“Go on.” Her voice, edgy and determined, shook me from my thoughts. “Get out.”
“Right,” I muttered.
“That’s right!” she snapped.
I knew she had done us a great service just as I knew I would never get the chance to properly thank her. She would have none of it. That was her way. That had always been her way.
CHAPTER 21
Our next destination had also been prearranged, as the cab began moving the moment I climbed aboard. While Colin’s distraction was evident as he stared absently out the window, I couldn’t resist asking, “Are you okay?”
“Of course,” he answered.
“Then are we on our way to see Lady Stuart . . . ? Or whoever she is?”
“Shortly. But first we must pay a visit to that Captain Morgan-something. The other officer involved in the McPhee’s brawl.”
“You mean Edmund Morgesster.”
“Right.” He nodded. “I find it curious that two of the Life Guard officers from that night are dead and the third, this Morgesster, has been put out to pasture. That leaves only the tight-lipped Major Hampstead apparently unscathed. I’ve also got to find out what that Irish bloke, Mulrooney, had to do with it all. Interesting how his name keeps coming up.”
“Haven’t I been saying from the start that he seems too venomous to not be involved?” I reminded.
“Yes . . .” He slid a wry glance to me. “You have.”
I tried not to look too pleased with myself as our cab came to a stop in front of a soot-blackened building with a yellowed sign above its door that read: Regiment Arms Retirement Hotel. “This is it,” he said as he hopped out.
There was no issue with the driver waiting for us this time, as the neighborhood had improved significantly. Nevertheless, I doled out another half portion of our fare before following Colin into a foyer that was as immaculate in its upkeep as it was stark in its décor. White walls displayed nothing but a single cross of two modest sticks lashed together by thin strips of reeds and a plainly framed portrait of our Queen in her standard mourning regalia. Wooden chairs adorned with flattened cushions were arranged about the space in small pods, many of which were already cradling lonely-looking elderly gentlemen. Some of the men were reading while others seemed content to stare into space with a pipe or cigar clenched between their teeth. A few were huddled in tight groups around a card game or chess set, but none was so enamored of his activity that he didn’t pause to gawk as we entered.
A long counter stretched across the back of the room, behind which a middle-aged man worked stuffing mail into myriad little slots. Colin strode purposefully through the smattering of aged faces watching him with rapt attention, going right up to the counter and leaning across it to tap the attendant and announce our names. The man turned to consider us, a dearth of interest in his eyes, as Colin announced that we had an appointment with Captain Morgesster.
“He’s on the sunporch,” the man answered in a flinty tone. “Round back.” He gestured with his chin in the opposite direction from which we had come. “You can go on through”—he glared at us—“but don’t get him riled up. He’s too difficult to calm down again.”
“You make him sound like a miscreant hound.” Colin smirked tightly, making no promises as we headed out to the glassed-in portico.
The room extended from the back of the building into the center of a small, meticulously tended rose garden, giving the feeling that one was actually sitting in among their splendid brilliance. Several gentlemen in various states of slumber were seated about the atrium and yet Colin walked directly up to a heavyset man with a shiny red face and hairless pate. He looked like any of the other men here, some rounder, some leaner, some with white wisps of hair on their heads, but when Colin introduced us and the man bothered to look up I saw he had indeed selected the right one. I hadn’t realized the significance of his ruddy pallor or the spiderweb of blood vessels burst across the swollen tip of his nose. Private Newcombe had described him as a sot and the evidence of it was most clearly there on his face.
Colin dragged two wicker chairs over and we seated ourselves, cozying up to the doughy-faced former captain who did not appear to have the slightest curiosity as to why we were there. He continued to stare out the windows at the trim yard and I wondered if he was studying the roses or just not looking at us.
“I appreciate your meeting with us,” Colin said.
The man harrumphed.
“No doubt you are wondering why we’ve come.” There was no response. “We would very much like to ask about the night your friend, Wilford Newcombe, was attacked.”
“Attacked and killed,” he grunted. “Died a few days after it.”
“So we understand.” Colin leaned in slightly, trying to catch the man’s eye, but Captain Morgesster remained singularly focused on the out-of-doors. “You were there that night . . . ?” Colin prodded.
“You come all the way out here to be cheeky?” came the reply.
“Excuse me. . . .” Colin flopped back uncomfortably, one hand rubbing his belly as his face contorted slightly. “I must beg your indulgence,” he murmured as his other hand slipped into his jacket pocket. “I’ve a stomach ailment that requires a bit of brandy to keep it settled. I hope you won’t think me ill-mannered.” He withdrew a small silver flask and unstoppered it even as I struggled to withhold my surprise. “Perhaps you would care for a spot of medicine?” He held the flask toward Captain Morgesster and for the first time the man turned and looked at him.
