A Crimson Warning

“Lady Musgrave will not be pleased.”

She was not. We took her downstairs, pressed a stiff drink into her hands, and told her our conclusions. She ranted, pounding her fists on a table, and stamping her feet. “It can’t be! It can’t be! You must tell everyone he was murdered and the crime so well committed it can’t be solved. That sort of thing happens all the time!”

“I’m afraid it doesn’t, Lady Musgrave,” Colin said. “I’ve sent for the coroner. He will examine the body in more detail—”

“So you could be wrong, then?”

“I’m afraid not. You yourself admit you heard nothing suspicious in the house tonight.”

“We could be dealing with an extremely clever villain, Mr. Hargreaves,” she said. “Perhaps one of my own servants. Do you think I should dismiss them all?”

“I wouldn’t,” I said. “You’ll only provide more fodder for gossip.”

“You’re right, you’re right, I know you’re right. How could he do this to me?” Her angry desperation faded as her eyes grew moist. “Leave me alone to face whatever he’s done to incite this red-paint maniac?”

“You’re sure it was something he did?” Colin asked.

“Of course I am.” She pursed her lips. “I have made a special point of leading a life free from reproof. It’s been tedious in the extreme and, as a result, I shouldn’t be left to deal with someone else’s mess.”

“Have you any idea what he did?” I asked.

“No.” She dabbed her eyes with a lacy handkerchief. “He was extremely discreet in his private life. We’ve been married nearly thirty years and have become somewhat distant. He must have had some sort of mistress. The usual sort of thing. Nothing interesting enough to have drawn such attention.”

Colin’s eyes clouded for just an instant. “Lady Musgrave, would you object to my sifting through your husband’s papers? Just in case there’s something significant to be found.”

“Evidence that he was murdered?” she asked.

“No, I’m afraid there’s no chance of that,” he said. “But if I can discover what he was trying to hide, I’ll do whatever’s possible to minimize the scandal.”

“I would appreciate that, Mr. Hargreaves,” she said. “And I know I can trust you. My husband spoke so highly of you.” She lowered her voice. “He told me what you did during the Anderson business.”

“Did he?” His face was all composure, but I noticed a trace of color creeping up his neck. He lowered his eyes and brushed nonexistent lint from his sleeve, not meeting my inquiring stare.

“Like him, I’m all discretion,” she said. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“Would you object to my starting now?” Colin asked, the words tumbling from his mouth in a rush before I could inquire about the Andersons. “His study would probably be the best place.”

“Go right ahead. Through that door, cross three rooms. It will be the second door on your left. Your wife and I can chat while you work,” she said. “I wouldn’t want her sullied by anything untoward you might find.”

Personally, I would have happily observed—and assisted in—the discovery of anything untoward, but I didn’t see how I could impose myself given Lady Musgrave’s wishes. Colin returned less than a quarter of an hour later.

“Your husband’s desk is completely empty aside from a handful of pens and pencils, Lady Musgrave,” he said. “The fireplace shows evidence of a large number of papers having been burned.”

12 June 1893

Belgrave Square, London

I came dangerously close to confessing all my sins to Emily this morning when we were riding. She asked if I’d heard any rumors about Colin’s involvement in some business involving a family called Anderson. I haven’t, and know nothing. If only Anderson weren’t such a common name; I can think of at least six families called that. I could see Emily is worried, most likely because she’s as afraid as I am of facing scandal.

Perhaps that’s not quite true. She wouldn’t be as afraid as I am. Why would she be? She hasn’t done anything wrong herself. It’s Colin she’s worried about. His work must be fraught with situations the public could find questionable. He’s so honorable I can’t imagine he’s done anything in his personal life he’d want to hide, although my friends would assume the same about me. Maybe there is something it would be better if Emily didn’t know.

I guess the truth is we never know every detail about another person.

I asked Robert if he knew anything about the Andersons. He had nothing to say on the subject.

10

Even Colin’s best efforts couldn’t keep the story of Lord Musgrave’s suicide from the greedy hands of every tabloid editor in London. A parlor maid, eager for additional cash, spilled what she knew to the Daily Post, and the whole town eagerly digested the gory truth. The report painted the girl in a favorable light, explaining she had betrayed the confidence of her employers only so she might afford desperately necessary medical treatment for her ailing mother. On the streets of Mayfair, her decision was greeted with derision, but the less fortunate residents of our glorious capital felt somewhat different. What kind of society required an honest working-class girl to sink to such levels to acquire something they felt should be a basic right? I found myself firmly on the side of the less fortunate.

“You’ll forgive my amusement,” Lady Glover said. She’d called on me as soon as she’d read the news. “It’s bad of me, I know, but can you blame the poor girl? Musgrave should have better looked after his servants. His wife—widow—won’t make the same mistake, poor woman. But I didn’t come to discuss any of this, Lady Emily. I want to talk to you about our friend, the singular painter. I believe he’s left me a clue to his identity.”

“Has he?” I asked, leaning forward. She unfolded a sheet of paper she’d pulled from her reticule and passed it to me. I read aloud. “My soul is full of discord and dismay.” A red swish of paint underlined the text.

“Hamlet,” she said.

“Yes.” I examined the page for any additional marks. There were none. “Was it delivered in an envelope?”

“No, just folded and sealed and left on my doorstep.”

“When?”

“I found it when I returned from driving my zebras through the park this morning.”

“And I take it no one saw who delivered it?”

“Alas, no.” Her smile cloyed with insincere sweetness.

“What in it makes you suspect the author’s identity?”

“The red paint, of course.”

“I don’t mean that. I understand it appears to have been written by our villain. But does anything in it give you a clue as to whom you think he might be?”

“Someone who knows his Shakespeare, and who writes in a superior hand,” she said. “I thought you’d like to see it.”

“You were right,” I said, disappointed that she could offer no further insight. “Did you notice any markings on the sealing wax?” Little of it remained to be examined.

“I honestly didn’t think to look until it was too late,” she said. “I assumed it was a letter of a more romantic nature. That’s the sort of thing to which I’m accustomed. I was thinking I’d reply to him.”

“You were?” I asked. “How?”

“Well, I’ll send back an appropriate quote. Maybe something from Romeo and Juliet. Or is that too frivolous?”

“How would you have it delivered to him?”

“I’ll leave it on my doorstep just as he did,” she said. “It’s common practice when dealing with a gentleman