to Cordelia. If this man has moved Lady Glover to another location, he’s more likely to have decided to kill her. This is the time to follow up on every lead as thoroughly as possible.” We’d reached my house. Jeremy offered to come in and sit with me, but I declined. Instead, I went inside alone, then sank down, sitting on the steps in the entrance hall as Davis closed the door behind him.
“Where is Mr. Hargreaves, Davis?” I asked.
“He hasn’t returned to the house tonight since he left with Mrs. Brandon, madam,” he said.
“And he’s sent no word?”
“No, madam. I’m sorry.”
With a sigh, I retired to bed.
I hardly slept that night. Colin slipped into the room as the sun was beginning to rise. He was quiet, assuming, I’m sure, that I was asleep, but I sat up the instant he opened the door.
“Sorry to disturb,” he said. “Are you all right? Davis said—”
“Davis shouldn’t even be awake,” I said. “Where have you been?”
“With Foster. Tell me what happened.”
“I want to hear from you first,” I said.
“I’ll humor you, but only because Davis has already assured me your health is fine,” he said. “Foster doesn’t have any idea of what’s going on in that factory.”
“You can’t believe that,” I said.
“I do. I approached him from every considerable angle, and he didn’t squirm at all. He’s got no clue there’s anything untoward that could come out about him.”
“Did you tell him what we saw there?”
He hesitated, only for a single breath. “No. I thought it best not to yet.”
“Why?” I asked. My head was spinning, and not because I’d been whacked on it. I couldn’t believe for a second they hadn’t talked about it. “He owns the place from whence our attackers came. How can you trust him?”
“We’ll discuss it later,” he said. “I’m worried about you. Tell me everything.”
I did, but with little enthusiasm. I wanted to know what he was hiding from me.
“You’re confident it was Lady Glover in the lodge?” he asked.
“I can’t prove it,” I said. “But the place must be searched as soon as possible.”
“I’ve no doubt Scotland Yard have the matter well in hand. I’ll check in with them as soon as I’ve changed my clothes.”
He rang for his valet and stepped into the dressing room. I followed him.
“You should stay in bed,” he said.
“There’s no need. I feel perfectly fine. My head doesn’t even hurt anymore.” This was true. Doubt in one’s spouse apparently had miraculous healing powers. “I want to hear more about what Mr. Foster had to say.”
“There’s nothing else to tell, Emily. It was a thoroughly underwhelming conversation.”
“Then why did you stay so long?” I asked.
“He pulled out an exceptional whisky and we got to trading stories about school.”
I looked at him through narrowed eyes. “How foolish do you think I am?”
“Not foolish in the least.”
“You’re on notice, Colin Hargreaves,” I said. “I know you’re hiding something from me, and I don’t like it one bit.”
“You know perfectly well I can’t tell you everything,” he said. “Don’t be cross. I will give you one thing. Mr. Stanbury, whose house was splashed with red paint some time ago, owns a significant interest in the match factory.”
“Have you spoken to him about it?”
“I will today.”
I rang for Meg and asked her to bring me breakfast. I wanted to be at the British Museum the moment it opened, and didn’t have time to dillydally. With Colin remaining adamant about keeping the details of his chat with Mr. Foster private, I half wished I had something to bash him on the head with. I had a strong suspicion what he was hiding from me had nothing to do with Crown secrets. From what I had overheard, it had everything to do with two men planning something underhanded.
“You’re going to let Mr. Foster hide his role in this, aren’t you?” I asked as I prepared to leave for the museum. “Because you agree with his political views? Maybe let Mr. Stanbury take the fall?”
“I told you, Emily, I’m not discussing it.”
“Fine,” I said. “I will respect that, though I don’t like it at all. But you need to tell me how all this fits into the case we are currently investigating. Is he involved?”
“It’s highly unlikely.”
“Really?” I asked. “So did he murder Mr. Dillman—or have someone murder Mr. Dillman—to keep the evidence out of the public eye? And the red paint was just a coincidence?”
“You’re following a very dangerous line of speculation,” he said. “This situation is more complicated than it appears at first glance. I’m not convinced Mr. Foster knows anything about the factory. For now, we’ll have to leave it at that.”
“He owns it,” I said. “How can you believe he knows nothing about it? I don’t, not for a minute. And until you tell me something that points me definitively in another direction, I’m going to pursue every possibility. Including this one.”
When I reached the museum, Mr. May, to whom I’d sent a note almost as soon as I’d woke up, was already waiting for me. We went to his office, where I unwrapped the bottle for him. He took it from me, handling it gingerly. “I’ve not seen anything quite like it,” he said. “It’s primitive and contemporary at the same time.”
“But you think it’s modern?” I asked.
“The bottle dates from before 1850, I’d say. See this?” He turned it up so I could look at a rough round scar on the base. “That’s a pontil mark, made by the rod the glassblower would use to hold the piece when it was finished. They’re not made that way any longer. The bottoms are more smooth now.”
“And what of the objects inside?”
“A toad, a spider, nails—that may or may not have been rusty when placed inside—and muddy water.” He rolled the bottle in his hands as he itemized everything he saw.
“Was the water muddy to start, or did it get dirty from the nails and the toad?”
“It was muddy to start,” he said. “There’s too much muck on the bottom and sides to have come from even an extremely dirty toad.”
“What does it mean?”
“I’m not certain, but it appears to be some sort of primitive religious charm. African, perhaps. It could be meant to offer protection.”
“Would anyone else in the museum have a better idea of what religion, specifically?”
“We could speak to the keeper who handles ethnography in his collections. He may know more.”
Mr. May fetched the man from his office, who then studied the bottle for a good ten minutes before speaking.
“I certainly don’t recognize it,” he said. “Sorry not to be more helpful. The only thing it brings to mind is voodoo, the sort practiced by some people in the West Indies. I agree with you, May, about the age. It’s not new.”
“What would such a thing be used for?” I asked. “Mr. May suspects it’s meant to provide protection?”
“Again, I’m not an expert. But I could well imagine that a person who hid it with sensitive papers—as you said it was when you found it—would have wanted something he believed would offer protection. If, that is, he dabbled in such things.”
“Thank you, both of you,” I said. “This has been immensely useful.”
“I’m so pleased, Lady Emily,” Mr. May said. “And if you learn anything else about the bottle, would you let me know? I’d be fascinated to hear more details.”