“Medicine . . . , ” he clucked as he eyed the little container. “I prefer whiskey for my tender gut.” He reached down and pulled out his own flask from the garter around his calf. “But you’d best be discreet. The staff won’t tolerate self-medicating,” he chortled.
Colin nodded and gave a brief salute with the flask, taking a healthy pull before burying it into the crux of his seat. “Discretion it is,” he replied, chuckling.
“A stomach ailment.” The captain snickered as he took a swig and ran a sleeve across his mouth. “I’ll have ta remember ’at one.”
“I find the word ‘medicinal’ to be most forgiving.”
The captain wheezed out a great phlegmy guffaw, his hairless scalp momentarily resembling a plum. “You’re a pip.”
Colin took another quick pull from his flask before refastening the lid and stuffing the flask back into his pocket. His leisurely demeanor seemed to suggest we had all the time the day had to offer, but I was feeling fidgety. With slightly less than thirty hours remaining, I wondered why we were even here.
Captain Morgesster took several more tips of his flask before he said, “Guess my stomach is worse than yours.”
“You have my sympathies.” Colin smiled.
“You have mine,” he shot back as he turned to the garden again. “Didja ever notice . . . ,” he said after what felt an eternity, “. . . how the hummingbirds and bees visit the same flowers but never bother one another? Look at those hollyhocks. . . .” He gestured toward a small cluster of burgundy bell-shaped flowers at the opposite end of the yard. “Two creatures goin’ about their business without a care as to what the other’s doin’. Stands counter ta humans.” He turned and peered at Colin. “Know what I mean?”
Colin nodded.
“Everybody telling everybody how ta live. Nobody’s business is their own anymore. Maybe it never was. Hell if I know.” He drained the last of his flask and shoved it into his pocket. “That’s what happened that night at McPhee’s. Irish bastards set on us and wouldn’t let go. Like a pack a damn wolves. A major and three captains in Her Majesty’s Life Guard and they decide they know what’s what. Whoresons.”
“Had you seen them before?”
“Plenty a times. They were part a the Irish Guard. Third-rate, snot-nosed, potato-farming twats. That’s all they were. Guard brought ’em up on trial after Wilford died, but they couldn’t prove intent, so all they got was discharged. Shoulda lynched the bastards. No intent my fat, flabby
ass.”
“You believe they targeted Captain Newcombe?”
“It had nothin’ ta do with Wilford. That’s just the kind a man he was. A fight a his friend’s was a fight a his own. Not like his shite son, Avery. That tosser never earned a ruddy thing his whole life, including his rank.”
“Was a Sergeant Thomas Mulrooney there that night?”
“Trevor’s brother-in-law?” He scrunched up his face. “He’d already left by the time the fight started.”
Colin sighed and I could sense his frustration. “How did it start?”
Captain Morgesster shook his head. “I’m done talkin’.”
Colin leaned forward again, his eyes pleading. “If I’m to bring justice for the killings of Captain Bellingham and his wife . . .”
The captain waved him off without so much as a sideways glance. “Trevor’s at peace. Dashell Hampstead will take care of the rest,” he answered brusquely as he heaved himself out of his chair. “My stomach’s hurtin’. I think I need more medicine.”
I watched him trundle from the room and felt my hopes deflate with his every step. Little of what he’d said made any sense and what did seemed meagerly parsed out. I turned to Colin and found his eyes alight. “At last,” he reveled, “I believe we are finally getting somewhere. There is much to do this afternoon, but the key to this puzzle is almost certainly within our reach now.”
“What? He was talking nonsense.”
“He told us a great deal,” Colin answered with a great grin as he swept a crown from his pocket and leapt up. “You had best reconsider his words, for I am beginning to think you will find the very heart of this case in them.” He quickly spun the crown between his fingers as he headed out of the room.
CHAPTER 22
The Regiment Arms Retirement Hotel was not three miles from the Lancaster Gate house where Lady Dahlia Stuart, or Magdala Genovesse, lived. Our driver delivered us with great haste, almost as though he knew we had spent too much time with the captain. The fact of our lengthy stay was most glaringly underscored as we passed Big Ben and I noticed that the venerable timepiece was already flirting with the midday hour. I knew Colin had seen it as well when he released a frustrated sigh.
The moment Lady Stuart’s houseman—or father, if Maw Heikens was right—pulled the door open to find Colin and me standing there uninvited again, he permitted a sour expression to flit across his face before curtly informing us that Her Ladyship was not presently at home.
“When is she due back?” Colin pushed. “It is urgent that we speak with her at once.”
“I do not keep Madam’s schedule,” he sniffed.
