The Bellingham Bloodbath (21 page)

“This has become a torment,” she suddenly spoke up. “I have had enough.”

Colin edged forward between the two spires of crates, sliding his boots across the floor with exquisite slowness to keep from making so much as a whisper of sound. I followed him, moving in tandem to ensure I was equally stealthy. As I peered over his shoulder I saw that Alvin was standing next to Miss Easterbrooke with an oversized package cradled in his arms. It was indeed the size of a large hatbox, only there was a furious commotion coming from inside: low whining and the occasional pop against its side, none of which was lost on Miss Easterbrooke. With militaristic precision, she spun on Alvin and jerked an arm toward his face as though about to backhand him.

“Mum?” he said.

“Let her out.”

“No!” came a familiar voice from somewhere to our left, but Alvin paid it no heed. He set the box on the floor and wrenched the lid open, and immediately a small cream and black muzzle popped up to sniff the stale air. The compact face looked to be wearing a smile and appeared quite unperturbed at having suffered such ignominy. In an instant the pup reared back and leapt free of the case, revealing a sweet little feminine form, trim and stylish, with a perfect corkscrew tail at her nether end. Lady Priscilla Elizabeth Windsor Hanover Nesbitt-Normand was in our presence.

I started to smile until the little dog abruptly turned and came charging toward us, her tongue lolling to one side as her tiny tail beat a happy rhythm only she could hear. It was as if the pug knew we had come to rescue her.

Before Alvin could start after Lady Priscilla, Colin stepped from our hiding place and scooped the little pug into his arms, slipping the small bit of dried pig hide that he'd been holding into her mouth. “Well, well,” he purred. “Aren't you just the most beautiful little girl.”

Edwina Easterbrooke swooned, sagging backwards against her carriage as Alvin scuttled over to attend her. I moved out of the shadows behind Colin just as I heard a voice say, “You schtupid woman. You let dem follow you here. Dummkopf.” A look of unbridled disgust was evident on Elsa's face.

“This was
her
idea!” Edwina Easterbrooke howled. “
It was her!”

“Shut up,” Elsa warned.

“I won't . . . ,” Edwina gasped, a hand fluttering to her throat as though to protect herself from attack. “She came to us. She knew I wanted to breed my little boy. He
is
a former champion—” Her eyes looked desperate. “You know that, Mr. Pendragon. You've met him.” Colin just stared at her. “She said Lady Nesbitt-Normand would never agree to it. That she disparaged my Buster Brown.” Miss Easterbrooke sagged even farther against Alvin, who held her emaciated frame without the slightest show of effort. “I am simply destroyed.”

“You're a fool!” Elsa snapped.

“That horrible woman said she would deliver Lady Priscilla to us in exchange for the pick of the litter. I swear it.” Miss Easterbrooke, on the one hand, looked so frail that I feared if Alvin released her she might simply tumble apart. Elsa, on the other hand, appeared to be suffering from no such attack of feebleness. With the low-slung stance of a bulldog and the ferocity of a sow bear defending her cub, she made me begin to fear for us all.

“Der is nussing wrong vit da little lady. I have seen to dat. No harm done.”

“And yet,” Colin finally spoke, “I suspect Lady Nesbitt-Normand would view it differently.”

“Oh, please, Mr. Pendragon”—and now Edwina Easterbrooke began to shake, her face turning a blotchy pink even as her eyes grew heavy with tears—“you mustn't turn me in. You simply mustn't. I know I've done a terrible thing, but I was a pawn! This would ruin me, Mr. Pendragon. I am a woman of years. I beseech you.”

“Miss Easterbrooke has spoken nothing but the truth, sir,” Alvin muttered, raising his broad face and staring directly at Colin.

“How dare you!”
Elsa roared.

“That's quite enough.” Colin turned and handed Lady Priscilla to me.

Elsa sized him up a moment, as though measuring her options, before finally letting out a labored sigh. I exhaled in tandem and nearly jumped when I felt something soft and wet brush the back of my hand. Lady Priscilla was licking the salt and fear from my skin and I wondered if the little pug understood the trouble she had caused.

“The way I see it,” Colin said easily, “there are two choices. Either we all take a trip to Scotland Yard and let a magistrate sort this out, or you can agree to abide by my determination right here and now. I shall leave the lot of you to decide.”

