“I’m afraid not,” Mr. Blake said. “We communicated only by mail.”
“You have his address?”
“I was to reach him care of the Camden Town post office.”
“Of course,” Colin said. “I’ll need to know how to get in contact with you—no post offices and don’t even consider running off. You’re not finished with this incident.” He pulled out the papers he always carried that identified him as an agent of the Crown.
Mr. Blake nodded. “Whatever you say.” He scribbled down an address and handed it to my husband. “I’ve nothing to hide and am happy to help.”
“That will be all for now,” Colin said. “Expect to hear from me again soon.”
“Fair enough,” Mr. Blake said. “Must say I’m feeling a bit of a genius for having insisted on being paid in advance. Sorry to have bungled things for you ladies.” With another bow, he left the room.
Colin put his hands on the back of a chair and leaned forward, facing Mrs. Fanning and Lady Althway. “Forgive me for having to be so direct, and for having to broach such a sensitive subject, but I’m afraid I have no option. These things Blake accused Croft of are true? You are—were—both involved with him?”
“So it seems,” Lady Althway said. Mrs. Fanning remained silent, tears pooling in her eyes.
“I’m sorry you’ve been so badly treated,” he said.
There was nothing left for us to do. The ladies would have to face the unpleasant task of dealing with their husbands. Our villain had exacted another round of revenge.
9
While the Fannings and Althways struggled with the revelations of the previous evening, the rest of London waited, wondering when the Musgraves and Riddingtons would see their secrets exposed. Colin and I, longing for a quiet night at home away from rumor and gossip, planned an elegant dinner for ourselves. Settled into our dining room, which had been modeled on banqueting chambers found in ancient Roman villas, mosaics covering all the walls, we started with asparagus soup. Then salmon, followed by curried eggs and sweetbreads (I despised them, but my husband’s opinion was quite the opposite), lobster cutlets, then capon with ham and green peas. We skipped the game course—it seemed too hot for it to me—and prepared to move straight to sweets.
Just as the footmen were clearing to make way for our final course, Davis entered the room, his head bowed, his expression serious. He crossed straight to my husband.
“Sir, your presence is urgently required in the blue drawing room.”
Colin folded his napkin and placed it on the table. I moved to follow him.
Davis cleared his throat. Colin raised his eyebrows.
“If I may speak, sir?” Davis asked.
“Of course, Davis,” Colin said.
“Madam may prefer to remain where she is.”
I needed no further motivation. I sprung from my chair and followed my husband. Davis did not hide his displeasure, walking more stiffly than ever as he took us to the sitting room. I knew him well enough to understand he wasn’t prone to overreaction, and that the dear man was only trying to protect me. He hesitated before opening the door to the sitting room. Colin nodded at him, and with a sigh, our butler ushered us inside.
A shaking, liveried servant jumped to his feet, nearly dropping the brandy snifter in his hand. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “Mr. Davis said it would be all right—”
“If Davis saw it fit to install you in the sitting room and give you brandy, he must have had an excellent reason for doing so,” I said. “We never question his judgment. Do sit back down.”
I took a chair across from him; Colin remained standing.
“Please identify yourself,” he said.
“I am Lord Musgrave’s valet, sir. I’ve come on his behalf … well, not precisely. He’s dead, sir, taken his own life.”
Air flew into my lungs. The newspapers were all keeping close track of which families in town had suffered vandalism on the fronts of their homes—and equally close track of whether their secrets had yet to be revealed. Weeks had gone by since red paint marked the Musgraves, but so far, no one had discovered why they had been targeted.
“It’s a dreadful scene, sir. Blood everywhere.”
“Who found him?” Colin asked.
“I did, sir.” The man looked longingly at his brandy. “He’d been in the bath rather longer than usual. I went to inquire if he needed more hot water. The door was locked, and I could raise no response from my master.”
“How did you open the door?” I asked.
“I’ve a key to the room,” he said.
“Have you summoned the police?” Colin asked.
“No, sir. Not yet. Lady Musgrave wanted you first, and asked me to fetch you. Will you come?”
“Of course,” he said. “Emily, I’ll need your help with the lady of the house.”
We piled into the waiting carriage and made our way to the Musgraves’ house in Cadogan Place, not far from Sloane Square. Lights gleamed from every window of the façade, as if they’d been lit in an attempt to deny the grisly event that had just occurred. A dour butler threw open the door before we’d reached it. Lady Musgrave, appearing from behind him, waved her arms frantically.
“Inside, quickly, quickly, please!” she said. “We’ve no time to lose.”
Colin took the lead and bolted to her. “Is Lord Musgrave in need of medical attention? I was under the impression—”
“No, no,” she said. “Nothing of the sort. But you must come upstairs at once and tell me who murdered him.” She took his arm and wrenched him forward. I followed, nearly tripping as I ran up the two flights of stairs that led to Lord Musgrave’s bedchamber.
Lady Musgrave’s earnest pace slowed once we’d crossed the threshold of the room. “He’s through there,” she said, motioning across the room to an open door. Colin strode ahead, stopping me before I could take a single step.
“Let me go first,” he said.
“It’s all a terrible mistake, you see,” Lady Musgrave said to me once he’d disappeared from our sight. “His valet said he’d done a harm to himself, but that can’t possibly be true. And even if it were, imagine the scandal! It’s simply unacceptable.”
How does one reply to such statements? I was saved from finding out by my husband’s return. “Emily? Are you up to it?”
I nodded and went to him. We passed through Lord Musgrave’s dressing room into a small chamber containing the man’s bath. In the tub, submerged to the neck in bright red water, was the man of the house, an ugly gash slicing his jugular. I looked away.
“Oh.” It was all I could manage.
“You’ve seen worse,” Colin said, and I appreciated both his confidence in me and his recognition of what I’d done in the past. “I can’t identify any signs of a struggle. The instrument of his destruction is in the tub.”
I forced my eyes back to the scene and saw the straight razor still in the dead man’s hand.
“Is there anything to suggest it wasn’t suicide?” I asked.
“No. The door was locked from the inside. None of the windows appears to have been opened.”
I circled the room, studying everything. “There’s dust on the sills,” I said. “No one has touched them in weeks—particularly the maids.”
“I’ll question the servants just to be sure no one heard anything suspicious,” Colin said. “But the conclusion seems obvious.”
“He certainly had motivation.” I frowned. “He preferred death to facing disgrace when his secret was exposed.”
“What a terrible waste,” Colin said. “He’s only heaped more scandal on his family.”
