The Bellingham Bloodbath (24 page)

“So let me tell you what I believe happened that night,” he went on. “The argument with the Irish lads started as a direct consequence of Private O'Fallon's being in attendance. I'm guessing it was one of the first times he ever joined the four of you. The Irish blokes recognized you, Private, as having once been with their regiment. Yet there you were sitting at a table with four older men from the British detail, men who had a whispered reputation for being different. While there may not have been any proof to those inferences, I think we can all agree that gossip is more insidious than truth anyway.

“You were there at the behest of Captain Bellingham. In fact, you were very much
with
him that night. A heady feeling, wasn't it?” He did not wait for a response. “But as the drink flowed and you allowed it to steal your restraint, you never noticed that your Irish brethren did not like what they were seeing. Eventually, someone said something; it hardly matters who. With honor at stake and inhibitions well drowned, things got out of hand. We all know the end result.”

Major Hampstead glanced at his watch, only this time I saw that his hand was noticeably unsteady. “That's a rich story,” he muttered with feigned indifference. “Perhaps you will regale us with the rest when there is more time.”

“I will finish it now, thank you,” Colin said as he continued to slowly circle the room. “At first I thought Captain Bellingham had escaped any consequences from that night, but he hadn't at all. Given that he had a wife and young child, it was made clear to him that a stable family life would spare him permanent sanctions. Which, no matter what lay in his heart, meant that he had to be rid of you, Private O'Fallon.

“And so he determined to be.” Colin moved back to our side of the table and sat down. “He ended your liaison only to discover that you had no intention of letting go. You remained enamored with someone who could not”—he shook his head—“would not feel the same.”

The private shifted in his chair and Major Hampstead reached over and gripped his arm, effectively holding him in his seat.

“It was Lady Stuart who corrected me,” Colin pointed out. “Captain Bellingham didn't write that letter threatening some unutterable outcome if she didn't return his affections;
you
wrote that letter.” He settled his gaze on Private O'Fallon. “And when you didn't get your way, you wrested your revenge.”

Private O'Fallon said nothing, but his hands had balled into fists and his face looked as ferocious as the malignancy I now realized him to be. Major Hampstead slowly released his hold on the young man's arm and let his gaze drift over to a far corner of the room, his expression stony.

“Shall I go on?”

Major Hampstead made no move to acknowledge the question that precipitated Private O'Fallon to growl, “I don't give a bloody fig what you do. You've no proof!”

Colin leaned over and fished out a pair of shiny boots from the sack by his feet and set them on the table. “Are these yours, Private?”

The young man glared at them but did not answer.

“Let me help you,” Colin said, reaching out to reveal Private O'Fallon's name etched on the inside of both boots. “I do believe that's you.”

“Where did you get those?” he seethed.

“From your flat. I admit to having made up a bit of a story for your flatmates, but it was worth it when I discovered the most astonishing thing.” He flipped the boots over to reveal one sole hastily cleaned while the other was as pristine as the day it had been cobbled. “They're obviously not new. You can see the heels are worn a bit toward the outside on both of them.” He glanced up. “You might watch your posture, Private. These would indicate you have a tendency to lean back when you walk with your hips rotated forward. That's what's causing the uneven wear.”

“Piss off.”

Colin flashed a deadly grin. “Look at the bottom of your left boot—” He shoved it forward. “It looks like it's just been taken from its box. Not so much as a speck of dirt stuck between the crevices of its corrugated tread. An amazing feat, Private O'Fallon, and one that must have taken days and many tiny utensils to accomplish. All of which makes sense when I consider the single boot print left behind in the blood beneath the chair where you tortured and killed Captain Bellingham. A print from a left boot. I would guess you noticed it too.”

“A clean boot,” Private O'Fallon scoffed. “That's what you've got?”

“I've got the letter you wrote to Captain Bellingham.”

I don't know who was more startled, me or Major Hampstead, as Colin reached back into the sack at his feet and pulled out what looked to be the same folded letter I had handed to the major hours before. “You will forgive me the hurried copy I made last night, Major, but this is the original.” He laid it on the table before reaching down and pulling out a few sheets of blank paper, a pen, and a small inkwell and shoving them across at Private O'Fallon. “Why don't you do me the favor of penning a copy of this note? I believe we will find a convincing match.” He gestured to the boots. “Of course, just looking at how you've written your name inside your boots one can see the similarities. Look how you make your
O
s. . . .”

Private O'Fallon made no move to take the pen, his eyes filled with contempt.

“Come, come.” Colin grabbed the pen and shook it at him. “Let me get you started.” He set one of the blank pages down, dipped the pen into the small bottle of ink, and began to write, reading aloud as he did,
“How heavy is my heart that I should find myself putting these words to paper
.
”
He glared at the private as he flipped the sheet around. “You see”—his voice was heavy and dark—“nothing like the original.”

Major Hampstead glanced at the paper, but Private O'Fallon kept his eyes riveted to Colin.

