The Bellingham Bloodbath Page 2

  “And the perpetrator?”

  “I will personally see to it that their murderer receives the full wrath of the law.”

  Colin sat up and neatly tipped the crown back into his vest pocket. “And what makes you think these murders will be so easily dispatched? Murder is a complex business in the simplest of cases—”

  “I said I will take care of it,” the major repeated with noticeably greater force. “And I could use your help with Scotland Yard. I’ve got them circling like schoolyard boys, on top of which the Times is calling the Guard’s reputation into question, and the public is terrified for their safety. Until we can release a conclusive statement, Mr. Pendragon, this discord will be relentless.”

  Colin stood up. “I’m sorry, Major. You seem to have gotten the notion that my integrity can be bargained for. If I have earned the respect of the press it is because I do not spin fables, and, in spite of your desire for discretion, cannot see why I should start now. If you would like to hire me to solve this case I will gladly do so, but until you come to your senses I will bid you good day.” He turned for the door.

  “Mr. Pendragon!” The major sounded perplexed as I got up to follow. “Mr. Pendragon!” he howled as we reached the door. “With all due respect to your esteemed integrity, the public wants immediate answers to their fears. They want the world to return to the status quo. They will not tolerate remaining under a veil of anxiety. You can blame the unsolved Ripper murders for that. And that’s why there are men like you and me. To ensure that our republic gets what it needs. Now I am beseeching you, Mr. Pendragon, to offer the public a reasoned solution to a horrible crime so that they can get on with the mundanity of their lives. Where is the harm in that?”

  “If that’s what you’re after, Major, then I would suggest you get the Yard to be your mouthpiece. Inspector Varcoe is always good for hot air.”

  “Nobody wants to hear from that blasted lout. You will do this for me, Mr. Pendragon. You are the only man with the reputation for it and I will insist.”

  “Insist?” Colin chuckled. “Are you proposing sticking a hand up my bum to move my lips?”

  “You will be handsomely compensated. Now how can I convince you to perform this service for the Crown?”

  Colin pursed his lips and I could tell he had already thought of something. “There is one way I can conceive . . . ,” he said casually, “. . . and it is the only way I would consider it. . . .” He let a moment pass to emphasize his determination. “You must announce to the press that you have retained my services to solve the murders of the captain and his wife. . . .”

  “Yes . . . ?”

  “And then give me the next three days to do so. During those three days you must ensure I have the full cooperation of this regiment as well as access to whomever I want.”

  “Not Her Majesty or her family.”

  “I should hardly think that will be necessary.”

  “And at the end of the three days . . . ?”

  “I will deliver the truth of the case to you.”

  “And if you cannot?”

  “I will.” He smiled harshly, even as my stomach clutched at the very idea. I couldn’t fathom how he had come up with the notion of three days.

  Major Hampstead frowned. “Absolute proof, Mr. Pendragon. You must bring me absolute proof of whatever supposition you’re championing or I shall have your word that you will face that mob of newsmen and sell them whatever I deem appropriate.”

  Colin gave no more than an ambivalent nod.

  “Three days then.” The major glanced back at his clock. “That would be twelve o’clock on Friday.” He turned back to us. “I shall give you until seventeen hundred. Plenty of time for the newsmen to make their Saturday morning edition.”

  “Most generous,” Colin muttered.

  “Corporal Bramwood!”

  “Sir?” The young man opened the door so quickly I knew he had to have been hovering nearby.

  “Alert the newspapermen that Her Majesty’s Life Guard has retained the services of Colin Pendragon to bring a swift and just conclusion to the tragic murders of Captain and Mrs. Bellingham. And let them know that Mr. Pendragon will have an announcement to make at seventeen hundred hours this very Friday.”

  “This Friday, sir?”

  “Yes, Corporal. This Friday.”

  And with that, the young man was gone, though I did notice he left the door ajar.

