The Bellingham Bloodbath

by Harris, Gregory

  “Yes,” I heard myself reply with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm as I forced myself forward. I passed a compact bathroom with sparkling white tiles and porcelain fixtures, reminding me yet again of just how lovingly this flat had been maintained. Without particularly meaning to I stopped at the bedroom door and stared at the highly polished recessed panels with their circular grain visible within a warm sheen of oily wax. The meticulous attention of Mrs. Bellingham was everywhere.

  Knowing Corporal Blevins must be wondering what I was doing, I finally reached out and twisted the cut-glass knob, pushing the door open with less determination than would ordinarily have been natural. As the room slowly revealed itself, a bed came into view, the covers appearing to be in a natural state of disarray until the far side was exposed. Here the blankets had been carelessly heaved asunder, no doubt by the coroner’s extracting Gwendolyn Bellingham, leaving a large, rust-colored stain splashed across the pillow. It was obvious she had not been meant to survive.

  A heavy thud on the staircase rattled me and sent me back out to the hallway, where I was surprised to find Sergeant McReedy bounding up. His face was grim and I wondered if Major Hampstead had countermanded his orders of cooperation when I caught sight of a mane of white hair trailing in McReedy’s wake. Inspector Emmett Varcoe of Scotland Yard bobbed into view hard on his heels.

  “Where’s Pendragon?” Sergeant McReedy’s eyes shifted from me to Private Blevins, who had snapped to attention.

  “I haven’t found him yet,” I answered. “I suppose he is in the attic.”

  “Right!” McReedy snapped, rounding the landing and continuing up.

  Inspector Varcoe glared at me as he hurried past. “Don’t you touch anything, Pruitt,” he seethed.

  I held my tongue as I fell in line behind his accompanying bobby as they ascended the narrow attic stairs. Corporal Blevins did not follow but remained where he was and, I guessed, would continue to do so until he received a command to do otherwise. I glanced up and watched as Sergeant McReedy shoved his weight against the attic door and barreled inside.

  “The inspector demands a word,” I heard him say as I rushed up. Sergeant McReedy, Inspector Varcoe, and his dour escort were standing in a broad semicircle around Colin and Private O’Fallon. They looked like they were surrounding their prey and I could see that Colin, the sergeant, and Varcoe were indeed sizing one another up.

  I took the opportunity to glance about and was amazed by the number of boxes piled along the walls all the way to the exposed beams of the ceiling. Each was carefully marked: baby clothes (boy), holiday ornaments, old clothes, linens, dishes, winter things, and so many more that I could not begin to take them all in. Half a dozen large trunks stood on my right with several well-used travel cases. Yet even though this was a place for storage, just as with the rest of the flat, it was immaculately maintained. There was no film of dust across any surface or aging grime marring the small, round window at the far end of the space. All of which conspired to make the scene at the center of the room that much more gruesome.

  A straight-backed chair stood oddly canted, segregated from the neatly assembled artifacts nearby. Short coils of roughly hacked rope were haphazardly scattered about the chair’s legs and there was a dark umber stain on the floor beneath it, demarcated in a great, violent spray. A large swath extended out behind the chair in what looked to be more than four feet in diameter. Even as I tried to process the sheer brutality, I noticed a horde of burnt matchsticks tossed about the base of the chair, caught in the viscous burgundy offal.

  “You, sir . . . ,” Inspector Varcoe bellowed at Colin, “. . . are standing in the middle of a crime scene being investigated by Scotland Yard!”

  “I am here at the invitation of Her Majesty’s Life Guard,” he answered with remarkable restraint.

  The inspector’s normally translucent face purpled. “I don’t give a piss, Pendragon. I haven’t agreed to allow rabble off the street in here.”

  “Rabble, is it?” Colin exhaled blithely.

  “Officer!” Varcoe barked as he wheeled on the young bobby he had brought with him. “Remove this interloper at once.”

  “I don’t think Major Hampstead will be pleased to hear you have thrown me off a case he has hired me to assist with.”

  “I don’t give a bloody wank what he thinks.” He turned and glared at his supplicant. “Now, Officer!”