“Whatever you say, Mr. Pendragon,” Edwina Easterbrooke chirped at once. “I'll do whatever you say.”

Elsa did not respond, holding her ground, though it was clear she was doing so with much less force.

“Very well then.” Colin looked to Miss Easterbrooke. “You and yours shall be tasked with looking out for the health and well-being of Lady Priscilla for the rest of her life.” He playfully cuffed the dog's ears. “If she should ever disappear again, or become inexplicably ill, or develop an unexplained limp, or hiccup, or even fart before she reaches a ripe old age, it shall be upon your head. Am I clear?”

“Yes, of course,” she said, fresh tears softening the great angles of her face. “But however shall I do such a thing? I hardly know Lady Nesbitt-Normand.”

“Then I would suggest you become her closest confidante,” Colin sniffed.

She blanched at his tone, shrinking back against Alvin again. “Yes.” Her eyes dropped to the warehouse floor. “Of course.”

“As for you”—Colin shifted his gaze to Elsa—“it will be simple. You will go back to the Nesbitt-Normand estate tonight, pack your things, write a lovely, maudlin note explaining how responsible you feel for Lady Priscilla's disappearance, and be gone from the whole of England before anyone in the household rises. And should I ever spot your sour face in our charmed city again I shall have you permanently shipped back to Prussia before the Kaiser can get word to his beloved grandmother. Is
that
clear?”

“Gehen bumsen sich, Du bombastisches Arschloch!”
she blasted back.

“Reizende Methode, damit eine Dame spricht,”
he shot back.

“Please . . .” Edwina Easterbrooke pulled herself free of Alvin's supporting grip. “Please do as he says. I shall pay you to go. I shall give you a hundred pounds.”

Elsa's face slowly shed its look of revulsion as she considered the offer. “You vill pay me von hundred
und
fifty or I vill not go.”

“Y-y-yes,” Miss Easterbrooke stuttered. “Fine. Come with us now.”

“Von hundred fifty pounds,” Elsa reiterated.

“Yes, yes,” Miss Easterbrooke repeated as Alvin helped her back into her carriage.

Elsa turned on Colin.
“Ich hoffe du fäule in der Hölle,”
she seethed.

“If I do”—he offered a tepid smile—“you're sure to be right there with me.”

The Easterbrooke carriage lurched forward, heading for the door of the warehouse before Elsa had the chance to hoist herself back up onto her own. She reared back and whipped her tethered horse, and I wondered why I hadn't noticed that cruel streak in her before. If she had any propensity toward animals I had yet to see evidence of it.

“We shall return the prodigal daughter to Lady Nesbitt-Normand first thing tomorrow morning,” Colin called after Elsa, “and will look forward to noting your absence.”

Elsa hollered something back, but there was far too much clattering of hooves and wheels to hear what it was.

“Extraordinary,” I muttered as we started out.

“That woman is as delicate as an ox,” he said. “She'd do better to train bulls than small dogs.” He turned to me and his nose curled. “Let's do get that vile cloak back to the lads and have them take dear Lady Priscilla to Mrs. Behmoth. She can coddle the pup 'til morning. It's time for Lady Stuart to make good on her promise of value for us.”

“At this hour?” I yanked out a handkerchief and wiped at my face, cleaning the mud off as best as I could.

“This hour”—he frowned at me—“is perfect. The lady is bound to be at home.”

I stuffed the cloth into a pocket of the cloak and glanced at my watch. We had little more than sixteen hours left. He
had
to be right about Lady Stuart.

G
etting a carriage out of Wapping proved harder than we'd expected, which forced us to walk some distance down Fleet Street before Colin finally managed to hail a decrepit coach to take us back to Lancaster Gate. We said little as we clattered past Saint Paul's before taking a hard right and passing through Covent Garden and Oxford Circus. While Colin absently teased a half crown around his hand, I worried that no one would even answer the door at Lady Stuart's house. Given that the moon had already crossed the center point of the sky, I knew midnight was near.

By the time we reached Lancaster Gate it was to find the street entirely empty. Rows of street lamps flickered from within their glass cocoons, their gentle hiss the only sound beyond the hollow echo of our horse and carriage. Even the wind seemed to be holding its tongue, without so much as a leaf rustling.