  “I will solve this crime, Major Hampstead,” Colin said with the simplicity of one discussing the weather. “I shall bring you the resolution Friday and we will see what gets delivered to the press.”

  “I admire a man of confidence,” the major replied with a tense grin. “But listen very carefully, Mr. Pendragon, because if, at the end of your three days, you should find yourself stymied by this case, then I alone will decide what is told to those newsmen. You will say what I decide and you will walk away. Are we clear?”

  Colin flashed an equally rigid smile. “You have been most clear, Major. And now I should indeed like an escort to the Bellingham flat so I may get started. Someone from Captain Bellingham’s regiment would be my preference.”

  “Sergeant McReedy will take you. He reported to the captain.” Major Hampstead’s smile relaxed and I couldn’t help but feel it was with the arrogance that comes when one perceives imminent success.

  CHAPTER 2

  I joined Colin on the parade grounds as soon as I concluded the financial details of the condensed investigation he had bound us to. My negotiations with the major had gone well considering he was only hiring us for three days, the very thought of which set my stomach lurching. Nevertheless, he had meant what he’d said with regards to making sure Colin would be well compensated.

  “Are we set then?” Colin asked as I joined him beside a young private with a mop of tight, curly brown hair hugging his head.

  “We are in terms of money.” A pained smile was all I could come up with.

  “Have faith,” Colin chided as he gestured to the young man beside him. “Private Newcombe here has been tasked to wait with us while Sergeant McReedy summons a carriage. A dreary task, I should think.”

  “I’ve done worse.” The private flashed a mischievous grin. “And anyway, it’s a terrible thing that happened to the captain and his wife. He was a good man. I’m glad they’ve brought you in to set it right.”

  “Well . . . yes . . . after a fashion.” Colin tossed him a slight smile. “But let me ask you a question. Would you say your opinion of Captain Bellingham is the common sentiment within the regiment?”

  “To be sure. He was a fair and decent man. I don’t know anyone who didn’t get along with him.”

  “You think the murders random then?”

  Private Newcombe’s face pursed slightly as he answered, “No, sir. You’ll understand when you see the flat.”

  “Indeed? And did you know the captain’s wife?”

  “Gwen? I met her a few times. She was quite something to behold. There’s just no reason for what happened. No reason at all.”

  “There is never reason enough for murder.”

  The sound of an approaching horse caught our attention and we all turned. “Here comes Sergeant McReedy,” the private said. And sure enough we could make out his tall, slender frame atop a stallion, cutting a striking tableau against the steel-gray sky. Once again I had the needling feeling that a smile did not come easily to his face. He was cradling his metal helmet with its white plume in the crook of one arm, exposing close-cropped black hair, which he had shaved almost to his skull. The smudge of a mustache darkened his upper lip, adding a few years to what was otherwise a decidedly youthful face.

  “Thank you, Private Newcombe.” He spoke without inflection as he reached us. “There’s a coach waiting in the side yard. If you will . . .” He didn’t wait for a response, but immediately reined his horse around and moved off.

  “He’s as pleasant as he was at our flat,” Colin muttered.

  “He�
��s taken the captain’s death hard,” Private Newcombe spoke up. “Served under him his whole career.”

  “Which, by the look of him, cannot be very long. And why is he so averse to my being brought in?”

  Private Newcombe shrugged. “Who can figure those Scottish boys? They wear melancholy like an honor.”

  “Are you coming?!” Sergeant McReedy bellowed without glancing back.

  “Twit . . . ,” Colin muttered under his breath as we followed the sergeant around to the side of the building where a small coach was waiting. The two of us climbed inside and the driver set us lurching forward without a word.

  “May I trouble you with a question, Sergeant?” Colin called to him as he paced beside us. The sergeant’s answer came in the form of kicks to the sides of his mount as he surged ahead. “This little pisser is starting to peeve me,” Colin grumbled as he pulled a crown out of his pocket and began rolling it between his fingers.