  “Just a moment, Inspector.” Sergeant McReedy shifted his weight, allowing his tall, ramrod bearing to overtake everyone in the room by several inches. “I happen to care what Major Hampstead thinks. And if he wants Mr. Pendragon here, then I will ask you not to interfere unless I receive orders instructing otherwise.”

  Varcoe’s face transcended to a black shade of plum as he whirled on the sergeant. “This is a Scotland Yard investigation, you little tosser! It falls under my jurisdiction.”

  “It is the murder of a guardsman and his wife,” the sergeant brusquely corrected. “And Her Majesty views that as an attack on her own personage. So while Mr. Pendragon is in the employ of this regiment, you had best consider him a direct representative of our sovereign.”

  “You do not mean that.”

  “I do,” Sergeant McReedy said simply. “He stays. You will not interfere with the Queen’s business unless I receive orders from Major Hampstead. Make no mistake, Inspector, I can have you and your man forcibly removed.”

  Varcoe sucked in a long, reedy breath before abruptly spinning on his heels. “We shall see about that, Sergeant,” he fumed, and then disappeared down the stairs, his uniformed escort fumbling behind in his wake.

  Colin pursed his lips as he turned back to the single chair and its bloodied carnage. “It’s not likely to take long for him to come back with the authority he’ll need to permanently expel us, so I suggest we waste no time.”

  “This is the Queen’s business,” the sergeant repeated with the earnestness of one who has not yet fully realized the subtleties of Parliament.

  “And so it is . . . ,” Colin replied absently, kneeling behind the chair and poking at one of the frayed pieces of rope with the end of a small knife he’d pulled from his pocket. “But with Victoria at Sandringham, that lot of Yarders will have stomped this scene to uselessness before you can come up with a royal decree forbidding their intrusion. They are still the standard-bearers.” He plucked one of the spent matches out of the coagulated smear with a pair of tweezers and carefully rotated it in front of his eyes. “Tell me, Sergeant, how were these matches used against Captain Bellingham?”

  “He was burned with them.”

  Colin glanced up at the sergeant and flatly muttered, “Yes.” He dropped the match into his handkerchief and plucked up another. “But where was he burned?”

  Sergeant McReedy hesitated, and before he answered I knew what he was going to say. “His thighs and abdomen.” He paused. “And his groin.”

  Colin ceased poking about long enough to look up. I could see a fire behind his eyes and suspected this information had not come entirely as a surprise to him. “Anywhere else . . . ?” His voice gave nothing away.

  “You’ll have to ask the coroner.”

  Colin stood up. “Of course. And might I trouble you to show me the bottom of your boot?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Your boot. May I see the bottom of your boot?”

  “Are you inferring that I am a suspect?”

  Colin flashed a tight grin. “I am not a man of inferences, Sergeant. You are absolutely a suspect, as is every person who came into contact with the Bellinghams within the last six months. Now may I see your boot?”

  The sergeant scowled as he quickly raised a boot for Colin to inspect. “Satisfied?”

  He nodded. “Indeed. I have only one last question.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Do you have any reason to believe that your captain might have been having an affair?”

  “Really, Mr. Pendragon. Captain Bellingham was my superior
officer. He was a good man, a fair man, and that’s all I needed to know.”

  “It is a simple question, Sergeant.”

  “It’s true,” Private O’Fallon abruptly spoke up. “I knew him to visit a Lady Dahlia Stuart on several occasions. You should ask Corporal Blevins.”

  “That’s enough, Private!” the sergeant snapped. “You will not tarnish our captain’s memory with innuendo.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “For what it’s worth”—Colin moved out from behind the chair as he tucked the handkerchief with its bloodied matches into his coat pocket—“it is not my intention to denigrate anyone, only to solve these murders. The victims do not answer to me.” He moved to the door and paused to study the carnage one last time before locking his eyes on me. In that instant I could see that he had already ferreted something out. There was something nestled in his gaze, if only no more than a hunch. “We are finished here,” he said. “No need to see us out, Sergeant.” He turned and headed down without another word.

