“It looked as if you planned to circle the block all day,” Colin said, after I’d returned to the house and rushed into the library, not even pausing to hand Davis my coat and gloves. “So far as I could tell, the enticing prospect of a new envelope was my only hope of bringing you back inside.”
I was disappointed to find that it was nothing more than a ruse. He had not located the chalice, and hence, no other message. After admonishing him for playing this little trick on me, I gave him a detailed account of my strange meeting with Mrs. Crofton, being careful not to let my shock at some of her behavior—that is, her desire to go to Egypt as planned and the wholesale shift in her personality—color my narrative. He agreed that the change in her was odd, but did not suspect her of nefarious motives regarding her husband.
“Admittedly, if we were looking only at this one murder, things might seem different,” he said. “But I cannot believe that Crofton’s death is unrelated to Grummidge’s and Casby’s.”
“I concur.” I had flung my coat over a nearby chair. He was sitting behind his desk and I now perched on the top of it, my legs dangling. “We know of Ned Traddles’s connection to Lizzie and Mrs. Grummidge, but is it possible that he also had ties to Mrs. Crofton? I detected something in her accent—”
“She may be an eccentric woman, but I doubt very much that she has ties to either Wales or the East End.”
“Why?” I asked. “We know almost nothing about her. Mr. Crofton did not grow up a gentleman, did he? If so, he would be unlikely to be so involved in the details of running a coal mine, as the papers I read in his study confirmed. She, too, might have a humble background. In fact, he could have seen her somewhere—perhaps in Mr. Grummidge’s greengrocery—and, captivated by her beauty, vowed to remove her from a life of poverty to a life of ease.”
My husband leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Pray, continue, my dear. It’s been weeks since I’ve had time to lose myself in a work of fiction.”
“What if Mrs. Crofton was best of friends with Lizzie and Violet?”
“Have you even a shred of evidence to connect them?”
“No.” I had, before leaving Mrs. Crofton, asked her if she knew either of them; she had denied it.
“And have you any hint—beyond a momentary fluctuation of accent—that suggests Mrs. Crofton grew up poor?”
“Well…”
“You raise interesting possibilities, my dear, but without anything to back them up—”
“I know, I know,” I said. “Truth be told, much though I like the theory, it doesn’t hold together too well. Lizzie died at Casby’s hand, and Mr. Grummidge beat his wife. Although her behavior is somewhat eccentric, I detected no hint that Mr. Crofton was anything but kind to his wife. If revenge is our murderer’s motive, which I firmly believe it is, the mine disaster must be the catalyst, in which case, I stand by my earlier conclusion that we are searching for a vigilante, particularly given that a friend of Lizzie’s and Mrs. Grummidge’s died in the accident.”
“It is less ridiculous than many of your earlier speculations,” Colin said. “However, I would prefer to discuss actual facts, and I have some new ones for you. The coroner’s report has come in. Mr. Crofton died from eating death cap toadstools.”
“Good heavens!” I said. “Death cap toadstools? That sounds like something straight out of the Brothers Grimm.”
“Apparently, they are easily disguised in food, as they don’t look all that different from mushrooms, once chopped and cooked. Furthermore, they take approximately ten days to cause death. The coroner admitted that if it weren’t for the manner in which the body was found, he would probably have thought Mr. Crofton died of natural causes.”
“What an intriguing choice,” I said. “Our murderer could not have spared the time to starve Mr. Crofton to death, in the mode of Richard II, but by choosing a slow-acting poison, he stays true to the spirit of the king’s murder. He cares very much about ensuring that he keeps his scenes as accurate as possible.”
“Which strengthens the importance of the message he is sending with each crime,” Colin said. “Kings can be murdered.”
“Would you care to speculate as to what he has planned next?” I asked. So far as we knew, he had one costume remaining: that of Harold Godwinson. “Harold died in battle. Perhaps he means to assassinate Bertie with an arrow through the eye. Only imagine the impact he could have if he could do it during the coronation procession—”
“The coronation has not even been scheduled and is unlikely to occur for another year,” Colin said.
“I am well aware of that, but you cannot deny it would be quite spectacular. Not for poor Bertie, of course. I may not be one of his devoted supporters, but I wouldn’t wish him such an ignominious end.”
“You’re generosity itself, my dear.” I could see it took a not inconsiderable effort for him to keep from rolling his eyes and gave him a little whack on his arm before he continued. “It would be useful for us to consider poor Harold. What location in London could stand in for the Battle of Hastings?”
Never before had I felt so handicapped by having the bulk of my knowledge of history restricted to the ancient. Beyond the bare basics of that fateful day in 1066, I knew very little. “What if he doesn’t plan to stage his next victim in London? He could set the scene at the site of the battle.”
Colin shook his head. “I don’t think so. It would not have the immediate impact he has achieved with his other victims. Battle is a small, out-of-the-way town.”
“And the people who live there are probably rather accustomed to seeing tourists re-create the battle.”
