The Bellingham Bloodbath (25 page)
M
rs. Behmoth came pounding up the stairs with our afternoon tea just as Colin finished another round of exercises with his dumbbells. He leapt up and swooped over to her, taking the tray and spiriting it to the table near where I was writing.
“You still on 'bout that last case?” she asked as she dropped onto the settee.
“I am.” I looked up from the sea of papers piled around me and wondered what else she thought I might be doing.
“It's been two weeks already,” she muttered as she slapped Colin's hands away and began fixing the tea. “Yer usin' too many words. Ya always use too many words.”
I scowled as she handed our cups to Colin. “Ethan knows what he's doing,” he defended, plunking my teacup onto the desk with enough force to cause a bit of it to splatter across several pages.
“Hey!”
“Watch yerself.” Mrs. Behmoth chuckled. “That's yer legacy you're buggerin' with. You make a mess outta that and you'll be tellin' yer own story.”
“That case won't see a printer's press for a good many years to come,” he said. “I'm afraid few would find the truth palatable, and besides, I've just told a very different tale to the men of the press.”
“You types keep shootin' each other and you blokes'll always be on the outside,” Mrs. Behmoth said as she chewed on a biscuit.
“We are not shooting each other.” Colin scowled. “In fact, most of us are quite invisible, so what harm can there be in any of it?”
“Tell that to your Mr. Wilde.” She snickered.
I frowned at her as I picked up a page near the end of my chronicle. “What I still don't understand is what made you go to Private O'Fallon's flat to look at his boots in the first place?”
“It was a hunch.” Colin shrugged, sauntering over to the fireplace with his tea. “When Major Hampstead demanded I meet with the newsmen six hours earlier I knew I had to be close to the truth. And getting our hands on that letter had precipitated his sudden demand. A letter we had just learned had
not
been written by Captain Bellingham, a fact I am certain the major knew the moment he saw it. It made me reconsider all of the men in the regiment we had met, and Private O'Fallon struck me the most. For three reasons, actuallyâ”
I snatched up one of my earlier pages and piped up, “He was the first to suggest that something untoward had been going on between Captain Bellingham and Lady Stuart.”
“Indeed.” Colin gave me a sly grin. “And he was an Irish lad not serving with the Irish Guard. I found that most peculiar, and when I made some enquiries I learned that he'd once been mates with the Irish blokes responsible for the death of Private Newcombe's father. It was too coincidental to be easily dismissed. However, the most important thing of all”âhis brow knit fiercelyâ“was the last night we spoke to him, when I referred to Captain Bellingham in the possessive:
your captain
. I had done it many times before when speaking with Sergeant McReedy, Private Newcombe, and Corporal Blevins, yet only Private O'Fallon became incensed at my perceived inference, demanding to know what I was implying.”
“I remember that,” I said, setting my pen aside.
“It's just tragic,” Mrs. Behmoth muttered. “Me and my mister had quite the fire in our day too, but it weren't worth killin' over. When he died . . .” She heaved a sigh. “Thirty-five years ago. Can that be?” She glanced at Colin. “You was just four. Ya 'ave any memory of 'im?” He shook his head. “Just as well. He'd a spoilt ya fer the rest of 'em.”
“I very much doubt anyone could have kept me from Ethan.”
“There's a lot coulda kept you two apart.” She glared over the rim of her cup at him. “You don't know halfâ” But a sudden pounding at our door kept her from continuing that thought. “We expectin' anyone?” she asked as she pushed herself off the settee. We were not.
As she trudged down the stairs, her heavy footfalls marking her progress, I decided that whoever it was had real business with us, since their pounding had grown in both rapidity and timber. My curiosity was assuaged in due course as she appeared back at the top of the stairs with a slight, lovely woman of middle years beside her. But while Mrs. Behmoth's face was flush from her exertions, the woman next to her was ghostly white.
“Mrs. Annabelle Connicle,” Mrs. Behmoth announced. “Go on in, me dear. I'll get ya a cup fer some tea.”
“Thank you,” she answered in a delicate, almost toneless voice as Mrs. Behmoth took to the stairs again.
“Do come in, Mrs. Connicle.” Colin smiled and gestured to her. “Make yourself at home and tell us what we can do for you.”
She stepped inside, her skirts rustling as she stopped just behind the settee, gripping its back tightly. “Mr. Pendragonâ” Her voice caught and she looked down at the floor a moment, taking a deep breath before slowly starting again. “It's my husband. Something awful has happened. There's no trace of him”âher eyes began to well with tearsâ“only splatters of bloodâ” Her voice hitched as her fingers tightened on the back of the settee. “It is everywhereâ” And before she could finish the sentence her eyes abruptly rolled up and she collapsed to the floor.
