A Crimson Warning

27

We thanked Mr. May profusely, and promised to return for tea and scones another day, as we couldn’t pause even for a short break at the moment. I was terrified that every moment squandered put Lady Glover in more dire peril. We left the museum and went straight to the reading room, where the clerk who had previously assisted Colin and me recognized me at once.

“Ah, Lady Emily, back so soon, are you?” he asked. “Let me get the deputy superintendant for you.”

The gentleman came quickly, and greeted us with an easy affability. He became more tense, however, when I told him what I wanted to do and why. “That will be no small undertaking, Lady Emily,” he said. “And we can’t possibly go through the entire library.”

“We won’t need to,” I said. “Mr. Dillman would take his fiancée to her father’s library after she’d found the object he’d wanted her to in the museum. The object was a clue of its own—she’d use it to find a book, and he’d hide something for her either in or behind it.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what to look for,” the deputy superintendant said.

“Let’s take each of the six subjects in turn. Perhaps we can look through the stacks and see if anything’s out of place. Because I know your books are not misshelved.”

“No, madam, they are not. But we have three miles of bookcases, and twenty-five miles of shelves. This is an impossible task.”

“We don’t have to search the entire library,” I said. “But if there were enough of us working, we could cover each subject in a relatively short period of time.”

“I’ll let you try,” he said. “And will offer as much assistance as I can. I feel I must warn you of possible disappointment, however.” He summoned four clerks and took us back into the Iron Library. Light streamed into the stacks from its glass roof, traveling through slats in the iron floor designed to keep even the lowest levels bright. Bright was perhaps too strong a word. The librarians told me they carried lanterns with them nearly all the time.

We made our way through the maze of iron and set ourselves in front of the section where all the volumes to do with ancient Egyptian papyri were shelved. Ivy and I focused on bottom shelves, while the librarians climbed tall ladders and inspected everything above us. Together we checked that each title belonged to the subject.

They all did.

So we followed with Medieval mourning jewelry. And then Assyria and Babylon. Halfway through the books on ancient Chinese jade, I shouted Huzzah!, which brought the clerks and Ivy to my side in a flash. I apologized for having been so loud, but could not squash my delight. There, tucked between two innocuous books about the Ming Dynasty was The Seven Great Monarchies of the Ancient Eastern World; Or, The History and Geography, and Antiquities of Chaldaea, Assyria, Babylon, Media, Persia, Parthia, and Sassanian, Or New Persian Empire, written by a Mr. George Rawlinson.

“It’s exactly what I wanted,” I said. “He left it in the wrong place to tell us where to look.”

Ivy peered over my shoulder. “I don’t doubt for a moment these great ancient monarchies are devastatingly fascinating, but I still don’t quite understand what you’re on to.”

I pulled the surrounding books off the shelf and reached my hand to feel where I wasn’t quite tall enough to see. Straining, I stretched farther, and felt something distinctly unbooklike. I inadvertently pushed it, rough and prickly, out of grasp when I tried to pick it up. One of the taller clerks stepped forward and brought it down for me.

“Well done, Emily,” Ivy said, looking at the parcel. “I admit I had very little faith in the enterprise.”

Before we turned to analysis of what we’d found, we carefully returned all the books to their proper places. Then, thanking the deputy superintendant and his clerks profusely, we started to leave.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” the deputy superintendant asked.

“I’ll leave that for my husband,” I said. “It’s Crown business, after all.” I didn’t mean it, of course, but I didn’t want to open it in public. Not without having any idea what it contained. All I knew was there was a screaming good chance the information therein was important enough to have cost two people their lives.

Within a few moments, we’d secured a cab and were speeding back to Park Lane. We did not, however, stop at my house. Instead, we continued on to the Glovers’, where from out the cab’s window we could see a group of police officers had gathered on the front pavement, my husband standing in the middle of them.

“What’s going on?” I asked, standing on my tiptoes in a vain effort at being seen.

“Emily?” Colin spun around and pushed his way to me. “Go inside at once, and don’t come out until I get you. You, too, Ivy. I hope you both enjoyed the museum.”

I knew from his tone not to ask questions, or to tell him yet what we’d found. A dour servant opened the door for us and put us in the Egyptian room, where we sat and waited.

“Do you think it’s safe to look?” I asked Ivy, pulling the mysterious package out from the folds of my skirts, where I’d hidden it when we alighted from the cab.

“I don’t see why not,” she said. “There’s no one else here.”

Which was when the door opened. We both jumped, but it was only a maid who entered the salon, not someone who might have a nefarious interest in what we were hiding.

“Would you ladies care for some tea or perhaps cognac? Cognac’s what madam preferred in the afternoon.”

“Have you had news of her?” I asked. The girl’s use of the past tense worried me.

“Have you not heard?” she asked. “I thought that’s why you were here.”

“No,” I said. “Please tell us.”

She was a little skittish. She went to the door, opened it, peered into the corridor, then shut it again and returned to us. “I don’t know all the details, madam, but it seems they’ve found one of the sleeves from the dress Lady Glover was wearing when they took her.”

“Where did they find it?” I asked.

“In Hyde Park, madam,” she said. “I don’t think I’d be going there anymore if I was you. Isn’t safe there, is it?”

“I’m inclined to agree with you,” Ivy said. “Did they find anything else?”

“Not that we’ve heard below stairs, but that’s not saying there couldn’t be more.”

“Thank you,” I said. “And I think we will have some cognac.”

“Feeling the need for fortification?” Ivy asked after the girl had gone.

“I’m worried sick about Lady Glover, but I know I can’t let that distract me,” I said. I’d buried the parcel in my skirts again when the maid had opened the door, and hadn’t pulled it out yet. “We should wait until we know we won’t be interrupted.”