Our driver stopped in front of Lady Stuart's, her dahlias awash in moonlight, revealing a display in variant shades of gray. There was a distinct order to the house and grounds that seemed to reflect a certain willfulness. I hadn't noticed it before, but as we arrived at this inconceivable hour to confront her with the captain's letter I was struck by the force of it. Had she been playing us for fools all along?

Colin handed the fare to the driver and I watched as the coach pulled away, the clacking of the horse's hooves gradually receding down the street. The moment was abruptly ruptured by the sound of Colin pounding on the door, sending me hurrying up the walk after him. On such a quiet night I was convinced he would wake the whole of the neighborhood.

“Colin . . . ,” I hissed before realizing the dearth of alternatives open to us.

He wisely ignored my brief reproof, remaining focused on the door, and before another moment could pass he raised a fist again and applied the whole of his considerable determination against it. “If we don't get an answer in one minute,” he growled, “then we shall bang on every window until someone in this blasted house responds!”

I nodded, knowing he meant it. Once again the thought occurred to me that perhaps no one was
in
the house, stirring a cold discomfort in my belly. Had this clever woman known we would come back? My nerves began to fray as the sweep hand on my watch soldiered on. Even when Colin let loose with both fists in a barrage of frustration and outrage I feared we had been defeated. We had simply run out of time.

“Cut that bloody bangin' before I blast your buggered head off!”
an outraged male voice bellowed. “Who in the bleedin' hell is out there?”

“Colin Pendragon and Ethan Pruitt, and I will thank you to open this door at once.”

“The hell I will. Sod off, ya shite.”

“Not until I speak with your daughter!” Colin hollered back. “Now open this ruddy door or I
will
do it for you.”

“How dare you!” he yelled, and then, quite unexpectedly, fell silent.

Not another sound emanated from within for several minutes, although a reflective glow from several lamps could now be seen through the prism of glass set high in the door. I fully expected Colin to launch himself into another attack, but he held himself still, and after longer than even my patience could bear the door finally swung open to reveal Lady Stuart wrapped in a burgundy night coat, her thick black hair tied back with a ribbon of the same color. In spite of our appalling intrusion and the ferocity with which her father had tried to repel us, she managed to offer a generous smile that looked as inviting as it did genuine.

“Come in,” she said, stepping back, a candelabra held aloft. “I must apologize for the ill-mannered greeting, but we are not used to visitors at this hour.”

“It ain't right!” her father snapped from somewhere in the darkness behind her.

“That will do,” she said without pretense as she led us back to the study. “Why don't you go and fetch us some tea.”

“You mustn't make a fuss,” Colin insisted. “It is enough that we are here at such an hour.”

“Nonsense.” She waved her father off, garnering a sneer before he turned and strode from the room, swinging his lamp angrily. “It will give him something to do besides glare at us.”

We settled ourselves for a moment while Lady Stuart lit several more lamps, but before she could turn the room into any sort of blazing normalcy Colin could contain himself no longer and started in. “You mustn't go to any more trouble. We won't stay but the time it takes to show you what we have brought. And then . . .” He let his voice trail off, but she did not seem to hear the threat lingering there.

“It is simple enough to make a guest feel welcome,” she said easily. “It doesn't matter the hour of the day.” She laid a couple logs atop the embers in the fireplace and poked them back to life, instantly releasing a bit of warmth into the chilled space. I was grateful for the heat and found myself relaxing in spite of my inherent tension at being here. “I am certain . . . ,” she said as she slid the fireplace screen back into place and sat down, “. . . that the two of you wouldn't be here if it was not urgent.”

“I appreciate your faith,” Colin answered simply. “And you are correct.” He nodded toward me and I pulled Captain Bellingham's letter from my jacket pocket. “We were shown a letter this evening that was written to you by Captain Bellingham. He composed it three or four months ago and gave it to his attaché with explicit instructions that the lad deliver it to you should anything happen to him. While it was meant for your eyes only, I am sorry to tell you that a major in Her Majesty's Life Guard took it upon himself to open it this evening once its existence became known. The letter”—he nodded to me again and I handed it to her—“would seem to discount some of your previous statements.”