I rushed over and seized her hand, finding it cold and clammy, though her breathing was steady. As I yanked the coverlet off the back of the couch and laid it over her, I made a cursory check of her head and face to see if she had injured herself. Thankfully, she had not.
“Is she all right?” Colin asked.
“She's just fainted.”
He nodded and went over to the stairs and called down, “Mrs. Behmoth, we've a fainter up here.”
“I'm comin'.”
“Get her on the settee,” I ordered.
“Right.” He swept her into his arms and delicately placed her on the sofa. “Now wake her up, Ethan, so we can find out what she was on about,” he pestered. I turned to level a scowl at him only to find that I could not when I saw the spark of thrall in his eyes. He had already taken the case.
There are many people to whom I owe a debt of gratitude for their efforts on this book. The staff at Kensington have been so enthusiastic and encouraging that I simply cannot thank them enough. In particular I have received thoughtful guidance and support from John Scognamiglio every step of the way. Vida Engstrand has been tireless, and Kristine Mills has continued to thrill me with her creative and eye-catching covers.
Once again I owe heaps of thanks to Diane Salzberg, Karen Clemens, and Melissa Gelineau, who all read multiple drafts and never hesitated to ask great questions and press me to reach higher. My agent, Kathy Green, had a particular impact on this story, and I am grateful to her for that. John Paine also gave me solid encouragement and direction very early on and helped me find my way.
I must also call out the extraordinary support I have received from family and friends. It has been truly humbling.
In writing a story set in the past, many hazards abound. People much smarter than I may detect errors in the history I have unfurled, and I take full responsibility for the liberties I took. Some were allowed for the sake of the tale while others, I fear, are the result of too much daydreaming when I was in school. Either way, those belong to me alone.
The only other person I must acknowledge is Russ Hoffman, for his impact upon these stories is as vast as the hole he left behind.
Thank you everyone!
Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of Gregory Harris's next Colin Pendragon Mystery
coming in March 2015!
A
nnabelle Connicle was right: The blood was everywhere.
We had accompanied her back to her home in West Hampton, Colin as eager to see the scene of what sounded like a ghastly attack as I was to make certain she reached her home safely. The poor woman had already fainted once in our study and remained as pallid as milk glass, her lips tinged blue and her eyes so drawn and red that she looked not to have slept in days.
Several Scotland Yard carriages were on site by the time we arrived at the Connicle estate. Mrs. Connicle had sent for them even as she herself had rushed to our Kensington flat to implore Colin's help. While it was the right thing to do, it was bound to prove problematic for Colin and me given that the Yard's senior inspector, Emmett Varcoe, was eternally envious of Colin's flawless record for solving the crimes we were brought in on. The one thing I was happy to note, however, was that the coroner's wagon was nowhere to be found. A positive sign that not only was there no body to collect, but also that the reprehensible coroner, Denton Ross, would not be here. That suited me just fine.
Mrs. Connicle had insisted we come inside despite the fact that I knew Colin to be far more interested in the gaggle of bobbies circling the gardener's shed in the side yard. The house was a hush of shadows and unease as we entered, the shades drawn, presumably to block any view of the work being done by the Yard. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust before I noticed the black-suited, heavyset man with a balding pate sitting in the drawing room and the girl in maid's attire pacing the floor behind him. The instant the door swung back with a resounding
click
, the girl twirled about and bolted toward us.
“Oh, Mrs. Connicle,” she gasped. “Thank heavens you're back.”
“That's enough now, Letty,” Mrs. Connicle said heavily as she steered the girlâfor she didn't look older than her middle teensâto the young housekeeper who had presented herself upon our entrance. “Go with Miss Porter now. I simply haven't the heart to deal with your fretting.” Miss Porter, a pretty, slight, brown-haired woman meticulous in her deportment and dress, stepped up right on cue, ushering the quavering girl out of the room with a finesse that suggested she had done it before. “You must forgive me.” Mrs. Connicle sagged into the nearest chair, her tiny, winsome frame nearly swallowed by its generous dimensions. “I'm afraid I am quite done in.”
“Annabelle . . .” The portly man stood up and moved to us, adjusting a pair of glasses clinging to the bridge of his nose. I could tell at once, both by the suit he wore and the leather satchel he carried, that he was a doctor. “You have suffered a tremendous shock, and I am certain these men understand that.” He glanced at me before quickly flicking his eyes to Colin. “I take it Annabelle has retained your services to look into this . . . this business, Mr. Pendragon?”
