The Bellingham Bloodbath (11 page)

M
inutes later we were back on the street hailing a cab with nary another word between us. I sucked in a lungful of fresh air and decided to abide by my hasty offer in spite of my almost immediate regret at having done so. “I'll stay at the Devonshire,” I announced determinedly as we headed off following the imprecise directions I had gotten from Abigail Roynton.

“What's that . . . ?” he muttered, the same silver crown once again rotating effortlessly between his fingers, making it obvious he was paying me little mind.

“Until Friday. I'll stay at the Devonshire. It'll give you time to yourself.” I spoke breezily, with assurance, as though I really thought the idea a good one.

“Fine,” he muttered distractedly.

It wasn't the response I'd been seeking, so I decided to let it drop in hopes that I might get a reprieve if I let the whole thing be for a while.

As we continued north to Lancaster Gate, I started to wonder precisely how we were going to find which home belonged to Lady Stuart. It seemed we would either need to beg assistance from the local postman or, worse, be forced to pound on random doors until we found our quarry. We had certainly done such things before, though the latter was one of my least favorite tasks.

Colin had shifted to the far side of the seat and I heard yet another sigh escape his lips as he stared out at the passing scenery, the crown weaving smoothly between his fingers as though propelled by its own force. It appeared he really
did
need to be left to his own musings, so I diverted myself by watching the tightly packed flats of Piccadilly gradually give way to the gently rolling expanse of emerald fields that abutted the gracious homes lining Green Park. As we turned onto Lancaster Gate the lush properties began to abbreviate as the homes drew closer again in a deferential nod to discretion.

Our cab slowed and the driver dragged his cap from his head, scratching his fingers on his shaggy pate. “This 'ere's the street ya asked for,” he said. “You know which 'ouse yer after? I'll take ya up if ya point it out.”

“This will be fine,” Colin answered, slipping the crown into his pocket as he climbed out and began eyeing the houses lining the short street.

I paid the man his fare and sent him on his way before joining Colin, who looked to be focusing his attentions on several houses kitty-corner from where we stood. “Should we start knocking on doors?” I asked with what enthusiasm I could muster.

“There'll be no need,” he said at once. “I'd say the lady's house is right over there.” He pointed toward a cottage-like home with a densely thatched roof partially covered by ivy. It was slightly smaller than the rest of the homes on the block but meticulous in its upkeep.

“And why do you think that?”

He cocked an eyebrow as he turned to me, a rogue's smile curling his lips. “I don't think it, I know it. Do you see the chimney?”

“Of course.” It was thick with the spade-shaped ivy but still revealed whimsical swirls of oat-colored plaster as it rose up beyond the height of the home's rooftop.

“And do you see the wrought iron fastened near its top?”

I hadn't, but now that he pointed it out I spotted the slender bit of black metal in the shape of a half circle protruding from beneath a spray of ivy. “It looks like a backwards
C
.”

“Upon closer inspection I believe you will find that it's the bottom half of the letter
S
. Apropos for a woman named Stuart, wouldn't you say?”

We crossed the street until I could indeed see the entirety of the letter
S
peeking from beneath the greenery. “Interesting,” I allowed. “But perhaps the Smythes live here, or the Sandersons, or the Westcott-Simpsons.”

“Who?!”

“It doesn't matter. You get the point. You cannot tell me you're certain based on a single letter hanging on the chimney.”

“Ever the doubter.” He chuckled. “Look at the flowers running along the pathway to the door.”

“Miniature roses, aren't they?”

“They do look something like a rose, but they aren't. They're dahlias. They come from the mountains of Central America and Colombia. You don't often see them in our dreary city. Rather expensive to import. For someone to have this variety and quantity I should say the owner of this home is most fond of this particular bloom. Most fitting for a woman named Dahlia, wouldn't you say?”

I grinned. “Now that
is
convincing.”

“Exactly.” His eyes sparkled. “Shall we?”

