A Crimson Warning

34

Mr. Foster’s butler opened the door the moment I knocked. His master, however, was not at home. He’d gone to Westminster first thing in the morning, and wasn’t expected back until late. I returned to the carriage (Ivy had insisted I keep hers rather than going home for mine) and directed the driver to take me to Parliament. The bottom six inches of my skirt were drenched just from walking the distance to the building’s entrance.

Mr. Foster’s assistant greeted me warmly—he remembered me from my previous visit—and brought me a cup of tea to ward off the dampness that had started to permeate my bones. It was hard to believe that so recently we’d all been complaining about the relentless heat. “I’m not sure how long it will be,” he said. “Mr. Foster went in to the prime minister about twenty minutes ago.”

“That’s quite all right,” I said. “I’m in no rush to go back into the rain.” I pulled The Aeneid out of my reticule and read until Mr. Foster stepped into his office’s antechamber nearly an hour later, apologizing for making me wait. He ushered me to a chair near his desk, then sat down, folded his hands, and placed them on top of his blotter.

“What a pleasant surprise,” he said. “I hadn’t expected any respite from work today.”

“I’m not sure you’ll feel so pleased after you hear what I have to say.”

“Has something happened?”

“I’m afraid so,” I said. “Perhaps it’s wrong of me to come to you like this, but after our conversation yesterday, I felt like I had to.”

“Go ahead, Lady Emily. You know I’ll keep anything you say in confidence.”

“Please, you must,” I said. “I’ve been tormented all morning deciding if I should stay silent. But I could tell, last time we spoke, that elections are a matter of great importance to you.”

“That’s true of every politician.”

I bit my lip and hoped I looked anxious. “We’ve come across something in the course of our investigation into Mr. Dillman’s death that’s extremely disconcerting. It concerns election fraud. I can’t say more than that, but I thought you should know.”

“Fraud? What sort?” Hunched shoulders and shaking hands replaced his calm demeanor.

“I haven’t seen the papers,” I said. “Not in detail. But something in Colin’s reaction made me think I should tell you. I’m sorry I don’t know more. You won’t tell anyone I mentioned it, will you?”

“You have my word,” he said. Rain beat against the window. “I shouldn’t keep you, Lady Emily. I’m afraid if you stay much longer you’ll regret not having come in a boat.”

“Thank you,” I said. As I walked through the corridor leading to the street, I ran though our conversation, wondering what he’d done that made him so concerned about election fraud. Lost in contemplation, I slammed into a gentleman who was walking towards me, a tall stack of papers in his hands.

“I am so sorry,” he said, bending over to collect the sheets that had scattered over the floor.

“Mr. Barnes!” My heart pounded. “It was my fault entirely. I’m afraid I wasn’t looking where I was going. I hope I’m not making you late to some pressing appointment.” He was wearing his overcoat and had an umbrella at the ready.

“Not at all, Lady Emily. I’m making an early day of it and heading home.”

Home? Colin would never have expected him to return so early. What if he and Jeremy hadn’t completed their task? I had to delay him.

“I’m doing the same. This weather is so terrible it’s become frightening.” As if on cue, a loud clap of thunder sounded above us. “I don’t know how I shall ever hail a cab on my own.”

“Allow me to assist you,” he said.

“Would it—” I opened my eyes wide, then looked at the floor. “No, it would be too much to ask.”

“Ask,” he said.

“Would you be willing to escort me home? This weather is positively frightening.”

“It would be my pleasure,” he said.

Relieved, I waited in the building’s entrance while he secured a cab for us. As soon as I arrived, I’d have Davis send word to Ivy’s driver to return home. It was a stroke of luck that I hadn’t come in my own carriage.

My umbrella did little to keep me dry as I ran to the cab. The rain was hard as knives, and the wind was blowing it almost parallel to the street. Mr. Barnes helped me inside, then slammed the door behind us. When we reached Park Lane, I turned to him.

“Will you come inside for some tea?” I asked. “I hate to send you off in this weather unfortified.”

“That would be most appreciated, thank you.”

I felt completely on edge, desperate to keep him away from his house until late enough so that Colin and Jeremy were sure to be done. I realized this might be difficult, but felt I could use the storm as a means to persuade him to stay with me. My worrying reached its apex when, after he’d finished a single cup of tea, he excused himself.

“I must be on my way, Lady Emily.”

“Surely you’d like another cup?”

“No, I really mustn’t,” he said. “I’m having a small dinner party tonight and must get home to make sure it’s all properly organized. A bachelor’s household does not always run so well as it ought.”

“I understand,” I said, wishing I could feel relieved, but knowing his excuse was a lie. When I’d been waiting in Mr. Foster’s office, a gentleman I did not recognize had come in and asked the assistant if Mr. Foster would like to join him and Mr. Barnes for dinner that night at the Athenæum Club. My blood wouldn’t stop racing through my body. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Not necessary, I assure you. The tea has improved the afternoon immeasurably.”

“Let me order my carriage,” I said. “It won’t be easy to get a cab here at this time.” I leapt up before he could answer and went to my desk. “And you must let me give you my recipe for raspberry water ices—they’re incomparable and you simply must serve them tonight.”

He looked bewildered, but was not about to deny me my request. My request to give him the recipe, that is. I had no illusions about them being given to his nonexistent guests that evening. I wrote quickly, something that I hoped could be taken for a reasonable recipe—in fact I had no firm idea of how to make ices of any sort—and then pulled out a second piece of paper, and scratched another note. Making sure Mr. Barnes was not watching me, I folded it into small squares before returning to him with the recipe just as Davis entered the room.

