The Bellingham Bloodbath (7 page)

C
olin and I were placed in a holding room for what felt like hours. The room was little more than a closet with a couple of chairs and a small table. More than an hour did creep by before Colin was finally allowed to send word to his father, and it took an additional three hours before Sir Atherton Rentcliff Pendragon, at long last, appeared at the door to our lockup, a great scowl on his broad, leathery face.

“What have you gotten yourself into this time, boy?”

“It's that bollocky bastard, Varcoe,” Colin exploded, though I felt entirely culpable myself.

“Varcoe?” Sir Atherton yawned. “You mustn't pay him any heed.” Though Sir Atherton is several inches shorter than Colin, he still retains an air of unquestionable authority due, in equal parts, to his years as Her Majesty's envoy to India and his wild mane of silvery hair.

“That man tries to thwart me at every turn!” Colin growled.
“And today of all days!”

“Today? And why should today be different from any other? Really now, boy, have I taught you nothing? You are such your mother's son.”

“I'm afraid it's my fault,” I confessed in the wake of Colin's glowering silence. “I've made a muck of things.”

“Now, Ethan”—his father gripped my arm with a smile—“I find that hard to believe. And no harm's done anyway, as the magistrate's an old chum of mine. I'll cut this short and introduce the both of you to him. He could prove useful to you if this sort of thing happens again,” he added with a wink.

Twenty minutes later we were standing outside Scotland Yard expressing our thanks to Sir Atherton. True to his word, he had not only gotten the case against us dismissed, but also his friend Magistrate Piper Cornwell had insisted we contact him should we ever have need of his services again. Considering Varcoe's propensity to impede us, that seemed more a matter of when than if.

Colin helped his father settle back into his carriage next to a lovely young woman. “My new secretary,” he said by way of introduction before leaning forward and whispering, “Haven't the foggiest memory what her name is.” He sat back with a cheery smile. “Do try to stay out of trouble, boy. And remember, you might try a little diplomacy now and then. It has certainly provided me a lifetime of work.”

“I've seen you blast your share of men!” Colin groused.

“I said now and then.” He flicked his eyes to me and gave a little shrug as he pounded on the roof of the carriage, sending it clattering off down the street.

As it disappeared around the corner, its wheels slipping easily into the well-worn divots in the cobbles, Colin turned to me. “What time is it?”

I fumbled for my timepiece. “Just past eight.”

“Bloody hell! This whole day is nearly gone and we've learned almost nothing.”

“I know. I'm sorry—”

“It isn't you,” he said in a tone that didn't convince me. Heaving a frustrated sigh, he spun about and stalked off. I fell in step beside him and quietly waited to find out what was next. The fullness of night had settled in, a cool breeze drifting in on the shoulders of a massive cloud bank to one side of the sky.

“You have to find Lady Simpson,” he said after several blocks, turning so suddenly that I nearly barreled into him.

“You mean Lady Stuart?”

“Yes. And anything you can about the men in Captain Bellingham's regiment. Where did they drink and whore? We have to learn something about them beyond their mutual respect and admiration for their sainted captain,” he scoffed.

“All right.” I nodded, though I had no idea how I would accomplish such a thing.

“It's imperative to find that lady.”

“Yes, of course,” I said.

“Very well,” he answered brusquely, starting down the street again. “See if you can find her tonight,” he tossed back over his shoulder.

“Tonight?!”
I sputtered, certain this was my punishment for having lost us so much time. “How am I going to do that?”

“How indeed.” He swung an arm out to hail a passing cab.

A two-seat hack pulled up and he climbed inside, taking up enough space to make it apparent I was on my own. “And where are you off to?” I called out.

“I've some poking around to do at Buckingham. Something is amiss beneath that bloody Guard's buttoned-up surface and I intend to get a notion of it. I need you to find that woman and anything you can about the off-hours of that lot.” He thrust an open palm out at me.

“Right,” I muttered halfheartedly as I handed over a fistful of sterling. “I'll see you later at the flat then.”

“Best not!” he bellowed as the cab lurched forward. “Meet me at Shauney's at ten. Mrs. Behmoth will have thrown our supper to the alley cats by now.”

“Fine,” I called back, acutely aware that I had only two hours to accomplish the tasks he had set for me. As I gazed at the throngs of people scurrying about I decided I would concentrate on the guardsmen first, as that was an area I knew decidedly more about. Given the type of information I was after, there was only one place I could think to go. So I hailed a cab and asked to be taken deep into Whitechapel. To the place where I had once tried to annihilate myself.

A
s we turned onto East Aldgate I noticed the driver's face sink into displeasure, so it came as no surprise when, less than a handful of minutes later, he abruptly pulled the coach up short at a corner some distance from where I wanted to go and announced that he would move no farther. I grumbled as I gave him nearly all the money I had left, shorting his tip for his cowardice, but in truth, I understood. These once familiar streets were troublesome and I knew that while the years had changed
me,
they had certainly not changed them.

I crossed the street at Shadwell on my way to Limehouse and was struck by how familiar everything looked. The same storefronts were sealed up by the same defaced wooden boards that lamented everything from taxes to graphic representations of the rumored relationship between Her Majesty and the late John Brown. It felt as though I had never left.

