Tasha Alexander - A Crimson Warning

“Barnes,” Colin said. “He thought he’d make a bid to get us off the case, hoping I’d bow out if Emily was upset enough. When she stood firm after that scare, he sent her the note leading her to the body, thinking that might prove distressing enough to put her off.”

“He did have a flair for drama, didn’t he?” Jeremy asked. “Which I suppose explains his choice of red paint.”

“Barnes told us he’d made the bottle to help Dillman,” Colin said. “But in fact he left it for Dillman as a warning. He invented the whole story of Dillman coming to him for help. He waited until after he knew Dillman would have found the bottle, but heard nothing about it. No gossip, no rumors. He then realized his technique wasn’t dramatic enough. No one in England knew what it meant. So he switched to paint, which could neither be ignored nor hidden.”

“He used the deaf factory workers to splash the paint,” I said. “He was confident no one else would be able to decipher their primitive sign language.”

“And rightly so,” Colin said. “Scotland Yard weren’t able to understand them at all.”

“Barnes was lucky no one had guards in front of their house waiting to catch the painters,” Jeremy said.

“Some people tried that,” Colin said. “The vandalism was always done before the first light of dawn. Apparently, at least twice the ill-treated wretches in his employ didn’t leave paint as instructed because they saw signs of being watched.”

“Which lucky families dodged the attention?” Jeremy asked.

“Barnes wouldn’t tell,” I said.

“What about Foster and his mysterious visit to Westminster Abbey?” Jeremy asked.

“He’s come forward and confessed everything,” Colin said. “He was the one sending the notes to Lady Glover that we all believed came from our villain. They’ve had a relationship for some time—that is information not to leave this room—and he was sorry she felt so unappreciated by her husband.”

“And receiving letters from a criminal was supposed to make her feel better about herself?” Ivy asked.

“You saw for yourself it did,” Colin said. “He knows her well. He’d hidden the sealing wax and seal, along with a stash of paper in the Abbey, on the off chance someone found it in his possession and thought he was behind the whole nasty business, not just some false letters.”

“He picked the spot because he’d formed a habit of ending his days—which were often more like late nights—with a stop in the Abbey for quiet contemplation and prayer. The caretakers were used to this and took no notice of him. He realized he could easily hide and remove his things so long as he did it when the tourists were all gone. He hadn’t counted on having to fetch it all in a hurry during the day when he could be seen.”

“So why did he do it then?” Ivy asked.

“He was afraid I’d learned about the purported election fraud,” I said.

“Fraud he had nothing to do with,” Colin said.

“Yes, well, we have somewhat disparate views on that subject,” I said. “He thought he should gather up any evidence that could make him seem connected to the crimes and then he rushed to Mr. Barnes’s house to seek his advice on what he should do. When he saw the rooster heads, which he recognized as the sort of thing Barnes had told him was used by islanders, he misunderstood. He thought it was his friend’s way of warning him not to come inside. So he raced to the Abbey instead to remove the evidence he’d left there.”

“You did an excellent job keeping Barnes distracted for so long,” Jeremy said. “I don’t know what would have happened if he’d stumbled upon us with the unfortunate roosters. But what of the business of him lying about his dinner party?”

“Mr. Barnes saw Mr. Foster in the corridor after I’d left his office,” I said. “Mr. Foster told him what had happened and asked to meet him at Barnes’s house. Mr. Barnes wanted a handy excuse to head home.”

“So Foster was running about like a fool,” Jeremy said. “I know, Hargreaves, you’re fond of the man’s politics. I won’t bother to argue with you on that count. But you must admit he’d make a terrible criminal. He has so little foresight. Do you think such a man could really be a decent prime minister? I’d prefer someone who could be devious if the situation required it.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure Mr. Foster wouldn’t fit the bill,” I said.

“What about the servant Lady Glover saw collecting the letter she left on her doorstep?” Ivy asked.

“She invented that,” I said. “I think she’d be much happier if she chose to return to the stage.”

“So, in the end, of all our suspects, only Mr. Foster turned out to be really good,” she said.

“I’m not entirely convinced of his much-lauded character,” I said. “But shall do as instructed and speak no further on the subject.”

Colin pulled a face, then laughed. “I do wish you all could have seen Emily in Scotland Yard. She made quite an excellent report—thorough and well organized.”

“They were more than a little shocked that you let me make it,” I said, smiling.

“It’s time they learn they’re going to have to accept you as a force that won’t be ignored,” he said. “I have a suspicion, though, that is something they’ll find easier before long.”

“Poor Mr. Foster,” Ivy said. “He must be terribly upset to have lost his closest friend in such an infamous manner. Mr. Barnes has proved a master of psychological torment.”

“Can you blame him?” I said. “Look at how he was treated. Should we expect different, if we lay such cruel judgment on a person simply because of the identity of his father?”

“It doesn’t mean he should go about murdering people,” Jeremy said. “It isn’t civilized. And I, for one, want to go on the record to say that I never gave a fig who his father was. All things considered, I couldn’t be happier with the outcome of this.”

“I could be,” I said.

“How so?” Colin asked.

“I can’t decide which I’m more interested in knowing: Why our steps have been painted red or what your involvement was in the ever mysterious Anderson matter. Perhaps the two are related.”

“Anderson? That old thing?” Jeremy asked. “Nobody cares about that anymore.”

“Even he knows?” I glared at my husband, half serious, half in jest.

“Only because I was there,” Jeremy said.

“You were there?” I asked. “What happened?”

Colin buried his face in his hands.

“It was your lofty husband’s first foray into service for the Crown,” Jeremy said. “A group of us were at Balmoral, part of the royal party, and some useless lady-in-waiting, Miss Anderson, let one of the queen’s favorite collies escape. She was beside herself … convinced she’d lose her position and be ruined. Hargreaves, here, took it upon himself to save the girl’s neck. She was rather a pretty thing, wasn’t she, Hargreaves?”

“The dog or the girl?” Colin asked.

“I won’t torment you,” Jeremy said. “He spent two solid days searching for the wretched creature. By the time he returned to the castle, Her Majesty had been asking for the dog repeatedly and we’d all run out of excuses to explain where it might be. Enter the divine Hargreaves, covered with mud, but with the collie well in hand. The queen has been devoted to him ever since. I believe you found the whole incident slightly mortifying, didn’t you, Hargreaves?”

“Why?” Ivy said. “I think it’s a lovely story! What became of Miss Anderson?”

“Sophie Anderson married my brother two months later,” Colin said. “In the end, she preferred her gentlemen to stay out of the mud.”