A Crimson Warning

I shuddered. And remembered that only a few hours earlier, I’d had the audacity to complain about the heat in a ballroom.

6 June 1893

Belgrave Square, London

How quickly things change! I was pleased when Colin asked Robert and me to bring Emily home from the Londonderrys’ ball. Not because Colin had been called away for work, but because I was looking forward to quiet time with my dearest friend and discussing all the gossip of the night. Polly Sanders has all my sympathy, and I do wish there was something I could do to secure her happiness. But the moment Colin arrived with his dreadful news, Polly’s plight seemed utterly insignificant.

I felt almost paralyzed when he told us Mr. Dillman had been murdered. Emily was equally affected, though she retained her composure better than I. She’s more experienced in such matters. But I know she gets little crinkles that creep around her eyes when she’s upset, and I saw enough of them tonight to tell me I was not alone in my reaction. I hope I never see enough of this sort of brutality to control my emotional response. To acquire such strength would swallow who I am.

Poor, poor Cordelia. When I think of what she must be feeling I can’t help but cry. Robert says it’s unbecoming to take on someone else’s misery, and I’m certain he’s right, yet I can’t find a way to stop. I remember the joy that consumed me as I became a wife. Cordelia will never feel that. Even if, years from now, she finds affection somewhere else, how could she ever escape a constant dread that her happiness is about to be ripped away from her?

I suppose it can happen to any of us, at anytime. I feel so fortunate to have escaped a similar fate. My husband languished in prison, but only for a relatively short period of time (although at the time it did not seem so). He wasn’t taken from me forever, he was returned to me, and now I’ve the sweetest daughter on earth. What does one do to deserve such luck?

I’m off to see Emily now. She’s persuaded me—much against my will—to accompany her to some dreadful meeting. I never could refuse her anything. I have two hopes: one, that it won’t last too long; two, that it is more interesting than Latin. Surely the latter is a certitude.

2

Violent death was no stranger to me. In the past few years, I’d been intimately involved in apprehending four heinous murderers, one of whom had killed my first husband, Philip, the Viscount Ashton. Only a year ago in Normandy, I’d found the brutalized body of a young girl, and had been kidnapped and cruelly tormented by her killer, whose subsequent trial and execution had enthralled Britain and the Continent. Try though I might to shake the images of these ghastly events from my mind, I found I could not do so, and now the news of Mr. Dillman’s death was taking its own gruesome hold on me.

“We were dancing, Colin,” I said. “Dancing.”

“It’s a disturbing contrast, I agree,” he said, smearing ginger marmalade on a piece of toast. We were sitting next to each other at the round table in our sunny breakfast room. On the bright yellow walls hung a Roman mosaic, an emblema, its tiny pieces of glass carefully laid out to depict an elaborate scene of Apollo driving his golden chariot across the sky, sunbeams streaming from the crown on the god’s head. I’d purchased it in a small village near Pompeii, and promised the British Museum I would eventually donate it to them. I couldn’t yet bring myself to part with it.

“More than disturbing, I’d say.”

“There’s nothing to be done about it, Emily,” Colin said. “You’ll drive yourself mad if you keep tally of such things. Not everything in London is gaiety and balls.”

“I’m well aware of that,” I said. “I—”

He reached for my hand and interrupted me, his dark eyes fixated on mine. “I know you are, my dear. Forgive me if you thought I was implying otherwise. I know how well suited you are to our work.”

“Thank you,” I said, squeezing his hand back. “You can’t believe Mr. Dillman was killed by one of his employees? He treated them far too well for any of them to want to do him harm.”

“We can’t rule anything out at this stage of the investigation.”

“You wouldn’t have been called in if they thought this was some sort of common crime.”

“Quite right, Emily.” He smiled. “And that’s all I can say at the moment. What do you have planned for today?”

I studied his handsome countenance, taking careful note of the intensity in his eyes and decided not to pursue the subject further. Not yet, at any rate. I capitulated and moved to another topic. “Your mother wrangled Ivy and me invitations to this morning’s meeting of the Women’s Liberal Federation.”

“And you’re going?”

“Yes. First, because you’ve made it clear you don’t need my help with this investigation. Second, because I’d like your mother to feel pleasantly disposed towards me when she moves back to England. But most important, because I’m being brought round to the idea that I should have the vote.” I sat up a little straighter and pushed my plate away from me.

“Heaven help us. Next thing you know, you’ll want to stand for Parliament.”

“You’d object?”

“They’d be lucky to have you,” he said. I questioned his sincerity, but appreciated that he did not outright balk at the suggestion. “But what would your mother say?”

“More like what will she say,” I said. “To her, the mere act of considering the possibility of getting the vote for women is anathema. I’ll live out the remainder of my days in disgrace. He who submits to fate without complaint is wise.” I swallowed my last drop of tea.

“Epictetus?” Colin asked.

“Euripides,” I said.

“Ah. At any rate, disgrace is a powerful motivator, to be sure. Which interests you more: casting a vote or scandalizing your mother?”

I folded my napkin neatly and placed it on the table. “Isn’t it marvelous when two noble causes can be addressed in one fell swoop?”

Davis stepped into the room. “Mrs. Brandon is here, madam,” he said.

Ivy entered the room in a swish of silk, her skin glowing with the flush of summer heat. “Good morning,” she said as she gave her hand to Colin. “You don’t mind that we’re doing this, do you?”

“Not at all,” he said. “I always believed it was only a question of time before Emily became a suffragette. In fact, I’ve known it longer than she has. I do, however, draw the line at her chaining herself to the gate at Downing Street.”

“He keeps insisting it will come to that,” I said to Ivy. “But I can’t imagine anyone would ever do such a ludicrous thing.”

“It would make a powerful statement,” Colin said. “Don’t, however, take it as a suggestion. Enjoy your meeting.” He kissed me and picked up the Times.

I adjusted my straw hat, Homburg shape with a large brim, and we set off for Lady Carlisle’s house in Kensington. Crossing Park Lane, we entered the sprawling expanse of Hyde Park at the Grosvenor Gate and made our way along crowded paths shaded by towering trees. Sunshine and warm weather had brought most of society outside, and the park was a favorite gathering place on summer mornings. All around us, couples tilted their heads close together as fearsome chaperones walked beside them, ready to poke with well-placed parasols any overeager gentlemen. Friends waved to us, calling out greetings, but we had no time to stop and chat.

Until we saw Winifred Harris.

I would have liked to pretend not to have noticed her, but the figure she cut was too imposing to miss, not only due to her larger-than-average height and girth, but also because of her booming voice. I walked faster, but to no avail.