Every building was coated with a thick layer of soot, compliments of the chimneys clustered across their rooftops. The streets were no better, revealing what looked to be the same filth that had lain there when I had haunted these cobbled roads, which, were it not for the rain, would undoubtedly have been true.

As I picked my way along I couldn't help recollecting a time when my life, such as it was, felt simpler, if only because my sole desire had been to purge my head of the scourge that had driven my mother to murder. How I had feared the same fate.

There had been few friends back then, really nothing more than equally broken souls. We did the best we could to watch out for one another until someone overdosed, or got cut up, or simply disappeared. In the end, when I should have faded into the same anonymity as those around me, Colin had come from nowhere—a mere acquaintance on the occasions when I bothered to attend the Easling and Temple Senior Academy—and had quite literally changed everything.

I slowed and then stopped when I spied the rotted, brick-red door. It wasn't its condition that brought me to a halt—it looked just as it had the last time I'd been here—it was the circumstances under which I had last seen it. Addled and spent, tucked in Colin's intractable grip, I never thought I would ever come back. Yet here I was, facing the same door that had once compelled me so, beckoning me, urging me, promising the release that could only be found inside.

I glanced at the black sky and sucked in a deep lungful of pungent air, now tinged by the unmistakable scent of rain. As I reached for the broken doorknob I was suddenly overcome by the feeling that coming here was a mistake. Colin would be furious if he found out, and I was far from convinced that I was ready to confront these demons again. Yet I could see little choice. I had to do something and this was the only idea in my head. With grim determination, I pushed against the door and stepped inside.

It took my eyes a moment to adjust to the shadowed space beyond, but my nose was struck at once by the familiar, stale scent of decades of opium that permeated the walls more fully than the paint upon them. It caressed my brain just as it had once done, so I made myself move forward before it could force me to recoil back outside.

The place looked dingier than I remembered. It had never been a place one could describe as pleasing, but then no place built as a tenement would be. There had been tendrils of care about it at one time: fresh dabs of paint over the worst spots, a benign picture strategically placed atop the fist print of an unhappy customer, and inexpensive pillows in bright colors flung about to remind patrons that this was a place where exotic things happened. Now, however, any finery was gone, leaving the place looking indecently exposed. I could see a dusting of mildew on the barren walls and there were places where the paint had peeled off in great ragged chunks to reveal the uneven lath and plaster beneath.

As I stood viewing this once familiar room, I realized with a mixture of shame and relief that I had become quite coddled over the intervening years. Wasn't I the one forever grumbling about Mrs. Behmoth's behavior and the need for decorum? And yet I had once called this decaying den of debauchery home. I cursed my folly just as a gruff, scratchy voice called out from the darkness on the far side of the room: “Who is it? Who's there?!”

I recognized Maw Heikens's voice at once.

“It's Ethan, Maw,” I called back even as my heart ratcheted up in my ears.

“Move into the light so's I can see ya,” she said, her wariness evident.

I did as she asked, stepping into what little light filtered in from the streetlights outside. She hadn't lit any lamps, the price of oil no doubt being a concern. I knew gas wouldn't have been brought into the building. As I moved I caught a glimpse of her shadowy form hovering behind the oversized counter across from me.

“If yer who ya says ya is”—she did not move from the darkness as she spoke—“then what did I call ya when you was livin' 'ere?”

“Cuppy,” I answered.

“Ah . . .” Her voice softened. “You was cute as a cupcake back then. Cute enough ta eat.”

“And now?” I chuckled.

“Ach . . .” She waved me off, a bone-thin arm shooting out like a white blade from the blackness. “I'll bet yer just like the rest of 'em: growed up and worn down. Ya still with that peppery bloke?”

“Peppery?”

“Prancin' round like 'e ain't never stepped in 'orse shite. Ain't
nobody
never stepped in it, and that includes 'er almighty royal missus at the palace,” she sniffed. “But 'e did get ya outta here, didn't 'e?”

“Yes.” I couldn't help the smile that tugged at my lips. After all these years, she remembered. “We're still together.”

“Course ya are. You was always soft. You wasn't ever gonna make it on yer own. That's why I let ya go off with 'im. 'E 'ad the cleanest boots I'd ever seen.” She finally ambled out from behind the counter and I saw that she was stooped and pitched inelegantly forward, leaving her easily shy of five feet. Her body was as bony as the arm she'd swung in my direction, her skin mottled and opaque, looking like it was struggling to stretch over a conflagration of bluish veins. Her brown eyes were rheumy and watery, the left one clouded with the milky veil of a cataract. No wonder she had been leery of who I was.

“Siddown.” She gestured toward the skeletal remains of a high-backed chair across from where she settled in. I thought for a moment that I remembered it, but the fabric had faded to something unrecognizable and I couldn't be sure.

“Where's everyone gone?” I asked without thinking.