  “Thank you both,” I said as I went after him, hopeful that he was right about the solution being there for the taking. I allowed a wave of optimism to lift my spirits, unaware that he had hatched a plan that would force me into a most dreadful place. And from there, it would only get worse.

  CHAPTER 3

  “I can tell you’ve already got some suspicion,” I said the moment we climbed into the cab he’d hailed.

  “I think you know me better than that,” he answered vaguely, a glittering crown already spinning absently between his fingers.

  “Meaning?”

  “We’re at the start of the case. Don’t you think we would do ourselves a great disservice by jumping to conclusions just yet?”

  “That may be,” I cajoled. “But I can still tell you’re considering something.”

  “I am considering the facts,” he said with pointed finality. “So let us start with what we know. Someone arrives at the Bellingham flat late at night, late enough for Mrs. Bellingham to have already retired to bed, and yet he is granted access by the captain, as evidenced by the lack of a forced entry. That would suggest it was not only someone he knew, but knew well.

  “Given that there seemed to be no sign that they dallied anywhere downstairs, I would say the captain took his visitor directly to the attic. Once there, the captain is overpowered and bound to the chair. After he is incapacitated, the perpetrator goes back downstairs and rigs young Albert’s door to ensure he won’t be able to open it, and then moves down the hall to the Bellinghams’ bedroom, where he brazenly murders the captain’s wife. She clearly had no idea what was about to happen, as she had not even gotten out of bed. Only then did the murderer go back upstairs to begin his ritualistic torture of the captain before finally, at some point, putting a bullet in his head.”

  “He was shot in the head . . . ?”

  Colin glanced at me. “It’s how he was killed. The matches . . . the burning . . . those are what the crime was about. If I can figure out their purpose, then I believe I shall know who did this.”

  “Why were you so intent on looking at Sergeant McReedy’s boot?”

  “There’s a partial boot print in the blood beneath the chair. A swath that covers about three-quarters of the toe area. I wanted to see if the sergeant’s boot was a match.”

  “And was it?!”

  He nodded. “It is. But there’s no telling how many guardsmen have been up there since the body was found.” He resettled his gaze on the passing scenery, the coin continuing to flip smoothly between his fingers, and all I kept thinking about was how we had only three days left.

  As our flat came into view I spotted a large forest-green carriage with four sidelights pulled by two roan stallions. There was a well-dressed driver perched on its top and the door had a regal-looking crest emblazoned upon it of wheat sheaves and arrow quivers. “Are we expecting someone?” I asked as Colin stuffed the crown back into his pocket.

  “We are now,” he said as he swung the door open and hopped out before the cab had come to a full stop.

  I settled the fare quickly yet was not surprised to find that Colin had already disappeared inside by the time I was done. With a heaved sigh, I pushed through the door, nearly barreling into Mrs. Behmoth.

  “Always laggin’ behind!” she groused as she stabbed her fists onto her hips. “You got a right lady up there wot needs yer ’elp on a case. She’s breakin’ me ’eart, so get up there with ’im and I’ll fetch ya some tea.”

  “What case? We can’t take a new case.”

  She narrowed her eyes as she stepped around me and stalked off to the kitchen, the swinging door her only response. I headed upstairs, knowing it would be difficult for Colin to refuse Mrs. Behmoth if she was demanding he help someone. In our nearly thirteen years together I couldn’t remember her ever taking any sort of interest in a case. I only hoped Colin’s better senses would overrule.

  As I reached the landing I spied a heavyset older woman sitting on the settee across from Colin. She was outfitted in black crinoline, her wealth evident in both the volume of lace swirling about her neck and sleeves and the tiny offset hat with its black pearl lace veil that partially hid a soft, broad face. There were streaks of tears evident on the woman’s face and her eyes were red rimmed, making our guest appear quite the sorrowful sight.

  “Ah—” Colin jumped up as I moved around beside him. “Lady Nesbitt-Normand, may I present my partner, Ethan Pruitt. We are a package deal and you will find yourself ever the better for it.”