He pounded on the door, and given the diminutive size of the house, it took only a moment before an elderly gentleman in an elegant tuxedo answered. “May I help you?” he enquired in less than impeccable English.

I was surprised to find a houseman of his caliber in a home as unimposing as this. Even though the woman who lived here was titled, I had not thought she would engage more than a housekeeper and cook, like our Mrs. Behmoth, as she was clearly trying to live within some particular means.

“Good afternoon. I'm Colin Pendragon and this is Ethan Pruitt.”

“Yes, sir. I am aware of who you are.”

“Ah.” Colin's face revealed a hint of satisfaction. “Very well. Then I would be most obliged if Lady Stuart could spare us a few minutes of her time.”

“Is Madam expecting you?”

“She is not. But I can assure you it is a matter of the utmost urgency, hence our unannounced arrival.”

The old man pursed his lips. “While it is human nature to believe one's business always urgent,” he stated simply, “I am afraid Her Ladyship will not consent to meet with anyone unless they have an appointment. It is the only way to maintain order in her days.”

“I see. . . .” Colin flicked his gaze to me a moment. “The lady is so in demand then?” He kept his tone light, but his inference was evident.

“She is,” the man stated innocently, either missing Colin's intent or choosing to ignore it.

“I wonder if I couldn't impose upon you to ask Her Ladyship if she might make an exception to her otherwise sensible rule. If you could inform her that I am here on an official matter, a matter of great delicacy that reaches all the way to Her Majesty's household, I would be most grateful. And while I appreciate your homespun platitudes, I assure you I am not overstating my urgency.”

The man didn't move for a moment and I worried that Colin had pushed too far, so it was a relief when he finally said, “I must ask you to wait here—” And with that, he shoved the door closed and reseated its bolt.

“If that old hump doesn't nip right back,” Colin immediately hissed, “I'm going to set fire to the roof and smoke them out.” But nothing of the sort was necessary, as almost immediately the door was again unbolted and pulled open and the two of us were ushered inside.

We entered a small white hallway adorned with wainscoting that stretched halfway up the walls. A rough-hewn beamed ceiling crisscrossed above our heads, very much in keeping with the cottage motif evident from the outside. We were shown to a sitting room not more than a dozen paces down the hall that also served as a library, much like our own front room, though Lady Stuart's was appreciably larger. Bookshelves lined the side walls and a large plaster and brick fireplace stood at the center of the wall across from the doorway. The fireplace was framed by a row of arched windows with filmy white drapes pulled across them. There was a high-backed sofa in the center of the room covered in a whimsical fabric of leaves and thatch that had four wing-backed chairs flanking it, two on either side.

“If you wouldn't mind waiting here,” the houseman said, “Her Ladyship will be with you shortly.”

“Of course.” Colin bothered with only the briefest smile.

The man nodded and disappeared the way we had come.

“Don't you find this a peculiar home for a woman of nobility?” I asked quietly as I wandered over to look at the photographs on the mantel.

“I do,” Colin muttered as he perused the nearest wall of bookshelves, quickly fingering the bindings without pulling any of them free. “I would say the lovely widow Roynton was right: Our good lady was neither born nor raised of money, but came to it sometime later in her life. Likely either a good marriage or an adept con.”

I swung around to look at him, wondering if he was teasing, but he remained focused on the books, pursing his lips and nodding his head from time to time. “A con?!” I hissed.

“Anything is possible.”

I decided not to risk any further questions, so turned back to study the framed photographs. One was a head shot of a beautiful dark-haired woman with black eyes and satin skin who looked to have a touch of something exotic in her ancestry. The next was of the same woman standing before a creek in a wood next to an elderly man. The woman appeared to be some years younger in this photo and the man looked like her grandfather, so similar were their features. They shared the same oval face and striking cheekbones underscored by a solid, square jaw, but while the elderly man, with his shaggy white hair and ragged, untrimmed beard, wore the garb of a Gypsy, the young woman did not. They did, however, both wear brilliant smiles, which spoke to the certainty that they were
not
British.