She leaned back in the chair and looked as if she might be swallowed by it. “Off ta better things,” she said. “As I got old most a the girls wanted ta go off and do fer themselves. Ungrateful twats. And then one a them that stayed turned up with the pox. Went crazy before she died. Like a fool I let her stay ta the end. That ended me business right fast. All I got left now is me lack a teeth. Some gents like that, ya know,” she chortled. “But I'll bet ya didn't come all this way ta listen to an ol' tart, did ya?”

“I'm sorry, Maw.”

“I don't give a fig about you bein' sorry!” she snapped. “What good's that gonna do me? I own this place. Can't nobody throw me out 'less they pay me off and ain't nobody
that
stupid,” she snorted. “So I just stay 'ere and take care a meself. Got a bit a money fetched up. Left ta me by that bloke used ta come by every Saturday, ya 'member?”

I nodded even though I had no recollection of any such man.

“Wouldn't 'is widow 'ave a bloody fit if she knew?!” she howled. “Get a nice check every month. Never fails. I was
that
good.”

“You did fine by me.”

She waved me off again. “You were a sorrowful little shite. I thought you was goin' daft. Just pitiful. All angles and limbs like one a them baby goats. Still, you did yer share round 'ere when you wasn't ripped outta yer damn 'ead, which was most a the time.” She leaned forward and peered at me, studying my face as though trying to determine the person I had become. “Why you 'ere, Cuppy? I'll bet yer bloke wouldn't like knowin' you was 'ere.”

“I'm sure you're right. . . .” I couldn't help smiling.

She chuckled and settled back in her chair. “Still soft.”

I shook my head, but I knew she was right. I'd not even been able to properly obliterate myself all those years ago. “It's about a case Colin's working on,” I pressed ahead. “A captain in the Life Guard and his family.”

“You talkin' 'bout those Bellingham murders?”

I nodded. Of course she would know. There was little Maw didn't know. It's why I had come here in the first place. “I'm looking for any information you might have on the men of the regiment. . . .” I let my voice drift off so she could infer what I really wanted.

“Some a the boys come down this way from time ta time. Mostly to McPhee's on Haymarket. They don't come 'ere. Nothin' for 'em 'ere.”

“I don't know McPhee's—”

“A right bastard wot overcharges for watered-down booze. But it's cheap. And he's got the young slags there. Mostly from them Slavic places. All exotic if ya don't look at 'em too close. Has a bit a gamblin' too, but no opium. You wouldn't like it.” She laughed.

I ignored her barb. “The Guard's officers too?”

She shrugged her bony shoulders. “Not so much. A few a the sergeants, but no one higher up. They had some trouble a few months back . . . some sort a brawl . . . some a their brass had a rout with a bunch a Irish blokes. I don't think them big boys has been back since.”

“What was it about?”

She shrugged again. “Prob'ly a piece a tail.”

I suspected she was right, which gave me the idea to ask about my other quest of the night. “Have you ever heard of a woman named Dahlia Stuart? Lady Dahlia Stuart?”

She twisted her features in thought, her good eye losing its focus for a moment. “Dahlia Stuart . . . ? What the 'ell kinda name is Dahlia? She one a them American prigs?”

“She's titled. She can't be American.”

“Ach . . .” She laughed. “Men get sloppy with the rules fer the right bit a arse. You wanna find yer lady, then find the man wot give 'er that title: some fat little dowdy sod with more 'air in 'is ears than on 'is 'ead, I'd bet. I'll ask round, but I ain't 'eard of 'er and I've 'eard a everybody.”

“True.” I smiled.

“It'll give me somethin' ta do. Got no business anymore. Gave up the opium. Thank the good Lord I can still take the occasional slog a ale.” She snickered.

I pulled out what little cash I was carrying and held it out to her. “Let me buy you some supper.”

“Don't do me like that.” She batted my hand away crossly, pushing herself back to her feet. “I been on me own since long before you was born. I don't need yer castoffs now.”

“It's payment,” I corrected. “For your time and effort.”

“Bugger off.” She turned and shuffled back behind the sagging counter. “I ain't takin' nothin' from you, Cuppy. Never 'ave and sure as 'ell ain't startin' now. You wanna give someone a bleedin' 'andout you go ta Saint Paul's. Those sots'll take anything.”

“I'm only offering a meal. You fed me more times than I can count.”

“Ya don't owe me nothin', ya little pisser. A couple cheap meals don't make up fer the things I did that was wrong back then. I wasn't no charity service. I was makin' plenty in them days.” She glared at me, her good eye acutely focused as she seemed to size me up one last time. “Don't come back 'ere, Cuppy. I find anythin' on yer lady or them Guard blokes, I'll get ya a message.” She turned and ambled through the doorway behind the counter.

“Thanks, Maw,” I said to her disappearing back.

I stood there a minute feeling swallowed by a sense of melancholia, the cloying scent of opiate smoke and soured alcohol as ripe as the leavings in the streets. It seemed that stirring up old ghosts had done little for either of us.

I started back down the hallway with a heavy sigh and heard her call out, “Ya look good fer yerself, Cuppy!” I couldn't bring myself to look back. I knew coming here had been a mistake, but it would be another twenty-four hours before I realized how critical an error I had made.