“Madam?”

“Davis, Mr. Barnes will require the carriage,” I said. “And could you remove my teacup? There’s a smudge of something unsavory on it and I shall need another.” He crossed to me at once, and as I handed him the cup—which was perfectly fine—I slipped the note discreetly onto the saucer. He nodded acknowledgment.

“Will there be anything else, madam?”

“No, Davis, that is all,” I said. “Let us know when the carriage is ready.”

A few minutes later, Mr. Barnes had bade me good-bye. I watched the horses pull away.

“We’re all set now, madam,” Davis said. Helping me into my gabardine cloak and holding an umbrella above my head, he led me out of the house and around to the entrance to our mews, where a hansom cab waited for me. I ducked into it. The driver, who’d already had his orders from Davis, raced after my carriage with Mr. Barnes in it. I wanted to see where he was going.

Although he’d lied about his evening meal, he’d been truthful about his destination. When we rounded the corner that led to his house in Chelsea, near the river, I wondered if I’d overreacted. I peered out the window, trying to look around the coaches in front of us. I could just barely see him getting out of my carriage and starting up the steps to his town house as it pulled away. My cab inched forward, closer to the house, and my view improved. As he reached the top of the steps, he looked down and wavered on his feet.

The staggering lasted only for a moment, and he opened the door and went inside.

I was about to tell the driver to take me home when I noticed another cab sitting across the street. Its door opened, and Mr. Foster stepped out. The vehicle pulled away as he crossed to the house and bounded up the steps. Just as he lifted his hand to knock, he looked down and must have seen whatever had caused Mr. Barnes’s unsteadiness. He recoiled, then turned around too fast and fell partway back to the street. On the pavement, he regained his balance, but lost his umbrella. Not stopping to pick it up, he started to run. I shouted to the driver to follow him, then changed my mind. I could still see him at the end of the block, and changed tack. Making sure the driver would keep a close eye on him, I raced to the top of the steps to see what had caused his reaction.

The severed heads of three white roosters were sitting on the top step, blood mixing with the rain puddling around them. This must have been Colin’s doing.

Swallowing hard, I returned—now thoroughly soaked myself—to the cab. The driver set off at once in pursuit of Mr. Foster, who had raced out of Upper Cheyne Row and was heading for Chelsea Embankment. Once there, he hailed another cab, and proceeded west, following the Thames until we were almost upon the Houses of Parliament. There, the road moved slightly away from the riverbank. He turned into Broad Sanctuary, and alighted in front of Westminster Abbey.

Pursuing him had been particularly easy once he’d entered the cab. But now that he was back on foot, and heading into a church, it would be harder for me to remain undiscovered. I was confident in my abilities, though, as Colin had trained me in the art of following someone.

I kept my distance, counting to fifty in Greek before following him into the abbey. At first, I stayed close to the doors, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light. He was walking quickly, with purpose, through the nave towards the north transept. I started after him, watching carefully to ensure I was keeping perfect pace with him—our footsteps fell at exactly the same time. I paused, ducking behind an Elizabethan tomb as he approached Statesmen’s Aisle. The church was not crowded that afternoon, the weather having kept most people at home, and the corresponding solitude was not conducive to my current purpose. Poking my head around the stone monument, I watched as he veered back towards the center, passing the high altar.

Moving silently, I resumed my chase, but this time did not choose a course of direct pursuit. I could see he was nearing the steps that led to Henry VII’s Lady Chapel. Identifying a better vantage point for my purposes, I climbed up the short flight of stairs to the shrine of Edward the Confessor. From there, peeking around the tomb of Henry V, I could watch Mr. Foster below.

He walked along the rows of wooden seats for the members of the Order of Bath, stopping in front of the steps that led to the stalls in which the knights would sit while in chapel. He bounded up the stairs, turned to look around, no doubt confirming he was the only person within sight, then climbed onto one of the seats. Stretching, he reached to the canopy above, shoving his hand between spaces carved in the wood. He pulled something down, but I could not see what. Then, turning at the sound of voices coming from the chamber where Elizabeth I was buried, he climbed back down, straightened his jacket, and retraced his steps to the west door.

I followed, leaping into my waiting cab moments after his had pulled away. It was almost a disappointment when he reached his house and went inside.

I returned to the abbey, where I went straight to the Lady Chapel and climbed onto the same seat in the stalls Mr. Foster had. I could not, however, quite reach all the way to the opening in the carved canopy. Gripping the slender wooden post that divided the seats, I stepped onto the armrest. From here, though, the angle was difficult, but the additional height did prove helpful. I felt around as best I could, but there was nothing there.

“May I help you with something, madam?” a stern-looking priest said, bounding towards me.

“No, thank you,” I said, not moving from my perch. “Just enjoying the view.”

“Madam, would you please step down? You cannot climb in the chapels.”

“Right,” I said. “Of course. But how else is one to get a close look at these exquisite knights’ crests? I don’t suppose you have a ladder? I’m passionate about heraldic symbols.”

“Are you?” he asked, his mouth hanging open.

“Do you know much about them?”

“I don’t.”

“What a pity,” I said. “No ladder, then?”

“No, madam.”

I shook my head. “What a grave disappointment. I’d always preferred this place to St. Paul’s. Perhaps I should reevaluate.”