I kept my back to the sculpture, not wanting to leave myself more exposed than necessary, and waited, wondering where Colin was sequestered. I checked my watch. It was nearly ten o’clock, and there was no sign of anyone coming to meet me. I smoothed my heavy skirts, remembering what it had been like to wear them daily, all those years ago, after the death of my first husband.

I started, thinking I’d heard footsteps, but could see no one approaching. My heart pounded, but I knew I was safe under Colin’s watchful eye. Knowing and feeling are two different things, though, and my nerves were not soothed by the confidence my head had in my husband. I looked around, searching for any hint of where he might be hidden. His options seemed limited, unless he’d been willing to climb a tree. I found no evidence of him. Not that I would have expected otherwise.

My vigil continued. Then, in the distance, I saw a woman coming towards me. She was walking up the path from the south, which meant she’d not entered the park through the Achilles Gate as I had done. At first, she was a mere wisp of a figure. I could almost believe I was imagining her. As she came closer, though, she scared me. Her boots fell heavy on the ground, despite the fact she was a small woman, a good six inches shorter than I and painfully thin. She looked to be about my age, but the years were written harder on her face than mine. Her mouth was pinched, her nose ordinary, but her eyes, brown and luminous, shone like unearthly gems. She faltered as she approached, reached a hand into the pocket of her coarse skirt, and pulled out a note, which she shoved towards me.

I reached out and took it from her.


Give the girl what you know I want.

The handwriting matched the notes Cordelia had received.

In turn, I handed the girl the letter we’d had Cordelia write in response to her correspondent’s unwanted attentions:


I should like nothing more than to offer you whatever necessary to drive you away from me. But, alas, Mr. Dillman left nothing for me that would satisfy your needs. Furthermore, he never spoke of any involvement with a person such as yourself, and I find myself quite at a loss as to what to do. Please leave me alone.


The girl pulled the envelope from me roughly and glared at me. She did not open it.

“How does he keep hold on you?” I asked. “Does he threaten you? Is he cruel?”

She did not reply.

“Come with me,” I said. “We can help you break free from him.”

She gave no response, made not even the slightest change in her expression. It was as if she didn’t comprehend my words. I tried again, this time in French.

And then in Italian.

And then in my extremely bad German. Which, to be fair, few people would have been able to understand.

Before I resorted to ancient Greek, my attention was diverted by a loud crash coming from behind me. Without thinking, I spun around, and then turned back. The girl remained expressionless.

“Stay there, Emily!” I heard Colin call from a distance. “Do not move.”

I heard the sound of fist against flesh. Grunts and strained breath. Too-heavy steps and sharp kicks.

The girl didn’t move or react. It was as if she’d heard none of it. And so I, too, stood still, not wanting to alert her to any trouble lest she decide to run. The hideous sounds sickened me, and I prayed Colin was not too badly hurt. My stomach wrenched as I heard him groan. The girl nodded at me and turned, starting off in the direction from which she’d come.

“Grab her!” Colin shouted.

I ran towards her, at first unsure of what to do. Then, thinking as quickly as I could, I dropped down and flung my whole body weight against the backs of her knees. She crumpled over. I rolled on top of her, forced my arms around her shoulders, and held her as tightly as I could.

And then I shouted for the footmen, who came running at once.

In short order, I’d directed one of them to help me secure my prisoner and the other to assist my husband, whom I suspected, from the dearth of sound now coming from his direction, had subdued his attacker. I forced the girl into the carriage, having tied her wrists together behind her back with the veil I’d ripped from my bonnet. The footman sat next to her, ensuring she would not try to escape. Knowing she was secure, I raced back into the park in search of my husband.

He was already on his way to me, pulling his assailant with him, the footman behind, prodding the man along.

“You’re hurt!” I said. He was limping and his lip was split. Blood spilled down his chin.

“Nothing serious. Let’s get to the carriage. You can worry about me later.” In short order, he’d pushed the squat, sturdy man inside, across from the girl. He left the footman next to her and took the seat adjacent to the man, ordering me to sit outside with the driver. “It will be safer, Emily,” he said, helping me up to the seat and then disappearing inside to look after our prisoners.

“Scotland Yard, eh, madam?” Our driver, a jolly sort, grinned as he snapped the reins and we lurched forward. “Can’t say that’s a place I’ve ever been before. ’Course, that’s due to the master generally driving himself.”

I appreciated his attempt at cheerfulness, and wished it could calm my heart, which was pounding so hard I could feel it through my entire body.

“You’re all right there, madam?”

“I am.”

“Exciting times, these, when you work for Mr. Hargreaves. Or are married to him, I expect.”

“Yes,” I said. My teeth were chattering.

“Keeps a man on his toes, it does. You’re sure you’re all right?”

“A bit shaken up, but that’s all.”

“You’re a brave lady, madam,” he said. “Mr. Hargreaves is lucky to have you.”

“Did you see anything when we were in the park?” I asked.

“Not a thing, madam. Just the usual carriages going along Park Lane. Nobody came in or out of the gate.”