“Next line, Private . . . ,” Colin prodded. “It says,
I loved you with everything I had . . .
That might have been touching if you hadn't murdered him. Tell me, did you torture Captain Bellingham to try and coax some equally profound sentiment from him? Didn't anyone ever tell you that only love freely given has any real value? You cannot burn affection and devotion out of another person!” he snarled, and I could not help but recoil at the cruelty of it.

“Go to hell,” Private O'Fallon's voice rumbled from somewhere deep. “He was a bloody coward. You're all bloody cowards. Not me. I'll not be cowed by anyone.”

A cold look settled onto Colin's face as he studied the young man. “I am afraid, Private O'Fallon, that you have seriously misjudged yourself. For you are the
worst
sort of coward. Love is not a demand, it is a gift. That is what makes it so valuable. But you have left the carnage of innocents in your wake. You have robbed it of any value whatsoever and will have the rest of your pitiable life to think about that.”

To my utter amazement, Private O'Fallon cracked a crooked smile in response. “And that is where
you
are wrong, Mr. Pendragon.” And before I could even begin to guess at what he meant, he jumped up and pulled a small derringer from beneath his vivid red coat and in a single fluid motion shoved it into his mouth and fired, spraying the back of his head against the wall behind him.

M
y mouth felt as though I had been sucking on a wad of cotton and my stomach was worse. I was certain I wouldn't be able to eat again for some time to come. Yet all of it paled in comparison to the throbbing of my head. Even though I was sitting completely still in Major Hampstead's office, it was all I could do to keep from crying out from the pain. The major looked little better. We had fled there as soon as the coroner had been summoned.

It was evident by the major's every movement that he was as stunned as I, but it didn't appear the same could be said for Colin. His composure had returned with the arrival of the first guardsman who had come running at the sound of a shot being fired in the palace. Colin was also the first to remind the major that we had to focus on what should be told to the newspapermen, for it was too late to back out now. So we had moved to his office and struck a fast agreement. Colin had laid it out, but then there had been few options. And only after that was done did Colin finally ask, “Am I right about what happened at McPhee's that night, Major?”

His answer took a moment to come, but as he spoke it was easy to see he was well rid of the weight of it. “It is a terribly difficult thing to be a man who does not fit right in his world. It forever needles.”

“I can assure you that Mr. Pruitt and I understand only too well. Nevertheless, there are choices people make—”

“Choices thrust upon us,” the major corrected.

“Only if you let them be.”

Major Hampstead tsked. “You're being naïve, Mr. Pendragon. I'm certain you know better than that. For in the end, if a man does not fit in, then he is forever exiled from society.”

“Which is hardly a terrible thing, if you ask me,” Colin said, arching an eyebrow. “I'll not be boxed in by anyone else's ideals.”

“And yet”—the major's eyes dimmed—“the fact of your discretion would seem to state otherwise.”

“What I do is no one else's business,” he answered.

The major chuckled. “You are a public figure, Mr. Pendragon; it is everyone else's business. Suffice to say that those of us not fortunate enough to dwell on the outskirts of convention do our best to fulfill what is expected of us. Some with more success than others.” He shook his head. “Would it surprise you to learn that I am married and have a daughter? My family lives in Oxfordshire, but our poor girl isn't right. Prances about like a four-year-old even though she's nearly twenty. Requires constant attention. My wife blames me, of course.” He sagged. “I wonder if she isn't right.” He brushed a hand through his thinning hair and exhaled, his body crumpling further.

“I met Edmund Morgesster first. He was a proud man who devoted his entire life to the Queen's Guard. The only one of us who can claim that. He introduced me to Wilford Newcombe. Extraordinary men, the both of them, and honorable friends. It made it easier for a while, having someone to share such thoughts with, but mostly we just drank to forget.” He fell silent a moment.

“Trevor Bellingham joined our rank about six years ago. He and Gwendolyn were enduring difficult times; Trevor was suffering doubts, terrified that he was losing his mind. . . .” He shook his head again. “Always the same things. Edmund, Wilford, and I offered what solace we could, but we all urged him to make another go of it with Gwendolyn. It was his only chance at a normal life. But things between them were never right again.

“Trevor went through terrible periods of melancholy after that. It made me fear for him at times. At some point Gwendolyn confided her own anguish to her brother, Sergeant Mulrooney. He took it upon himself to begin taunting Trevor, spreading gossip. . . .” He closed his eyes a moment. “The sergeant never stopped menacing Trevor after that. It was just the way of it. . . .” He rubbed his forehead and I wondered if he wasn't suffering the same headache I was.

“It is a devastating burden you men have carried all these years,” I spoke up. “It contributed to my own undoing once.”

He glanced down at the floor. “Thank you, Mr. Pruitt.” Colin sat forward in his chair, a look of pain and determination fleeting past his eyes. “I'm afraid we have a roomful of newsmen waiting for us, Major, and I should very much like to hear about that night at McPhee's before I speak with them. . . .”