Her brow pinched as she glanced down at the missive and read it, her eyes flicking across its few lines rapidly. Once finished, she went back to the top and read it again, poring more carefully over it the second time. Only then did she finally look over at Colin and say, “This letter may have been intended for me, but it was not written by Trevor.”

“No?” Colin's face revealed nothing.

“It is not his handwriting.” She stood up and went over to a desk on the far side of the room, pulling it open to reveal several small drawers and a host of cubbies too numerous to count. She reached in and seized a thick packet of folded papers tied together with a ribbon. With the letter in one hand and the folded notes in her other, she came back and handed it all to Colin.

“See for yourself,” she said. “These are all from Trevor. There”—she pointed to the bottom of the one Colin had flipped open—“you can see his signature.”

He turned the note toward me and I could indeed see Trevor's name scribbled across the bottom in a smooth, fluid hand. His writing appeared languid and unhurried, strikingly different from that in the letter he had given to Corporal Blevins. But while the card was nothing more than an enquiry for an invite, the letter had clearly been written in a state of immense agitation. I couldn't help but think the hand of any person would change under such circumstances.

I suspected Colin was mulling the same possibility as I watched him flip through the handful of notes Lady Stuart had given him. He kept glancing back and forth as he sorted through them, and when he reached the bottom of the stack he slid the whole of the writings to me before standing up and wandering over to the fireplace.

I studied the handwriting on the letter as I peered from one note to the next, all innocuous blather about visiting, or thanks, or the impending inclement weather. None of it compared to the desperate wrath contained in the note Corporal Blevins had been entrusted with. Yet even so, I could find no similarities. There were stark differences in the capital letters and subtler divergences in much of the rest. By the time I looked up again I understood what Colin had seen. It was exactly as Lady Stuart had said—the vitriolic letter had not been written by Captain Bellingham at all.

“Then who wrote this?” I asked.

Colin turned from the fireplace and leveled his gaze on Lady Stuart. “Do you know?”

“I give you my word that I haven't the faintest notion.”

His eyes remained fixed on her. “Then why did he want this brought to you?”

“Surely I've made that clear by now. Trevor and I were like family. He knew he could count on me if something were to happen to him. To see that his honor would be upheld or his family taken care of—” Her voice faltered as she looked away, her eyes momentarily reflecting the firelight. “If I knew
anything
. . .”

Colin stood there, staring at her, the two of them looking as though engaged in a contest of wills before he quietly asked, “This letter is written
to
Captain Bellingham, isn't it?”

She glanced away and released a burdened sigh before finally answering, “Yes.”

“Was it someone in his regiment?”

“I don't know. He would never tell me.”

“Did his wife know?”

Her gaze softened as she looked back at the fireplace and I thought she might be on the verge of tears, but when she spoke her voice remained strong and clear. “In the end, she must have suspected.”

Lady Stuart's father abruptly shuffled in with a rattling tray of cups, saucers, spoons, creamer, sugar, and a pot with an ill-fitting lid. He seemed oblivious to the tension in the room as he set the things with a heavy thud onto the table and began pouring. “Do ya take cream and sugar?” he mumbled without looking up.

“We have imposed enough already,” Colin said, catching Lady Stuart's eye. “I apologize for having interrupted the middle of your night this way. You have been most gracious.”

“I only wish I knew more,” she said.

Her father looked up with irritation. “You're not staying for tea?”

“We cannot.” And with that, Colin nodded to Lady Stuart and headed for the door. “Sorry about your efforts,” he added without conviction. “We shall see ourselves out.” Lady Stuart looked stricken as I walked past her, the toll of what she had told us evident on her ashen face.

As soon as we passed beneath the nearest street lamp I took a moment to yank out my watch and was disheartened to discover it nearly one o'clock. I had little more than four hours before I was to meet Corporal Bramwood outside of Buckingham to return the captain's letter to him. “Shouldn't we get a cab?” I sighed heavily.

“Yes,” Colin muttered under his breath. “We're certainly not walking all the way to the Irish barracks.”

“Where?”

“We must pay another visit to Sergeant Mulrooney. The extent of his distaste for his brother-in-law seems quite clear now. He owes us some answers.”

With exhaustion weighing heavily upon my brain, I longed to protest, but the incessant ticking of the watch stowed deep within my pocket assured me that there would be no rest tonight.