d done, but neither did I look forward to the social discomfort it was sure to bring. As I reflected further on the subject, my mind began to change on this point. I was tired of forced politeness, tired of maintaining the appearance of friendship with people who deserved censure.

This was, I realized, similar to Winifred’s position. But we came at it from opposite directions—I from that of being more interested in reveling in the good in people and not wasting time with those who had none to offer, while she preferred slander and mockery. I’d never once heard her compliment anyone. When had a kind word ever escaped her hard lips? Misery was her trade and I wanted no part of it.

I handed my horse over to a waiting groom and headed straight for my husband’s study, not bothering to change out of my riding clothes, and flung myself into a chair. Colin, his head bent over his favorite book of chess problems, spoke without looking up.

“Was that an exasperated fling or an exuberant one?”

“Exasperated.”

He moved the white rook from his John Company set forward three spaces, closed the book, and sat next to me. “Tell me.”

I blew out a long breath before launching into the story. He listened attentively, his face without expression, until I reached the end. He then dropped his head into his hands and shook with mirth.

“Oh, Emily, I do adore you,” he said. “I know you’ll suffer in some circles for what you’ve done, but not in circles we care about. It’s time someone told off that biddy. Her sanctimoniousness is unbearable.”

“I’m through with all of it,” I said. “I’m perfectly content if we surround ourselves with wonderful and socially unacceptable eccentric friends instead of accepting boring invitations to boring parties filled with boring people.”

“Do we have any socially unacceptable friends?”

“Lady Glover?” I asked.

“She’s borderline, I’d say.”

“We shall have to try harder to find someone truly offensive,” I said. “How is your work progressing?”

“Not so well as I’d like,” he said, running a hand through his thick hair. “I’ve discovered nothing out of sorts in Dillman’s business dealings.”

“And those things he was doing for the government?”

“They don’t appear to have been disrupted. We’ve reassigned them to another company and shall keep a careful eye on what happens next.”

“I could help you better if you gave me some details.”

“Not possible,” he said. “But you know that I’ll call you in as soon as I can. What would you like to do this afternoon? I’ve a few hours free from work.”

“I rather fancy a stroll through the Royal Academy,” I said, knowing I could trust him to include me in the investigation when it was appropriate. “We’ve not yet seen the Summer Exhibition.”

Davis entered the room with a single letter on a small silver tray. I picked it up and noticed immediately bright yellow wax sealed it. I opened it in a swift motion, eager to identify the sender.

“Apparently I’ve greatly angered Mrs. Harris,” I said. “She must have written this the moment she reached home. It’s a scathing attack on the many flaws of my character.” I passed the note to Colin, my hand shaking slightly. Her vitriol upset me, and I could not help but wonder if she was capable of more than just nasty words.

“I grant you it’s an interesting coincidence, but she’s hardly the only person in London to use yellow sealing wax,” Colin said. He’d bustled me off to the Royal Academy almost as soon as I’d put down Mrs. Harris’s note. He didn’t like to dwell on petty nastiness.

“I’ve never seen anyone else use it.”

“If you were a crazed murderer, would you not be more careful?” he asked. “I should reserve a separate color wax for my personal correspondence and keep back another for anything related to my crimes.”

“I’d use the same because even the Crown’s best agent would think it was too obvious and remove me from his list of suspects.”

“You’re good, Emily.” He stopped in front of a large canvas. “What do you think of this?”

I stepped closer to the painting, a stunning portrait of Lady Glover by John Singer Sargent. She wore a red velvet dress, cut dramatically low, three long strands of pearls draped around her neck and hanging down to below her tiny waist. A sheer white shawl dangled from one elbow, and she leaned with the other on an elaborate marble mantelpiece.

“She certainly has motivation,” I said. “Society’s been cruel to her. She’s plenty of motive to lash out against the ton.”

“I wanted to know your opinion of the painting, not of the lady.” He took a step back. “Sargent is bloody good, isn’t he?”