Colin gave him a stiff smile. “And you would be?”
“Doctor Benjamin Renholme.” He stuck out his hand, but did not offer a smile. “I've seen to Annabelle for years. Edmond less so. He could be quite dismissive of the medical arts.”
“Past tense?” Colin fished idly.
A disapproving frown settled onto the doctor's face. “I take it you have yet to see the shed?”
Mrs. Connicle groaned, and Colin gave her a gentle smile before turning back to the doctor. “Sometimes people say things they do not mean, and other times they spill what they did not intend. It can be a razor's edge.”
The doctor took a moment before he gave a stiff nod. “No doubt. I'll take no umbrage. All that matters is that you discern what has become of Edmond.” His words elicited another moan from Mrs. Connicle that finally stole his full attentions as he swooped over to her. “Come now, Annabelle. I have prepared a tincture of laudanum to help you relax. There is nothing more for you to do but let these men have a look about. I must insist you go upstairs and get some rest.”
“I cannot rest until I know what has happened,” she mewled in the most pitiful voice.
“We will let you know the moment there is anything to report,” Colin said. “The doctor is right: You must attend to yourself just now.”
She gazed at him, her thin, drawn face a mask of pain. “All right,” she muttered. “All right . . .”
Dr. Renholme shoved his glasses up onto his forehead as he bent forward to help her to her feet. She leaned against him, and he guided her from the room with the gentle assurance of a man of his profession. Even so, the moment they disappeared, Colin turned to me with a frown. “It seems to me that man is awfully full of himself.”
I couldn't help chuckling. “You know . . . ,” I said as we were finally able to head out of the house for the side yard, “. . . there are those who would say the same about you.”
He shot me an unamused scowl. “Little, pesky, small-minded people, I should think.” And this time, I did not try to suppress my laughter.
The moment we cleared the corner of the house the phalanx of bobbies milling about became instantly apparent; so many that the little gardener's shed was almost inconspicuous amongst the quantity of navy blue uniforms. Oddly, it appeared that nothing more was happening than idle conversation and the general passage of time. If a crime had been committed, it seemed lost on this leisurely band.
“Do you see Varcoe?” Colin asked.
“No. But you know he's here somewhere.”
He pursed his lips. “Pity,” he bothered to say as we reached the nearest cluster of men. “Excuse me . . .”
The young officer we were nearest to turned from his companions with a frown. “Excuse yourself,” he snapped. “You can't be here. This is official Scotland Yard business.”
His companions broke into laughter. “Don't you know whom you're talking to, Lanchester?” clucked one of the older men.
He glared at Colin. “Should I?”
“You're a tosser,” the older man snickered. “You're telling me you've never seen a picture of Colin Pendragon?” He turned to Colin with a mocking scoff. “These young buggers don't have a lick of class. Don't let him bruise your ego. Not that he could,” he added as he and his buddies brayed laughter.
“Pithy,” Colin answered with a spectacularly forced smile. “But tell me, what have you good men of the Yard determined thus far?”
Unfortunately young Constable Lanchester found his tongue first. “I don't think that's any concern of yours, Mr. Pendragon,” he shot back, punching Colin's name as though it tasted bitter on his tongue.
“Lighten up,” another of the more seasoned men cajoled, a sergeant I recognized by the name of Maurice Evans. “There's nothing much to see beyond about a pail of blood splashed across the walls. We can't even be sure whose blood it is.”
Colin's eyebrows arched. “You mean to tell me you're discounting the obvious? How positively nouveau.”
Sergeant Evans laughed. “You're a pip, Pendragon.”
Colin managed another brief smile. “Mind if I take a look?”
“Suit yourself.”
“You sure about that, Sergeant?” Constable Lanchester could not seem to keep from piping up.
“Keep an eye on him,” Evans allowed, waving the young man off.
Colin nodded to the sergeant as we headed around the small building, Lanchester and one of his mates in our wake. No one paid us much heed now that we had our escort, either presuming we must belong or not caring so long as someone else was responsible.
Colin pulled up short as we reached the entrance to the shed, but his face revealed nothing.
“Don't touch a thing,” Lanchester piped up from behind us.
Amazingly, Colin held his tongue.
I stood beside him and gazed inside, finding myself staring at an inexplicable scene of carnage. It was just as Annabelle Connicle had said: The blood was everywhere. Great ropes of it were suspended from the ceiling like viscous stalactites, and swaths were splattered in huge arcing sweeps across the walls and assemblage of tools and yard implements hanging thereon. The floor also contained its own multitude of coagulated puddles, making it look as though a veritable battle had been fought and lost here. The most curious thing of all, however, was the simple fact that there was no body. How anyone could have walked away from such a scene was unthinkable.
