The Bellingham Bloodbath (8 page)

B
y the time I left Maw's building the cloud bank that had been assembling along the northern horizon had won its battle for the sky, leaving no stars visible. My mood was coinciding with the night. While I was pleased with the information I'd gotten about the regiment, I had no idea what to do about finding Lady Stuart. As I trudged back to Limehouse Street I swore I wouldn't be the reason Colin couldn't solve this case. No matter what, I was going to find the blasted woman somehow.

The wind caught my coat as I rounded the corner, slapping it against my thighs, but I gave it little thought as I concentrated on how Colin began every case he took, how he would start by assembling the facts, clinically and without prejudice. I tried to think of everything I knew about Lady Stuart. She had to be comely enough to attract a suitor such as Captain Bellingham, a young man of high regard with the promise of a long career in the Queen's service ahead of him. She was also likely either widowed or unsatisfactorily wed, given their affair and the apparent frequency with which they were able to carry it off. Last, she had to be a woman of questionable conscience to be involved in such an indiscretion with a married man. Which left me pondering whom I might be acquainted with who might know such a woman.

Few names came to mind. Abigail Roynton was one of them.

Mrs. Roynton was the well-connected neighbor of the Arnifour family and had been a valuable source of information in Colin's last case. If there was a highborn woman in this city, Abigail Roynton would almost certainly know something of her. So in spite of the fact that I had found Mrs. Roynton overbearing, unctuous, and wildly cloying where Colin was concerned, I could think of no other alternative as I crossed onto Shadwell Street, the demarcation between those who suffer in complete squalor and the merely downtrodden, and hailed a cab. The driver's dubious expression did not escape me as I instructed him to take me to the estates on the outskirts of the city's limits, so I made a show of jingling the coins in my pocket as I climbed into his carriage. Lucky for me that Maw had not accepted the last of my paltry funds.

Within thirty minutes we pulled up to the familiar iron gates outside the Roynton estate. I paid the driver and hopped out and was immediately struck by the overwhelming scent of rain. I looked up just as the sky shivered and rumbled with a staccato display of lightning, like a visual Morse code. Almost at once, the rain drew on me like a thief, tumbling from the willowy canopy of trees lining the long driveway. I raced the rest of the way up the drive but was well saturated by the time I reached the sanctuary of the porch. Stomping and sputtering, I reached out and banged the great looped knocker, conscious of the sight I would present to whoever answered.

“Yes?” Her houseman eyed me without expression.

I tried to coax a contrite smile as I gave my name and reminded him of my connection to Colin. As so often happens, his eyebrows rose at the mention of Colin's name, and he ushered me inside, bringing me to a library where a fire was thankfully ablaze. He offered me brandy, which I declined, but I did accept the chenille wrap he held out, grateful for its ability to blot my saturated clothing. I sidled up to the fire as soon as he left me alone, catching sight of the mantel clock. It was already nine: I had one hour left before I was to meet Colin at Shauney's.

As I warmed myself before the fire I tried vainly to keep from fretting about the time. Even so, I was grateful when a butler scuttled in with a tray of hot tea and a fresh blanket. He removed the wrap clinging to my shoulders, managing to avoid displaying an ounce of displeasure at its level of wetness, and replaced it so deftly that it was about me again before I realized the other was gone. He handed me a cup of tea before withdrawing with the stealth of a cat.

Within a few minutes I was able to shed the second wrap, and after the butler returned twice more to refill my tea and restoke the fire, and just before I was sure I was on the verge of apoplexy from waiting so long, the great wooden doors on the opposite side of the room swung wide to reveal the mistress herself. She was as striking as ever, her curly black hair piled up just so and wearing no more than a hint of makeup on her flawless skin. This was a woman who had clearly spent a lifetime protected from the harsh glare of the sun.

“Mr. Pruitt. What a pleasure,” she cooed as she swept into the room. “I hope you've had a chance to dry off some?”

“I have, thank you. Your staff has taken care to see that I am both warm and dry.”

“As they should.” She gestured to a seat across from where she settled herself. “What brings you out on such a night as this? Might you be working on something for the enchanting Mr. Pendragon?”

No wonder he had liked her so much more than I. “Indeed,” I answered rather coolly.

“And how is dear Colin? Pity he couldn't come himself.”

I froze the smile on my face and forced myself not to launch my tea at her. “Yes . . . well . . . I'm afraid he has more important things to attend to tonight,” I shot back cheekily.