“I myself charged up the hill as a small boy and am confident that most tourists do not leave bodies in their wake. Particularly bodies with an arrow in the eye.”
“I was being facetious,” I said. “There’s not a Hastings Square in London, is there?”
“There’s a Hastings Street near St. Pancras in Bloomsbury,” he replied. “I’ve got men watching it around the clock. It ends in Cartwright Gardens, which has a pretty little green space, but it would not bear the obvious connection to Harold that Berkeley Square did for our Edward II. Thus far, our murderer has been shrewd about choosing his locations, even when doing so must have proved a challenge.”
“Yes,” I said, remembering how the Savoy Chapel connected to John of Gaunt, and, hence, Henry Bolingbroke, King Henry IV after the murder of Richard II. At first glance, one might not realize the significance of the site, but when it was explained, one could not deny not only the appropriateness of it, but also the cleverness of it. “Surely he would want his last murder—assuming, of course, he only has one further planned … a dangerous assumption, I might add—to be the most spectacular of them all.”
“Assumptions are always dodgy,” Colin said, “but in this case, we aren’t assuming. I’ve had constables calling in at costume shops and they have uncovered no other suspicious orders for outfits meant to mimic kings.”
Considering the scenes our dramatic miscreant had already staged, I found it difficult to believe that he could top what he had already achieved. A full-scale reenactment of the Battle of Hastings in Hyde Park? Unlikely in the extreme. “Harold’s death is different from the rest. Being killed in battle is a far cry from being murdered.”
“Quite right, my dear. So what could that mean? Does it tell us something about the intended victim?” He blew out a long breath. “William the Conqueror felt he had a legitimate claim to the throne of England after Edward the Confessor died. I believe they were cousins.”
“I’d say that’s not a particularly good claim.”
“You’re not alone in your thinking,” he continued, “and it illustrates one of the myriad reasons that it is preferable for a king not to die without an heir. If Harold’s death symbolizes a succession crisis—”
“We must look again at the FitzClarences!”
“No, Emily, that is nothing but a blind alley. I am, however, more concerned than ever.” He pulled out from his top desk drawer the messages. “I feel like I am missing something of grave significance. It’s all well and good for me to have men watching Cartwright Gardens, but that is not an attempt to stop the murder, just to catch the perpetrator after the fact. I’d prefer to prevent another killing.”
“Then you’re not convinced Bertie is the intended victim?” I asked. “If so, keeping him protected wouldn’t be impossible, would it?”
“I’m not entirely convinced, no, but I do think that in light of the evidence, it’s the most likely scenario. If I could, I’d lock the king up to keep him safe, but that would be impractical for a number of reasons. I am reasonably confident that we are taking every precaution. But if I’m missing something…”
I could see the tension on his handsome face. His well-cut lips pressed in a hard line, and his strong jaw clenched. He might not approve of Bertie, but he would never let his personal feelings stand in the way of doing his duty. I took his hand. “Well, then, we shall just have to work harder. I’m going to call on Mrs. Grummidge and see if I can inspire her to remember something—anything—about Lizzie and Ned that might lead us to a reasonable conclusion as to who our man might be after next. Care to come with me?”
“She’s taken quite a shining to Bainbridge. Why don’t you ring him and ask him to take you in that ridiculous motorcar?”
“I’m surprised by your attitude,” I said. “I should have thought a man like you would be eager to embrace new technology, as reflected in your insistence on having that dreadful telephone installed the moment it was possible.”
“The telephone provides convenience without negative impact. I don’t see that loud vehicles spewing noxious fumes will enhance life in our new century. Is not London filthy enough?”
“You can’t say they aren’t convenient. Only think how fast they are! We could drive to Anglemore Park—”
“In approximately the same length of time it would take us to reach there on a train in a compartment that, if I may be so bold, is far more comfortable and allows for far more interesting ways to pass the time during the journey than any motorcar ever could. Furthermore, the condition of the roads and the presence of other vehicles, many of them slower than—”
“Enough! I’ll hear no more. You have, however, piqued my curiosity. Elaborate, if you will, on these far more interesting ways to pass the time on a journey.”
“I believe I showed you in detail on our wedding trip when we were en route to Constantinople,” he said, looking deep into my eyes. “Surely you have not already forgot?”
“That was nearly a decade ago.”
He put his hands around my waist and pulled me across the desktop until I was directly in front of him. “Perhaps I should order a special train to Anglemore and remind you of the possibilities.”
“I can think of nothing I would better enjoy,” I said, and bent over to kiss him. “You’re quite certain Henry isn’t hiding somewhere in here?”
“I now make it a habit to inspect every room when I enter it, just to be sure.” He pulled me off the desk and onto his lap. The interlude that followed left me focused and refreshed and in such an agreeable frame of mind I did not object to using the telephone to summon Jeremy. When he arrived to collect me, I all but floated down the steps to the motorcar.
“This cold air suits you, Em,” he said, passing me a pair of goggles. “Your cheeks are all aglow and your eyes are sparkling. Winter must be your season.”