“Yes. . . .” He pushed himself up and sucked in a deep breath. “Of course. About a year ago Private O'Fallon moved from the Irish Guard to the Life Guard. He had been having trouble getting along with his mates, fighting, mouthing off.... We were his last chance before a discharge.” He glanced at Colin. “How cruel fate can be.”

“You had no way of knowing—” I started to say before realizing the ignorance in my words.

Colin filled in my abrupt silence by asking, “Is that when the relationship between Captain Bellingham and Private O'Fallon began?”

“It was. And like old fools Edmund, Wilford, and I were happy for them. We thought perhaps the two of them could achieve what none of us had ever been able to do.” He looked up and his eyes were hollow, his expression filled with regret. “Private O'Fallon was like a fawn, hanging on Trevor's every word and movement. And Trevor allowed it. He liked it. Anyone could see that. Mulrooney and those Irish lads saw it. It was Mulrooney who got them incited that night. Only he was smart enough to take off before the violence started. After that . . .” He let his voice trail off.

“And no one was tried for the murder of Captain Newcombe because none of you could admit why the fight had started and the Irish lads dared not say.”

He nodded. “It was classified as just another tavern brawl, though this time it ended in a man's death. Those Irish bastards were happy to get away with their lives. Mulrooney wasn't even implicated. The rest of us were sanctioned for gross misconduct: Edmund shunted out to pasture, my career capped on the eve of the promotion I'd been steering the whole of my life toward, and Trevor was warned that one more misstep would mean the end of his service.”

“And Private O'Fallon?”

He looked away a minute before speaking. “We made a pact to cover for him. We thought him nothing more than a foolish boy at the beginning of his career.” He shut his eyes, clearly pained at the memory. “Trevor swore he'd end their affair and I knew he meant it.”

“After he was killed, did you suspect . . . ?”

He snapped his eyes back to Colin. “I am not such a monster.”

“And yet you hired me for no other reason than to avert a meddlesome press. Surely you had some notion . . .”

“I . . .” He started to say something, but did not continue.

There was a reticent knock on the door as Corporal Bramwood peered in, his face as ashen as his major's. “The newsmen are impatient, sir.”

“Yes.” Colin stood up and tugged on his jacket. “Let's get this done with.”

I took a seat at the back of the great hall, a sea of heads in front of me, coughing, whispering, nodding, and fairly aching for a chance to shout questions. Colin moved directly to the dais, looking every bit the man in charge, the major appearing stooped and drawn as he followed in his wake.

“. . . the perpetrator was apprehended . . . ,” Colin was already saying as I struggled to pay attention, “. . . but through no fault of Her Majesty's illustrious Guard, he was able to get his hands on a pistol and take his own life.”

“Mr. Pendragon!”
A man in a dark suit jumped to his feet. “Did the man know Captain Bellingham and his family?”

“It is evident he took great pains to watch the comings and goings of the Bellingham family before deciding to wreak this terrible brutality. This was the act of an infected mind. We can be grateful that the captain and his wife did not suffer at the end.” It was the only story that allowed both Captain Bellingham and Her Majesty's Life Guard to emerge with their honor and reputations intact.

A scuffling of feet to my left caught my attention and I turned to see Inspector Varcoe entering with a contingent of his men. I knew he would be outraged at Colin's having laid to rest another case the Yard had been unable to solve, though they had hardly been given the opportunity.

I pressed my eyes closed to try to soothe the skirmish raging in my brain even as indictments for further information on the perpetrator were being shouted at Colin and the major. This assemblage of men were not about to be shunted aside for inanities when there was a front-page story to be ferreted out.

“Isn't he full of himself?” The grating voice erupted so close to my ear that I snapped my eyes open, immediately renewing the excruciating din inside my head. I stared into the inspector's sneering gaze. “How do you stomach that pompous ass?”

Relieved to find the conference already breaking up, I forced myself to my feet without answering and ambled to the front, where Colin and Major Hampstead were making a hasty exit out a rear door. I had no idea the inspector was following me until I heard Colin say, “Always a pleasure, Emmett.”

“Sod off, Pendragon!” he snapped as we all pushed through to the back hallway. “And a hell of a display from you, Major. Yard not good enough to take care of your business?”

“Protocol!” he snapped.

“
Protocol my ass!
It was a cold-blooded murder and I will
not
be shut out again. What sort of message do you think that sends to the people of this city?”

“I'm sure they assume you are still working the Ripper case,” Colin parried.

“That is
not
my case!” Varcoe blasted. “And isn't it fitting you should solve this case so rapidly, Pendragon. Takes an aberrant to spot an aberration.”

I could sense Colin on the verge of clouting him, so I discreetly reached out and touched his upper arm, not at all surprised to find his muscles coiled and ready to strike. He relaxed beneath my fingertips and a moment later turned to exchange a quiet word with Major Hampstead. After that, the two of us made our leave of Buckingham for the last time.