“No!” Mrs. Dalton said. “We can’t—”
“No more of that,” Colin said. “There’s no time to be wasted. We need all the resources and help we can get. Send for them, Emily. And when they arrive, have a team meet me at the warehouse.”
“I’m going with you,” Mr. Dalton said.
His wife stepped forward. “Oh no, you’re not,” she said. “I’ll not lose you, too.”
There was no further discussion of the topic.
The men from Scotland Yard arrived quickly and were soon dispatched in three groups: one went to search the Daltons’ house, one upstairs to interview Cordelia’s parents, and the last set off to rendezvous with Colin. When they’d finished speaking with the Daltons, I returned upstairs, opening the door to Mr. Dalton’s room as quietly as possible in case he was trying to sleep. He was sitting bolt upright in bed, his wife on a chair next to him, crying.
“I do wish there was something I could do to ease your worry,” I said.
“There’s nothing to be done,” she said. “My poor girl.”
“At least we know she’s alive,” I said. “Surely that offers some hope.”
“A little,” Mrs. Dalton said. “But the note they left doesn’t inspire confidence.”
“They may have just been trying to instill fear. How did Cordelia seem?” I asked Mr. Dalton. “Was she in the room with you for long?”
“Not at all,” Mr. Dalton said. “They dragged her past me once and that was it.”
“Did she appear to be in good health?” I asked.
“Generally, yes, but she was upset,” he said. “Still wearing the same dress she’d had on the day he took her. She kept trying to call out for me, but they had a gag in her mouth. I couldn’t do anything for her.” He choked on a sob, then sniffed, then composed himself.
“My husband will do everything possible to find her,” I said.
“Why would anyone do this?” Mrs. Dalton asked. “What can he possibly think Cordelia has?”
“I wish I knew,” I said. “We’ll search through all her things again and through all of Mr. Dillman’s. If there’s anything significant, we will find it.”
“But you’ve already done that,” Mrs. Dalton said. “And it amounted to nothing. I cannot bear this feeling of helplessness.”
“We shall look again, and harder,” I said. “There’s nothing else to be done. But don’t lose faith. It’s entirely possible Colin’s already found something of use in the warehouse.”
“There’s nothing there but charred ruins,” Mr. Dalton said.
“Countless things could be lost in them,” I said. “Possibly even something Mr. Dillman had hidden before the fire.”
“Wouldn’t it have burned?” Mrs. Dalton asked.
“That depends upon what it was made of. We’re not necessarily looking for paper,” I said. “And if it is there, Colin will find it. You can depend upon that.”
19
I woke up the following morning cramped and uncomfortable, having fallen asleep in the library waiting for Colin, who hadn’t returned during the night. I stretched my aching muscles as I rose from the settee and was about to ring for Davis when I saw him standing against the wall near the room’s front windows.
“Have you been there all night?” I asked.
“Yes, madam,” he said. “My instructions were to keep an eye on you. In the circumstances, I thought keeping two eyes on you would be preferable. Would you like to change your dress before breakfast?”
“Has Mr. Hargreaves sent any messages?”
“No, madam.”
“Are the Daltons awake?”
“Mrs. Dalton has breakfasted,” he said. “I sent a tray to her. She’s upstairs with her husband, who is still asleep. I’ve had the footmen report to me every hour so I would not have to leave you alone.”
“I don’t know how I’d ever manage without you,” I said.
“Thank you, madam.”
I went to my room, rang for Meg, and readied myself for the rest of the day. Once dressed, I checked on our guests—Mr. Dalton hadn’t stirred—and went to the breakfast room. Cook, who always refused to alter her menus because of what she called “Mr. Hargreaves’s business obligations,” had laden the sideboard with enough dishes to feed half of Park Lane. I took a plate and piled some buttered eggs on it, along with deviled chicken and some strawberries, but the fact was I had little appetite. I moved the eggs around with my fork, then took a slice of toast from the silver rack on the table and reached for the marmalade.
“I do hope you can manage to apply yourself with some enthusiasm,” Davis said, coming in with the morning mail. “Cook was in a state this morning when she saw how few of her tea cakes had been consumed last night. I’m certain you don’t want to cause her further distress over her eggs.”
As I scooped up a bite, Colin joined me. His evening kit was covered with dust and grime, and dark shadows smudged deep under his eyes.
“We searched his house, hers, and the warehouse. Sifted through every inch of ash,” he said. “This is all we found.” He handed me a golden locket hanging from a thin chain. I snapped it open to reveal a lock of hair and a miniature portrait of Mr. Dillman.
“Have you pulled the portrait out?” I asked.
“Yes, there’s nothing behind it. I suspect Cordelia was wearing it yesterday, as it exhibits no signs of having been through the fire.”
“Her parents would know, surely. Shall we ask them?”
I abandoned my plate and went upstairs, where we showed the Daltons what Colin had found. Cordelia’s mother nearly choked.
“She never took it off,” she said.
“So she was wearing it the day she was taken?” Colin asked.
“Yes, I’m certain of it.”
“Was it a gift from Mr. Dillman?” I asked.
“No, her father and I gave it to her on her birthday last year,” Mrs. Dalton said. Her husband, his face even more swollen this morning, did his best to nod in agreement.
“When did she add the portrait and the lock of hair?” I asked.
“That I don’t precisely know,” Mrs. Dalton said. “Do you think she dropped it on purpose yesterday?”
“I couldn’t say.” Colin handed the oval pendant back to me, and I set myself to examining it again. Its front was engraved with flowers, the back smooth and clean. Inside, nothing looked out of the ordinary.
“Will you excuse me?” I asked. “I have a thought and need a magnifying glass.”
Colin followed at once. “There’s nothing there, Emily. I checked thoroughly. Even magnified the portrait, front and back.”
“I’m not interested in the portrait,” I said, opening the door to the library and crossing to my desk. I opened the center drawer as I sat down, and pulled out a penknife and a magnifying glass. Using extreme care, I removed the lock of hair with the penknife, tugging gently at the tiny bits of narrow ribbon holding the strands together until the knots became undone. I put the hair in an envelope, not wanting to lose any of it, and smoothed the ribbon flat in front of me.
“I checked,” he said. “There’s nothing behind the hair, or anything hidden in it, either.”
Then I picked up the magnifying glass.
“A long series of numbers,” I said. “It’s written on the inside of the ribbon.”
“Well done, Emily,” Colin said. “I dismissed it as being too narrow. A careless mistake.”
“You’ve been up all night. You couldn’t have been thinking clearly.”
“That’s no excuse. Good thing I have you, eh?”