  The woman nodded and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief as Mrs. Behmoth came bustling back up with a tray of tea and biscuits. She shoved them at Colin before hurriedly turning back to our guest, asking after her as though we were not even there. Colin took no note of it as he fussed with the tea, dropping a lump of sugar and a healthy skosh of cream into our visitor’s cup, which elicited the first sniffling words I heard her say: “May I have a bit more cream, please?”

  “Of course.” He started to add another dollop, but before he could right the little pitcher she leaned forward and seized the back of his hand, dumping in a good deal more. He gave an easy smile as he topped the cup with what tea he could fit before handing it to her. “There you are—”

  Before she even properly grabbed the cup Mrs. Behmoth snatched up the plate of biscuits and held them out. “I make these meself.”

  “You’re a godsend,” our guest hiccupped as she patted the seat beside her. “Do sit by me. I find you such a comfort.”

  Mrs. Behmoth immediately slid in next to the woman and squeezed her arm. It was disconcerting, seeing our Mrs. Behmoth fuss over someone.

  “I must apologize for my behavior,” our guest continued in a cracked and wearied voice. “I have heard a great deal of you, Mr. Pendragon, though I never imagined that I would ever require your services.” Her voice broke as she started to weep again. “Please forgive me—”

  “You’ve nothing to apologize for,” Colin soothed. “Take your time.”

  “It is the most awful thing,” she went on after a moment, dragging the napkin across her eyes and leaving a gray streak of liner on one cheek. “It’s the Lady Priscilla. . . .” She shook her head as she wilted against Mrs. Behmoth.

  “That’s awright, me dear.”

  Lady Nesbitt-Normand returned a feeble smile before finally managing to say, “She has been kidnapped. . . .”

  “How awful.” Colin leaned forward. “Is she your daughter?”

  “Not as such—”

  “Ah—” Colin nodded as his brow knit with a comprehension that escaped me. “Dreadful.”

  “She’s only five and has never left the yard on her own before. Not ever. She’s been taken. I just know someone has taken my little girl—”

  “The yard . . . ?” I repeated foolishly, and even as I said it I realized what she was talking about.

  “Of course,” she sniffed, tossing an impatient glare at me. “She had gone out for her morning constitut
ional and disappeared. She is a prizewinning bitch, you know, though she’s every bit a daughter to me.”

  “Of course she is.” Colin gave a solemn nod.

  “She’s not just a two-time British champion; she is my pride and joy.”

  “Lady Priscilla . . . ,” I repeated, glancing at Colin with disbelief and yet not at all surprised to see the frown blotting his face. He was forever on about our getting a dog ourselves, and perhaps I would consider it if I did not fear he would get along with it better than with anyone else.

  “Lady Priscilla Elizabeth Windsor Hanover Nesbitt-Normand, to be precise.” Lady Nesbitt-Normand beamed. “She is my life.”

  “Ain’t ya just precious?!” Mrs. Behmoth cooed. “ ’Ave another biscuit.”

  “You are a saint,” our bereaved guest clucked as she reached out and swept up several more of the buttery treats.

  “When was the last time you saw your Priscilla?” Colin asked.

  “Early this morning.”

  “I must be honest. . . .” I cringed at what his honesty might entail. “It may be that your girl is only suffering a heat and has gone off to avail herself of the local houndage. You might wait a day and see if she doesn’t come back all the better for it.”

  Lady Nesbitt-Normand recoiled. “She is a champion pug, Mr. Pendragon, not some street cur.”

  “No doubt. Nevertheless, our four-legged friends are not known for their selectivity.” He stood up and moved to the fireplace, snatching up his little derringer.

  “Do you mean to dismiss me, Mr. Pendragon?”

  “You must understand . . . ,” I cut in, worried that he might actually be considering taking the case, “. . . we’ve just this morning been requested to attend the Buckingham Life Guards on a matter that will preclude us from being able to do anything else for the next several days.”

  She popped up on the settee, her eyes bulging. “Are you referring to those awful Bellingham murders? That poor captain and his wife . . . ?” She shook her head. “Are you really to be on that case?”