It took nearly a quarter of an hour for our drinks to arrive. I asked the maid to ensure we would not be disturbed except by my husband, and then took a sip of the golden liquid. Its warmth was soothing. Confident we were alone, I set the parcel on the table between us.

It was wrapped in coarse fabric, a sturdy burlap. I tugged at the twine that bound it—it was much narrower at one end than the other and round, like a cylinder. Or a bottle.

Which is exactly what it was. Wrapped tightly around it was a stack of papers. I removed them and examined the bottle first. It was about half full with a muddy-looking liquid. Long, rusty nails stuck out above the muck, and as I turned it in my hands, I saw the sad remains of a little toad in it. And then a large, black spider floated to the top.

“I don’t like this,” Ivy said. “I don’t like spiders. Not at all.”

“This one can’t do you any harm,” I said, placing the bottle carefully on the table. I wasn’t any happier than Ivy with what we’d found. Not because I disliked spiders—they didn’t bother me in the least—but because there was something deeply disturbing about the contents of the bottle. Everything about it seemed evil.

I shuddered.

And then I unrolled the papers and started to read.

“Mr. Foster is going to have a great deal of explaining to do,” I said.

Colin sorted things out with Scotland Yard as quickly as he could, but it was nearly another hour before he joined us in the Egyptian room. I offered him cognac, but he wanted to go home, and he did not want to discuss what we’d found until we were there. Three police remained in front of the Glovers’ house, and I could see them watching us as we walked along the street. They gave a brisk wave when they saw we’d arrived with no incident.

“Is there some reason to think we, specifically, aren’t safe?” I asked, pouring my husband two fingers of Glenmorangie the instant we were settled in the library.

“No,” he said, taking the glass and thanking me. “They’re just on edge, that’s all.”

“Has Lord Glover received anything more from the kidnapper?” Ivy asked. “He must be absolutely torn up over this.”

“Someone found the sleeve, along with a note pinned to it—I assume the servants would have told you that—in the park this morning. It didn’t take long for the police to figure out it belonged to Lady Glover. Her maid confirmed it was what she’d been wearing when she was last seen.”

“What did the note say?” I asked.

“Would you like to see more of your wife than just her sleeve?” he said. “They’ve made a thorough search of the park, but found nothing else.”

“Poor Lord Glover,” I said.

“He’s seeking consolation in his club,” Colin said. “Insists he doesn’t want to stay in the house. His man will bring him any messages sent for him—but not until after he’s shown them to me.”

“So there’s no news beyond that?” I asked. “No instructions for the delivery of the ransom?”

“Nothing,” he said.

“If it’s any consolation, we have a new direction for you to follow,” I said. “Our day has been shatteringly productive.”

I passed him the papers we’d found wrapped around the bottle.

“Foster?” Colin asked, rising to his feet and starting to pace. “Foster owns the match factory? He’s an advocate for the working class. He wouldn’t stand for the conditions in that place.”

“Perhaps he’s never taken the time to visit,” I said.

“I’ve looked into the details of the business,” he said. “And saw no mention of Foster’s name. Furthermore, what they’re doing may not be strictly illegal. There’s a way in which, technically, they are providing a service to families who don’t want to see their infirm loved ones in a workhouse.”

“But Foster does own it,” I said. “We’ve proof of that now. And we know Dobson and Florence are working for whoever killed Mr. Dillman. Surely this implicates Mr. Foster?”

“It may indeed,” Colin said.

“He’s certainly got motive for wanting Mr. Dillman dead—”

“If he knew about these papers,” Colin said. “We don’t know that he did.”

“Mr. Foster knows perfectly well what he’s done,” I said. “And he must be worried his role in the enterprise will be exposed. I’m certain this is what Mr. Barnes was worried about.”

“That’s entirely possible,” Colin said. “But do remember that Barnes said his friend’s action, whatever it is, would only appear unethical if taken out of context.” Colin put the documents aside and turned his attention to the bottle.

“Watch out for the spider,” Ivy said. “It’s horrendous.”

“What on earth is this?” he asked.

“I’ve not the slightest idea,” I said.

“Did you ask anyone at the museum?”

“I didn’t want to show it to anyone without speaking to you first.”

He nodded. “I appreciate your discretion. Take it there tomorrow morning as soon as they open and see if the keepers have any clue as to what it could be. I’ll go see Foster at once.”

“What about Lady Glover?” Ivy asked. “She asked me to help her. What can I do? I can’t let her down. She’s in danger.”

“Nothing,” Colin said. “We need something more before we can act. But don’t worry, I’m sure Lord Glover will receive instructions for delivering the money before long.”

“Has he decided to pay it?” I asked.

“He’s not happy about it, but I have managed to persuade him against negotiation.”

“You’re a miracle worker,” I said.

“We’ll find out the truth of that soon enough.”

5 July 1893

Belgrave Square

For all that I’m deathly worried about Lady Glover, I admit to having got rather caught up in all the excitement at the museum today. Seeing Emily like that, in her element, so sharp and insightful, quick-witted and capable, working for justice, made me wish more than ever that I could confide in her and beg her help.

But I just can’t bring myself to do it.

Still no reply from him. What we’ve learned about Mr. Foster has me deeply concerned. I understand that business records are more likely to become public than a person’s carefully concealed indiscretions, but knowing how smart Mr. Foster is, I can’t help but worry. If a gentleman of his intellect can be caught unawares—for surely he did everything in his not insignificant power to hide his involvement in this odious organization—how likely is it that my attempt at discretion will fare better?