  “Come now,” I halfheartedly scolded. “You handled the major well enough; you can handle this one. What I don’t understand is how the hell you came up with three bloody days for the resolution.”

  He shrugged. “I knew the major was in a hurry and it seemed a good number.”

  “Three?!”

  “I didn’t think he would go for thirty. Have you no faith in me?”

  I scowled at him. “More than you deserve, I should say.”

  He nodded. “Well, yes, that’s probably true.”

  “Do you really think you’ll be able to solve this case that fast?”

  He let out a chuckle as the coin continued its smooth rotation around his fingers. “It would seem that I must.”

  I shook my head but otherwise held my tongue. With nothing more than doubt and worry to contribute I knew it was best to keep silent. I turned my attentions to the window as we clattered around a steep bend in a neighborhood far removed from the palatial grounds of Buckingham. The buildings were brick and mortar and heavily stained by the ever-present soot. They were stacked so closely together that the concentrated scent of horse and human consequence made the air itself seem in need of a scrubbing. Street vendors hawked their wares—baskets of fruits and vegetables, a selection of freshly baked breads, white and yellow bricks of cheese, sprays of flowers—enticing the scurrying crowds with a warring cacophony of shouts, songs, and entreaties to gain their attention. It was a scene of bedlam that made me aware of just how far the late captain’s Finchley Road flat was from Her Majesty’s palace.

  As our coach slowed, Colin flicked open his pocket and tossed the crown in with a flourish before glancing at me. “Do you think you might be able to coerce the sergeant into answering a few questions? You do have the better nature. I’m afraid I’m likely to just dislocate his jaw if he doesn’t come around to cooperating.”

  “I’ll try . . . ,” I said, though I was not filled with conviction.

  “Good enough, then. See if you can extricate anything at all from him.” Colin gave me a smile as he climbed out.

  I sucked in a deep breath and took my time alighting from the coach. A private with strawberry-blond hair held the door for me, offering a clipped smile as I stepped out. He was tall, with an aquiline profile, porcelain skin, and eyes the color of honey. I pegged him a novice and decided I just might learn something from him. “Did you work for Captain Bellingham, Private?”

  “I did,” he answered with tight formality.

  “I’m going in,” Colin called as he headed for the narrow three-story row house.

  “Private O’Fallon!” Sergeant McReedy snapped at the boyish officer before me. “Stay with Mr. Pendragon.”

  “Yes, sir.” He moved past me as he hurried to catch up with Colin, stopping just long enough to mutter something to the two policemen posted at the stoop.

  I watched Colin and Private O’Fallon disappear inside and knew it was time to try to engage Sergeant McReedy. Steeling myself, I went over to where he sat astride his horse and shouted up, “Might I have a quick word?!”

  He glared down at me. “What?”

  “I know the Guard would prefer to take care of this on its own—”

  “That’s right,” he cut me off, making to swing his horse away.

  “What I don’t understand is why you seem so unwilling to be of any assistance.”

  He stopped, as I had hoped he would, and turned an icy frown on me. “The Queen’s Life Guard does not need the two of you to help with its business.” His eyes narrowed. “You do not belong here.”

  “So you’re questioning Major Hampstead’s decision?”

  “I brought you here, didn’t I?”

  “And are you aware of Mr. Pendragon’s reputation?” I pressed, trying to curb the edge of desperation snaking into my voice. “The papers have never reported a failure for him.” I held the sergeant’s gaze, his eyes so dark they looked like black pinpoints, and hoped I had struck my mark, but all he did was lean back on his horse and coax it away from me.

  I was certain he was hiding something behind his umbrage. He had some knowledge of these murders and I determined I would keep an eye on him. I stared at his grim profile, but he took no further notice of me, so I cursed him under my breath before turning and pounding past the two policemen and into the flat. Neither of them paid me a whit of heed. They undoubtedly presumed I was welcome. They had no idea how utterly I had just been dismissed.

