“Madam?”
“Davis, Mr. Barnes will require the carriage,” I said. “And could you remove my teacup? There’s a smudge of something unsavory on it and I shall need another.” He crossed to me at once, and as I handed him the cup— which was perfectly fine—I slipped the note discreetly onto the saucer. He nodded acknowledgment.
“Will there be anything else, madam?”
“No, Davis, that is all,” I said. “Let us know when the carriage is ready.”
A few minutes later, Mr. Barnes had bade me good-bye. I watched the horses pull away.
“We’re all set now, madam,” Davis said. Helping me into my gabardine cloak and holding an umbrella above my head, he led me out of the house and around to the entrance to our mews, where a hansom cab waited for me. I ducked into it. The driver, who’d already had his orders from Davis, raced after my carriage with Mr. Barnes in it. I wanted to see where he was going.
Although he’d lied about his evening meal, he’d been truthful about his destination. When we rounded the corner that led to his house in Chelsea, near the river, I wondered if I’d overreacted. I peered out the window, trying to look around the coaches in front of us. I could just barely see him getting out of my carriage and starting up the steps to his town house as it pulled away. My cab inched forward, closer to the house, and my view improved. As he reached the top of the steps, he looked down and wavered on his feet.
The staggering lasted only for a moment, and he opened the door and went inside.
I was about to tell the driver to take me home when I noticed another cab sitting across the street. Its door opened, and Mr. Foster stepped out. The vehicle pulled away as he crossed to the house and bounded up the steps. Just as he lifted his hand to knock, he looked down and must have seen whatever had caused Mr. Barnes’s unsteadiness. He recoiled, then turned around too fast and fell partway back to the street. On the pavement, he regained his balance, but lost his umbrella. Not stopping to pick it up, he started to run. I shouted to the driver to follow him, then changed my mind. I could still see him at the end of the block, and changed tack. Making sure the driver would keep a close eye on him, I raced to the top of the steps to see what had caused his reaction.
The severed heads of three white roosters were sitting on the top step, blood mixing with the rain puddling around them. This must have been Colin’s doing.
Swallowing hard, I returned—now thoroughly soaked myself—to the cab. The driver set off at once in pursuit of Mr. Foster, who had raced out of Upper Cheyne Row and was heading for Chelsea Embankment. Once there, he hailed another cab, and proceeded west, following the Thames until we were almost upon the Houses of Parliament. There, the road moved slightly away from the riverbank. He turned into Broad Sanctuary, and alighted in front of Westminster Abbey.
Pursuing him had been particularly easy once he’d entered the cab. But now that he was back on foot, and heading into a church, it would be harder for me to remain undiscovered. I was confident in my abilities, though, as Colin had trained me in the art of following someone.
I kept my distance, counting to fifty in Greek before following him into the abbey. At first, I stayed close to the doors, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light. He was walking quickly, with purpose, through the nave towards the north transept. I started after him, watching carefully to ensure I was keeping perfect pace with him—our footsteps fell at exactly the same time. I paused, ducking behind an Elizabethan tomb as he approached Statesmen’s Aisle. The church was not crowded that afternoon, the weather having kept most people at home, and the corresponding solitude was not conducive to my current purpose. Poking my head around the stone monument, I watched as he veered back towards the center, passing the high altar.
Moving silently, I resumed my chase, but this time did not choose a course of direct pursuit. I could see he was nearing the steps that led to Henry VII’s Lady Chapel. Identifying a better vantage point for my purposes, I climbed up the short flight of stairs to the shrine of Edward the Confessor. From there, peeking around the tomb of Henry V, I could watch Mr. Foster below.
He walked along the rows of wooden seats for the members of the Order of Bath, stopping in front of the steps that led to the stalls in which the knights would sit while in chapel. He bounded up the stairs, turned to look around, no doubt confirming he was the only person within sight, then climbed onto one of the seats. Stretching, he reached to the canopy above, shoving his hand between spaces carved in the wood. He pulled something down, but I could not see what. Then, turning at the sound of voices coming from the chamber where Elizabeth I was buried, he climbed back down, straightened his jacket, and retraced his steps to the west door.
I followed, leaping into my waiting cab moments after his had pulled away. It was almost a disappointment when he reached his house and went inside.
I returned to the abbey, where I went straight to the Lady Chapel and climbed onto the same seat in the stalls Mr. Foster had. I could not, however, quite reach all the way to the opening in the carved canopy. Gripping the slender wooden post that divided the seats, I stepped onto the armrest. From here, though, the angle was difficult, but the additional height did prove helpful. I felt around as best I could, but there was nothing there.
“May I help you with something, madam?” a stern-looking priest said, bounding towards me.
“No, thank you,” I said, not moving from my perch. “Just enjoying the view.”
“Madam, would you please step down? You cannot climb in the chapels.”
“Right,” I said. “Of course. But how else is one to get a close look at these exquisite knights’ crests? I don’t suppose you have a ladder? I’m passionate about heraldic symbols.”
“Are you?” he asked, his mouth hanging open.
“Do you know much about them?”
“I don’t.”
“What a pity,” I said. “No ladder, then?”
“No, madam.”
I shook my head. “What a grave disappointment. I’d always preferred this place to St. Paul’s. Perhaps I should reevaluate.”
35
I was the last one to arrive back in Park Lane, and I had to change my dress before I could join Colin, Jeremy, and Ivy, all of whom, Davis informed me, had arrived more than an hour ago. Meg helped me dry off and pull on a Liberty gown. I drained three cups of tea in rapid succession and, beginning at last to feel warm again, I descended to the library.
“Ivy’s told us about the triumphant morning the two of you had,” Colin said.
I pulled my favorite chair close to the fire, which hadn’t been lit in weeks because of the heat. How quickly rain can change things. “She was brilliant.”
“You were,” Ivy said. “You thought of everything to say.”
“But there would have been no veracity to anything I’d said if you hadn’t supported me,” I said. “She wouldn’t have even admitted me to her house.”
“Did you collect the evidence from the Glovers’?” Colin asked.
“We did, and don’t think for a minute I’m showing it to you,” I said. “It’s obscene.”
“Do you really believe I—” He stopped, rubbed his chin. “No, there’s nothing I can say here, is there?”
“We both know—” Jeremy stopped. “We both know nothing about, well, nothing.”
Colin scowled at him.
“Right,” Jeremy said. “And even if we did know anything about those sorts of … evidence, did you call it? Even if we knew, we wouldn’t be interested in seeing it.”
“Don’t consider a career on the stage, Jeremy,” I said. “Have we heard anything more from Winifred?”
“Not that we know of,” Colin said.
“How about Mr. Foster?” Ivy asked.
“I’ve planted the necessary seeds,” I said. “I also saw Mr. Barnes and the grisly souvenir you left on his doorstep. What was it?”
“I did some research on Obeah,” Colin said. “And with Cook’s help, Jeremy and I acquired the heads of three white roosters. Leaving them at someone’s door is, apparently, a foolproof way of heaping evil upon him. We’ll see how much of a believer Mr. Barnes is.”