She laughed. “I'm sure he does.”

Her laughter made me feel foolish. “He wanted to come himself,” I quickly backpedaled, “but he's quite involved in a new case, which is why I have had to impose upon you this evening. He's wondering if you might have knowledge of a titled woman he is most eager to find.”

“How amusing!” Her eyes flashed with merriment. “Dear Colin sent you to ask me about another woman?”

I chuckled as though there was the slightest amusement to be found in her words before saying, “Her name is Lady Dahlia Stuart. Have you heard of her?”

“Let me think. . . .” She tilted her head and sighed. “Dahlia Stuart . . .” She turned and stared disinterestedly at the fire. “I do believe I have heard of a woman by that name,” she conceded after what felt a protracted time. “Though I'm not at all sure about that title.”

“It's what we have been told.”

“No doubt.” She gave a thin smile. “It may be what she calls herself, but then everyone knows how cheaply titles and a whiff of respectability can be had these days.”

“Of course,” I answered in a tone so dry it nearly caught in my throat. “Do you know her by some other designation?”

“I know her exactly as you refer to her, though I don't believe she has come by her title properly.” She stared off vacantly. “I suppose she does have a vague sort of charm—”

I tried to keep the excitement from my voice as I continued to press her. “Would you happen to know where we might find her?”

“Lancaster Gate, I think. Not exactly the domain of those most noble, but I do believe you will find her slouching about there somewhere.”

“Outstanding.” And now an honest smile came easily. “I cannot thank you enough,” I said as I set my teacup down and stood up. “Mr. Pendragon will be most grateful.”

“Oh”—a Cheshire grin overtook her face—“I do hope so. Please give him my very best.”

“Of course.” I nodded as I headed for the door.

“Do let him know I'm here should he ever get lonely. . . .” She chuckled.

“Piss off,” I hissed under my breath.

S
hauney's pub looks as likely a place for mice to seek solace as humans. Shauney himself is a rail-thin, black-haired Irish bloke from County Cork with skin the color of paste, enormous brown eyes, and a smattering of whisper-light freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose. He likes to brag that his modest upbringing taught him to thrive in squalid conditions, and so it is with his pub. Yet Shauney's generous demeanor encourages patrons to look past the stacks of empty bottles lining the walls, the spittoons full enough to reach the ankle of any unlucky sod who happens to plant a foot in one, and the utensils and glassware that have had little more than a passing acquaintance with soap and water. But it is the food that is the pub's greatest attribute. For despite Shauney's scrawniness, his wife, Kathleen, with her flyaway red hair and ginger-spotted complexion, is an extraordinary cook.

The moment I made my way inside, the scents of stewing cabbage and corned beef, lamb shanks simmering in a rich tomato sauce, and warm soda bread swamped my nose. There were five or six people deep at the L-shaped bar to my left, and the wooden booths flanking the wall to my right were equally overflowing. Even the tables running down the center were awash with happy, drunken people shrugging off the burdens of another day.

I looked about but did not spot Colin, which was hardly surprising given the crush of patrons. With a weary sigh, I began pressing myself between the clots of people, glancing from side to side as I struggled to find the top of Colin's dusty blond head. As I neared the back wall I finally heard my name above the din before spotting Colin beckoning me from the rearmost booth. He was wearing an odd, lopsided grin, and as I struggled to make my way over to him I glimpsed a bit of dark hair and the broad shoulder of someone sitting across from him. I changed my trajectory, barely avoiding one of the girls hauling two fistfuls of ale, before I was able to see, with great surprise, that it was the gruff Sergeant McReedy in Colin's company. He looked decidedly more amenable at the moment, and I could tell by the empty tankards on their table that they'd been drinking and, given the number, plenty.

“You remember Sergeant McReedy?” Colin popped out of the booth to let me slide in. “A credit to his regiment and a hell of a dipso.”

“Ach . . .” He waved Colin off sloppily. “You flatter me.” He slammed his pint onto the table and laughed so hard that a bit of ale dripped from his nose.

“We've been talking about the case,” Colin said through a lethargic inebriation I spotted instantly as a fraud. “You've some catching up to do.”

Sergeant McReedy snickered, turning in his seat to get the attention of a harried barmaid slamming ales onto a nearby table. “Let me get ya somethin'.”

“Don't trouble yourself—” I started to say, but Colin's fist thumped my thigh and I knew he meant for me to join his mock revelry. “I'll get the young lady's attention myself. . . .” I gave a hearty chuckle as I beckoned for a server.

