A Crimson Warning by TASHA ALEXANDER Page B

“Mr. Dillman was a good man and an excellent master. I can’t do anything much for him now. But if you think this would help bring his killer to justice…”
    “I can’t promise you anything, but we can certainly try.”
    “Why are you here instead of your husband?” he asked.
    This surprised me. “My husband?”
    “I’ve read of his many accomplishments and am honored to meet his wife,” he said. “I know you were wounded in the line of duty, and that your investigative skills are to be admired as well.”
    I blushed. Several of the papers had covered the story of our various exploits, but I’d not before encountered someone who’d read them and considered my role praiseworthy.
    “You couldn’t possibly have thought I would even consider your request if I didn’t know of the reputation of the Hargreaveses,” he said.
    I was rather pleased to learn I had a reputation. This sort of a reputation, at any rate. But I was also embarrassed. I’d expected to be able to talk my way into the house, because I had assumed a servant could be easily persuaded by a person of my rank. Yet here I stood, speaking to a man who judged me by my accomplishments rather than by my father’s title or my husband’s fortune.
    “Thank you,” I said. “It honors me more than you can imagine to have earned your respect.”
    “Please, come inside.” I followed him through a wide marble corridor and then into a dark room. This was another house whose curtains remained closed in deference to mourning. “This was Mr. Dillman’s study.” He lit a lamp and stepped back.
    The room was smaller than I would have expected. Red silk covered the walls in a wide, geometric pattern. Walnut bookshelves rose a third of the way to the ceiling along one side. Across the room from them row after row of portraits hung from brass chains attached to long, matching rails, which stretched the length and height of the wall. Three sets of French doors would have provided a spectacular view of the park if their curtains were pulled back, and an elegant, neoclassical desk filled one corner. I motioned to it.
    “Shall we start here?” I crossed the room and pulled open the desk’s center drawer.
    “You’ll want these, too.” The butler reached down a neat stack of leather-bound notebooks from the top of a bookshelf. “All his business and personal records.”
    “Thank you.” I sat down and started to pore over the notebooks. Most of them were ledgers, filled with financial transactions, and some Mr. Dillman had filled with sketches of flowers, birds, and other wildlife. Remembering Cordelia’s treasures, I wondered if he’d had the habit of sketching while they were sitting in the park. The last in the pile was harder to decipher. The first pages contained lists of bills that had gone before Parliament, with numbers and symbols scrawled next to each of them. Following that were page after page of what appeared to be personal notations—reminders of things Mr. Dillman needed to do. All of them had been crossed out save the final seven. The remainder of the book was blank.
    “Did the police examine these?” I asked.
    “They did, madam.”
    “Did they take anything from the house?”
    “No. From what I heard them saying, it appears they believe anything pertinent to the crime would have been at the warehouse with Mr. Dillman. That’s not to suggest, madam, they were not thorough when they were here.”
    Colin had told me as much earlier. “Would it be all right for me to take these?” I asked, holding up the notebooks. “I’d very much like to share them with Mr. Hargreaves.”
    “I don’t see why not, madam,” he said. “Mr. Dillman’s brother is abroad and won’t be able to reach London for at least another fortnight. I can’t imagine he’d object.”
    “Thank you. Would it be too much to see your master’s dressing room?”
    Three quarters of an hour later I’d left the house, satisfied I’d missed nothing. With me, I