The last picture was of Her Majesty in an appropriately dour and sanctimonious mood. With her gray hair tugged tightly beneath her tiny crown and her thin lips and heavy jowls as rigid as granite, she was clearly demonstrating for the whole of the empire what became her people most.

“I trust I have not kept you waiting too long?”

I turned and found myself staring at the same beautiful face I had just been looking at in two of the photographs, although she was older now. I guessed her to be about the same age as I, though I was finding it difficult to be certain given her pristine complexion and the mane of rich black hair pinned up above her shoulders. Her bearing was graceful and assured, an obvious display of breeding, and she moved with the delicacy of a woman trained in dance.

“Absolutely not,” Colin enthused, a great smile breaking across his face that assured me that he too had been caught by his first impression of her. “We are grateful you have agreed to meet with us at all.”

Her smile came easily. “How could anyone refuse you, Mr. Pendragon? You've quite the reputation. And I understand you have come on a matter of some urgency?”

“Quite so.”

“Please.” She gestured to the chairs by the fireplace as she settled on the sofa. “May I offer you tea?”

“You mustn't go to any trouble. We are merely seeking information regarding a man I am told you were familiar with—” But before Colin could finish his thought she lifted a hand to stop him as she reached out and picked up a tiny bell from the table in front of her.

“You must indulge me,” she said as she flicked her wrist, setting off a sweet tone. “If we're going to have the discussion I believe you are here to have, I simply must have some tea.”

“Madam . . . ?” Her elderly houseman stepped through the archway.

“Fetch us some tea and shortbread, Evers. And don't be stingy.”

“Yes, madam.” He nodded, disappearing as quietly as he had come.

“I must profess a bit of curiosity . . . ,” Colin said the moment he was gone, “. . . as to just what you think we are here to discuss given that I have yet to pose so much as a single question?”

“Oh, come now, Mr. Pendragon.” Her eyes sparkled with amusement. “You're being coy. You have already confessed your intention to seek information regarding a man I was familiar with. Past tense. Unless I am mistaken I would presume that man to be the late Captain Trevor Bellingham. No doubt it wasn't a secret among his men that he came to see me from time to time—”

“You are most astute, Lady Stuart.”

“And I shall hear no more until our tea has been served,” she said.

Evers returned almost at once with an elegant tea set atop a tray that also held a plate of shortbread and a small crystal decanter half-filled with an amber liquid. He placed it on the table nearest Lady Stuart and poured our tea, raising the little decanter to his mistress and staring solely at her.

“A spot of brandy?” she offered, but we both demurred. “Quaint.” She gestured to Evers, who poured a dollop in her cup before preparing the conventional version for Colin and me. “I have a hunch today is a day when I shall enjoy the warm embrace of a touch of brandy.”

“Be assured I am not here to cause you distress,” Colin said. “Yet I am certain you understand the need to learn all we can about the Bellinghams in order to guarantee these murders are quickly solved.”

“Of course.” She sipped at her tea before settling her gaze on Colin. “I suspect you wish to know the nature of my relationship with Captain Bellingham.”

“I do,” he said gently, “as well as anything else about him you might care to confide. And I hope you will permit me to ask a few questions along the way.”

“You are like velvet, Mr. Pendragon.” She grinned over the lip of her cup. “Soft, silken, and seductive.”

“You flatter me.”

“I think not.” She chuckled as she set her cup down. “Let us not forget that velvet is also coarse and rough on its opposing side, without which its more sanguine face would never hold together. Something of a conundrum, wouldn't you say?”

His smile held firm, but I could see the enjoyment in his eyes slowly waning. “I suppose it is something of a conundrum at that,” he allowed.

Lady Stuart released a deep, sonorous laugh. “Forgive me for teasing you so. And you such a good sport.”

Colin's pallor slowly deepened as he waved her off with the nonchalance of a man trying to prove he is at ease being the brunt of mockery. It was all I could do to keep from laughing alongside her.