We were heading down the Mall, and I could not help notice the irony of our current situation. I, sitting with my driver, parading down such an elegant street; my husband inside our carriage with two criminals. Soon we’d turned into Whitehall and were nearly upon New Scotland Yard. I grew nervous again as the gothic façade rose before us, its red brick taking on an eerie shade of rust in the moonlight. The moment we stopped, an officer stepped forward from the door, spoke to Colin, and ushered the lot of us inside.

13

Scotland Yard was exactly how I’d always imagined it: desks piled with heaps of papers, earnest-looking Detective Inspectors bent over their work. Almost as soon as we arrived, Colin disappeared with our prisoners, and our servants were taken to another room for questioning. I was shown to a small office where, plied with tea and repeated enquires after my health, I felt a world away from what had transpired in the park. Nearly two hours passed before my husband returned.

“Ready to go home?” he asked.

“Tell me what’s happening first,” I said.

He sat in front of me on the edge of a large desk. “They’re both deaf,” he said. “We brought in language specialists who are schooled in French sign language, but neither of them showed any knowledge of it. They can’t read or write, either.”

“Do they communicate with each other?”

“They must,” he said. “But they were careful not to in our presence.”

“What will be done with them?” I asked.

“We’ll detain them for further observation and will follow them when they’re released.”

“I want to go with you.”

“I’d welcome the company,” he said. “Particularly now that I know your tackling skills.”

“How badly are you hurt?” I asked, gently touching his swollen lip.

“Not at all. He got the worse of it. I’ll be fine in the morning.” He took my hands in his. “What about you?”

“Shaken up, but unharmed,” I said.

“It was brilliant how you tackled her,” he said. “I was beaming with pride.”

“You shouldn’t have been watching … that’s probably when he split your lip.”

“It was, in fact. But I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.”

*   *   *

I found patience difficult over the following days as we waited for Scotland Yard to finish observing our attackers. As a result, I rejoiced when I received a note from Mr. Barnes, asking that I call on him at his office. The day was fine, and I was eager to go out, so I walked to Westminster, arriving far earlier than necessary. Glad for the extra time, I went halfway across the bridge so that I might look back at the spectacular view of the Thames sparkling in the sun and Parliament rising majestic above it. As Big Ben chimed the hour, I made my way back and found my friend.

Mr. Barnes’s office was small, but well furnished, in one of the narrower corridors of the building. He greeted me with warmth, but did not offer me a seat. “Thank you for coming to me, Lady Emily. I realize it’s something of an imposition.”

“Not at all,” I said. “It’s a pleasure to see you.”

“I was hoping we could take tea somewhere if you’ve no objection? The subject I wish to discuss is somewhat sensitive. I’d feel more comfortable away from so many offices.”

“The Savoy isn’t far from here,” I said. “And it’s a fine day to walk along the river.” I took the arm he offered and we dropped onto Victoria Embankment, making our way along the river past Cleopatra’s Needle, where the pharaoh’s quixotic sphinxes seemed to follow us with eyes that should have been immovable. The river curved and St. Paul’s rose majestically in the distance. We entered Savoy Hill, not taking the fastest route, perhaps, but to my mind the most picturesque, and paused to admire the charming gardens attached to a small chapel, all that remained of a hospital that had thrived hundreds of years ago only to fall in the way of construction, when the land was needed to build the approach to Waterloo Bridge. After continuing up to the Strand and reaching the hotel and securing a fine table in a quiet corner of the restaurant, which was illuminated with twinkling electric lights, we looked over the menu in silence. As we’d discussed nothing beyond the weather and the view while we walked, I started to wonder if my friend had changed his mind about talking to me. But once we’d placed our orders and the waiter had departed, Mr. Barnes began to speak, his voice as soft and melodic as ever.

“Forgive me if I’m blunt, Lady Emily,” he said. “I know your reputation well. You’re an asset to your husband in his work, and for that, we’re all grateful. Not that I’m in a position to officially speak for the government, of course.” He smiled.

“Thank you,” I said.

“I’m hoping you can put my mind to ease on a subject that’s been causing me much grief. I’m concerned about a mutual friend of ours: Mr. Foster.”

“Has something happened to him?” I asked. “Not red paint, I hope?”

“No, not as yet,” he said. “But I’m gravely worried. I must insist that you keep the details of this conversation private, even from your husband. Mr. Foster is an honorable, upstanding man. But everyone makes mistakes.”

“What sort of mistakes?”

“Politics are not always pretty, Lady Emily. A gentleman sometimes is forced to take steps which, when taken out of context, seem unethical. I’m not asking you to embroil yourself in the details,” he said. “But I would very much appreciate it if you could keep me abreast of any developments in your investigation that involve Mr. Foster.”

“You think he’s behind the red paint?”

“Heavens, no! I never meant to give you that idea,” he said. “But if he falls victim to this madman, I’d like as much notice as possible.”

“Everyone would know the instant paint was spotted on his house,” I said.

“You may discover a pattern in what’s happening, something that leads you to believe he’ll be a target. If you do, would you please let me know at once?”

“Of course,” I said. “That’s no problem at all. But so far, we’ve registered no such pattern. There seems to be no method to this madness.”

“There must be some method,” he said. “We all have things to hide, yet not all of us are being targeted. How is he choosing his victims?”

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t mean to put any undue pressure on you. Mr. Foster is poised to be our next prime minister. I don’t want to see his position threatened.”

“Despite his slips when it comes to ethics?”