“He is.” I nodded. “You don’t think Lady Glover could be our culprit?”

“As you said, she’s plenty of motive. But I’d need to find a connection with Dillman.”

“There’s something about this correspondence of hers,” I said. “It doesn’t ring quite true.”

“You think she’s invented it?”

“No, I suppose that wouldn’t make sense,” I said. “I can’t identify what it is that troubles me, but it doesn’t seem right. She tried to suggest Mr. Barnes might be behind it.”

Colin laughed. “Barnes wouldn’t need so flimsy an excuse to start writing to her. She’s not exactly fierce with her suitors.”

“Should you call them suitors?” I asked, my eyes wide. “She’s a married woman.”

“Yes, well, the hypocrisy does make things difficult, doesn’t it?” Colin asked. “But what else is one to call the blokes vying for her attention?”

We continued to make our way through the galleries. The skylights in the ceilings, above the elaborate plasterwork on the tops of the walls, bathed the rooms in brightness. The crowds were so thick we nearly had to push our way through the enormous wooden doorways between rooms, and we soon decided to explore some of the less popular sections of Burlington House.

It was a strategy that proved extremely pleasant until we reached a door blocked by two policemen.

“What’s going on here?” Colin asked, pulling out his identification.

“Vandalism last night, Mr. Hargreaves,” one of the guards said. “Thugs have destroyed a painting.”

“Thugs?” Colin asked. “Let me see.”

With no hesitation, they opened the door and took us inside.

“Why wasn’t I notified of this at once?” Colin said.

Before us hung a canvas bathed almost entirely in all-too-familiar red. Splatters of paint had hit the wall around the work and dribbled down to the floor, where it puddled in a sticky mess. It had been applied in such quantity it was difficult to determine what the original picture had depicted. I moved forward, careful to lift my skirts to keep them clean, and read the card on the wall.

“William Handler, Portrait of Mrs. Samuel Tubney.”

“Which one of them is the target?” Colin asked.

“Or is it both?” I turned to the police. “Was anything else damaged in the attack?”

“No, Lady Emily,” the taller one said. “Just this. They came in through a window on the ground floor and didn’t touch anything else. Scotland Yard were here this morning, Mr. Hargreaves. They can give you a full update, but I’m afraid there won’t be much to it.”

“We’ll look around a bit more, if you don’t mind. Can you direct me to the window?” Colin asked.

19 June 1893

Belgrave Square, London

I called on Cordelia this afternoon. She remains most distressed over the loss of her fiancé, so distressed I fear for her very sanity. She’s barely coherent and utterly on edge. It’s not surprising; what she’s suffered is intolerable. But I found, as we spoke, that I was becoming increasingly upset by the villain in all this. Mr. Dillman is dead. His house had been painted. Yet we’ve no hint as to what merited this treatment. What did he do? The paint has proven to be a precursor to the revelation of a ruinous secret. Or has it?

Lord Musgrave took his own life before anyone breathed a word of what his scandal was. Now that he’s gone, we still know nothing. Has the culprit lost interest in smearing Lord Musgrave’s name? Was his death enough to satisfy the cruelty of this man? The Riddingtons are still waiting, wondering when some sordid detail of their life will be exposed. Is their nemesis hoping one of them, too, will choose suicide over shame?

But what of Mr. Dillman? Who killed him? Surely not the same person who’s responsible for the paint? Why would he have bothered with the paint at all if he were planning to kill the man? My mind reels trying to figure it out. Emily’s so quick when it comes to these things. I’m glad no one has to rely on me for finding the answers.

Except this answer. Are some sins so great they merit execution rather than exposure? Is that why Mr. Dillman died? And if so, what makes a sin that heinous? Could mine be considered so?

I fear even to write these words in my happy home, where my daughter, so innocent, plays. I don’t want to bring such ugliness to her world. How I wish I could hide forever from what I’ve done.