  I let the door swing shut behind me and stood a moment in unexpected silence. I had assumed I would hear Colin or his parasitic private fussing about, but there was not a sound.

  The drapes in the front room had been drawn against prying eyes, leaving the room dull and shadowed. I found it unsettling as I glanced about, and doubly so when I realized how immaculate the place was. In spite of the Bellinghams’ having a young son, there was nary a toy or other plaything in sight, giving the room a distinctly unused feel.

  Just beyond the front room was a small and equally pristine dining area. As I moved through I noticed four framed photographs atop an old wooden buffet. The first was a large portrait of a stoic but handsome couple on their wedding day, neither nerves nor excitement evident in the least. Two smaller photographs contained portraits of their son taken when he was no more than a toddler. He had curly hair and a chubby face, but even at this sprite age he appeared to be every bit the little man. The last photo showed the three of them together and I guessed it had been taken within the last year by the looks of young Albert.

  I went through to a meticulously neat kitchen that was even more compact than the dining area, giving the sense that the flat was diminishing. What made it seem even more so was the staircase that rose along the wall to my right. Whoever had designed the flat, while skimping on space, had crafted it so that the smells of morning cooking would drift up to the bedrooms above, creating an irresistible enticement to get out of bed.

  I grabbed the balustrade and made my way upstairs, girding myself for the remnants of the murders I knew I would find. As I reached the landing I found myself in the center of a small hallway that led off to three rooms, one of which had its door closed. Another staircase rose above me and I presumed it led to the attic. With any luck, I wouldn’t have to go up there. Attics, with their dusty trunks and boxes full of fading lifetimes, have never appealed to me. It would be enough to stay down here.

  The first room I approached had no door at all, and I remembered reading in the paper how the police had been forced to break the door to Albert’s room down. When I reached the yawing doorway I spotted cracks in the molding and a ragged split where the latching mechanism should have been. The door itself, however, was nowhere to be seen.

  I gazed into the small room and could tell at once that it belonged to a boy. There was a desk opposite that was cluttered with books, toy soldiers, and miniature dinosaurs. A nearby bookcase held a handful of little silver trophies and colorful ribbons proclaiming skills in calisthenics. Alongside were several softballs and a slightly worn leather glove. Only the bed re
vealed that something had gone terribly wrong, for it stood askew, most likely yanked from the wall in an effort to get at the little boy cowering beneath. No doubt some bobby had thought that the right idea, but I knew it would be a moment that would never again leave Albert’s recall.

  I had become so engaged with my thoughts that it took me a moment to realize that someone was trudging up the stairs. The rhythm of the tread assured me that whoever was coming was in no particular hurry, allowing me enough time to creep out of Albert’s room and peer over the balustrade. I spotted an oval head with short, spiky black hair and saw that it capped a man of slight build in the uniform of Her Majesty’s Life Guard.

  “Hello,” I called down.

  A boyish face glanced up with all the guile of a pup. “Hello.” He tossed me a smile. “Sergeant McReedy asked me to escort you through the flat.” Or, more specifically, to keep an eye on me. I stuck out my hand and introduced myself.

  “Corporal Hayward Blevins,” he responded. “Captain Bellingham’s aide-de-camp.”

  “I appreciate your willingness to show me around, Corporal,” I said gamely. “I must confess to knowing little of what happened.”

  He nodded but held his silence, making me fear he was yet another guardsman loath to speak.

  “The Bellinghams’ bedroom is there,” he announced after a moment, pointing toward a polished door some twenty feet away that I wasn’t at all sure I had the temerity to go through.

  “Is that where the captain and his wife were found?”

  “Just Mrs. Bellingham. The captain was in the attic.” My stomach curdled like milk. “You can go in,” Corporal Blevins muttered, assuming, I suppose, that I had been waiting for him to tell me to do so.