“That's better,” Sergeant McReedy snorted. “I like someone who knows when ta give it up and join them that's gettin' blistered.” He saluted his mug at me and tipped it back. A familiar barmaid weaved her way to us just as Sergeant McReedy flipped his empty glass upside down. The fifth one thusly arranged. “You got anythin' on that tray for me an' me friend?!”

She dropped two of the dark ales onto the table and held her hand out to Colin for payment. “You're really packin' 'em away tonight, Mr. P.,” she said as she counted out change.

“Well . . .” He handed her a few extra pence with a pointed glare. “Nothing wrong with a bit of hops now and then.” She took the pence with a noncommittal shrug and moved away.

“A touch a sass.” Sergeant McReedy leered after her.

“A touch a sass,” Colin echoed, hoisting his glass and toasting the sergeant, only to roll his eyes the moment the young man's head tilted back.

“Sass.” I lifted my ale. I started to take a sip just as I caught Colin shifting his glass to his left hand and smoothly lowering it beneath the level of the tabletop. Before I could figure out what he was doing the glass reappeared, lower of volume, and gleefully banged onto the table as though he had just enjoyed a hearty pull. I leaned back and stole a glance beneath the table and spied a spittoon nestled between his feet.

“I'd like to propose another toast!” Colin reached over and grabbed my mug just as Sergeant McReedy slid his gaze back. Now aware of the game, I snatched up Colin's half-filled tankard and lifted it up and, with little more than a taste on my breath, appeared to be well on my way to getting bloody, buggery drunk. “To your Captain Bellingham,” Colin said. “A kind and courageous man.”

“A hell of a leader.” The sergeant smacked his mug against ours.

“And to his wife,” I felt compelled to add.

“Dreadful awful,” Sergeant McReedy agreed before bottoming his glass and waving another barmaid over.

Colin waited until he'd been served again before speaking up. “The sergeant was just telling me he served under the captain for three years.”

“That's right.” He heaved a sigh and stared off. “You get to know a man in that time. He was solid. I never had any quarrel with him.”

“Nor, it seems, did any of his men. But you mentioned his wife's brother. . . .”

“Ach . . .” He scowled and downed another slug of ale. “Thomas Mulrooney. A bastard sergeant in the Irish Guard. A real tosser.” My ears perked at his mention of the Irish Guard, reminding me of what Maw had said about a brawl between them and the officers of the Life Guard a few months past. “Never had nothin' good ta say about the captain.”

“Did they ever have an altercation?” I tried to ask blithely.

The sergeant's eyes flicked over to me with such intensity that I dropped my gaze and took a drink. “It's the Guard, not a schoolyard,” he growled.

“Of course.” Colin smiled. “And what about Major Hampstead? Did Captain Bellingham ever confide anything to you about the major? Something in passing perhaps?”

“The Guard doesn't natter like a bunch of old women,” he scoffed, still holding himself tight. “If he had an issue with the major he wasn't talkin' to me about it.”

“I just wondered if you heard any rumblings. Men have been known to complain from time to time, you know.” He chuckled.

Sergeant McReedy stared off a moment and then drained his glass. “I'm done,” he said as he thumped his tankard onto the table and slid from the booth.

“One more?” Colin smiled.

The sergeant wouldn't meet his gaze as he shook his head and stalked off without another word, disappearing in the phalanx of people long before it would have been possible for him to reach the door.

“You certainly know how to empty a booth.” Colin eyed me. “What was that about?”

“I heard there was some sort of brawl between some men in the Irish Guard and a few of the Life Guard officers a couple months back. Happened at a tavern on the east side named McPhee's. When he mentioned Mrs. Bellingham's brother being in the Irish Guard and not liking the captain”—I shrugged—“I thought there might be a connection.”

Colin's brow creased. “Hard to believe there wouldn't be. And Lady Stuart . . . ?”

“Lancaster Gate.”

He beamed. “What would I do without you?!” He reached under the table and squeezed my hand. “Let's go home. I've had quite enough of this place for one night. I'll get Mrs. Behmoth to scrounge something up for us and we shall share what information we've learned tonight, as I've not been entirely without success myself.” He prodded me before I could press for a hint, and for the first time since he had accepted the case I allowed myself to consider that maybe, just maybe, he really would be able to solve these murders in the two and a half days we had left.