“It's quite a sight, isn't it?” Sergeant Evans said as he approached.
“Are you sure it's blood?” Colin asked.
The sergeant chuckled and shook his head. “You
really
are a pip, Pendragon.”
“May I?” Colin bothered to ask even as he stepped forward.
“If you must. But I'll ask you not to touch anything. And you, Mr. Pruitt, may remain outside.”
“Of course,” I said as I took a step back. Colin caught my eye as he cleared the doorway, and I knew what he meant for me to do. I shifted sideways as though ducking from the sun's intensity and stared out toward a copse of trees near the edge of the property where a great deal more bobbies were loitering about. “You've got quite a contingent of men down there,” I noted pointedly, and was pleased when Sergeant Evans and his two constables swung their gazes around, allowing Colin to quickly dab at one of the puddles. “Have they turned up anything ?”
“I wouldn't know,” Evans said. “This shed is my concern. I don't really give a shite what they're doing over there.”
“Have they found something?” I pressed.
He turned back to me with a sharp look. “I didn't say that.” His eyes shifted to Colin, who was now innocently glancing about. “That's enough, Mr. Pendragon. Come out of there now. Nothing but a rash of blood, same as you can see from the doorway.”
Colin complied at once. “Is that the official consensus?” he asked, continuing to stare inside.
“What's that supposed to mean? You see something else?”
“I'm sure I see exactly what you do, but what I perceive could very well be different.”
“Listen to him.” Evans wagged a finger at Colin and snorted at his two companions. “No wonder you pique poor Varcoe's nerves. Who dragged you out here, anyway?”
“The mistress of the house.”
“Well, that may be,” he said as he beamed at his companions, “but she sent for us first.” They all nodded smugly.
“Sending for the Yard is a formality,” Colin responded blithely. “I'm here because she means to learn what's happened.” He gave a rogue's leer and began walking around the periphery of the shed as Evans and his men laughed, assuming, it would seem, that Colin had meant it as a joke. As Colin was about to make a second pass around the small building a familiar voice blasted out from the trees on our left.
“What in the devil's tortured ass are
they
doing here?!”
Colin looked over, his smile drooping. “A pleasure to see you as well, Inspector.”
Inspector Varcoe stormed toward us, with four officers at his heels, his white hair askew and his face its usual shade of plum. Whatever foraging he had been up to seemed to have stirred him quite thoroughly. “You're not needed here, Pendragon. Take your toady and go back to your hole.”
“How you flatter me,” Colin replied with a lopsided smile that lit his dimples.
“This is official Yard business.” Varcoe planted himself between Colin and the shed, his arms folded across his chest even as the color of his face deepened. “We most certainly do not need the assistance of amateurs trying to sully the good name of Scotland Yard.”
“Now, Emmett. I've only ever tried to be helpful whenever I've solved your cases for you.”
“You're not funny, Pendragon,” he snapped back. “Just what the hell are you doing here, anyway?”
“Mrs. Connicle fetched us,” Colin answered with a note of relish. “Though I'm sure she meant no affront to you and your fine horde of merry men,” he added with a decided lack of subtlety. “But tell me: What has led you and your men to prowl about the trees?”
Varcoe gave a sly smile. “Seeing as how this is a Yard investigation, I'm afraid you'll just have to piss off.”
Colin's grin froze as his jaw tightened and his eyes diminished to slits. I seized his momentary silence to interject the obvious. “You will remember that we can get a magistrate to formally assign us to this case before day's end.”
Emmett Varcoe fixed his eyes on me with a loathing I found absurd. He was well aware that Colin's father wielded enormous power both in Parliament and Victoria's court. Yet when his harsh smile slowly snaked into one more righteous, I knew exactly what he was going to say.
“Then you go right ahead. Go visit your lackey and get your scrap of paper. By the time you get back here, we'll be long gone.” His smile widened. “You're always welcome to our cast-offs,” he sneered.
“I could solve the riddles of the universe with what I've seen you and yours leave behind,” Colin snarled.
I feared we were on the verge of being forcibly removed when one of the inspector's men suddenly came bounding out of the trees. “You'd better come, sir,” he called with noticeable agitation. “You'll want to see this.”
Varcoe's eyes narrowed, but before he turned away he set his glare on Sergeant Evans and said, “Get these two out of here. I'll not have them around while we're conducting an investigation. You had best remember that, Evans.” And with that pronouncement he bolted back to the woods with the man who had summoned himâquickly, frustratingly, disappearing from view.