“That’s all very well, but I’m afraid you must be her keeper today,” Colin volleyed back, “for her life may depend on it.”
“What?!” The man looked stunned, his veneer of impertinence cracking.
“A captain in the Queen’s Guard and his wife were murdered less than a week ago, and your daughter may unwittingly be involved!” Colin snapped, ending that charade.
The man blanched, gripping the doorknob like a lifeline, though he did not immediately respond. Tiny beads of perspiration sprouted across the philtrum of his upper lip and I feared he might be on the verge of swooning. It seemed a full minute passed before he quite slowly stepped back and nodded for us to enter. He brought us to the same sitting room we had been shown to before and offered us a seat. I settled in, but Colin remained standing, casually perusing the books on the shelves.
“I am an old man,” our host began as he sat down across from me. “I did my best. I have always done my best. Plenty of men would have left a hundred times over, but I stayed.” He sagged into the seat. “But I have been foolish. I have gotten soft and that poisons the soul.” He looked at me and I could see his eyes rimmed with ache, yet there was also something else nestled there, something watchful and keenly aware. “Any mistakes that were made are mine. You must not blame my daughter.”
Colin turned from the books. “Blame her for what?”
The man’s gaze tightened ever so slightly as he glanced toward Colin. “You said there’d been a murder—”
“Murders. Two of them.”
He shook his head. “That may be, but my daughter . . . Her Ladyship . . . would have nothing to do with such a thing. If anyone implicated her it was only to mislead you.”
“Really?” Colin flashed a tight smile. “You didn’t seem so concerned when you were playing the houseman—”
“Ohhhhh!” The old man clutched his chest and grimaced. “Water . . . ,” he choked, tugging his collar open with a clawed fist. “. . . I need some water—”
Before I could move, Colin was already headed for the small bar at the far side of the room, leaving me to go to the man’s side to see what I could do. His face had already begun to turn pink as I leaned him forward and struck the middle of his back with a firm clap, though I was actually unsure whether he was choking or suffering some sort of seizure. He sputtered and yanked his collar looser even as his color deepened, making me decide not to try that again. I glanced up and was relieved to find Colin already holding out a half-filled tumbler.
The old man gripped the glass with trembling hands and began to take a long pull, but before he could even swallow he dropped the tumbler and spat the contents out in a single hissing spray. “Damn you!” he hollered at Colin, rising to his feet with the red-faced fury of a man twice his height and half his age. “You tryin’ ta kill me?”
“Kill you?!” Colin’s eyebrows lifted, a casual expression settling over his face. “I should think not. In fact, it would seem that bit of vodka has cured both your attack and your performance.”
“V-v-vodka?!” I stammered.
“Ya right bastard!” the old man growled, dragging a sleeve across his lips as he spat into the fireplace. “If I were a younger man I’d thrash ya.”
“You may be an old man,” Colin sneered, “but you are keen. I would say your daughter learned from a master. However, if she is not back and receiving us within two hours’ time then you will both be answering our questions through a set of bars. Do you understand?”
“Rot in hell.”
“And so I may, but we will be back in two hours and your daughter had best be here or I can promise you a cell the size of your pockets by nightfall.” Colin moved past him without a further glance and the next sound I heard was the front door slamming.
“Has it occurred to you that we may be trying to protect your daughter?” I bothered to point out.
“Mags doesn’t need either one a you,” he scoffed. “She takes care of herself. You two are just lookin’ to make trouble for her, blame her for things you don’t know shite about.”
“In that you are sorely mistaken.” I scowled at him. “Do not confuse me or Mr. Pendragon with anyone else who has crossed your questionable path during your lifetime, because you will find that we are not your enemy. Unless, of course, you have something to hide—” I didn’t wait for his reply. I didn’t need to. It would take only two hours to see whether he had understood my threat.
CHAPTER 23
True to Colin’s earlier prediction, Edwina Easterbrooke looked decidedly unhappy to see us again. She was perched on an oversized armchair, all angles and gawky limbs, her dark hair swept back so harshly that it looked like her cheekbones were on the verge of rending her flesh. Her long fingers were tapping in a manner that suggested either nervousness or annoyance, I couldn’t be sure which, though once the tea arrived with a plate of crustless watercress and cucumber finger sandwiches she did appear to relax. Colin kept the conversation light while we gratefully snacked, though she did not join us.
At some point during the course of our idle chatter the four-legged squire of the house, the roly-poly Buster Brown, made a cumbersome descent down the staircase to investigate us. I could tell by the glimmer in Colin’s eyes that he had been waiting for the pup’s arrival, and watched as he lavished the pug with a hearty greeting before casually sliding the vali
se containing Lady Priscilla’s blanket out from under the settee with the toe of a boot.
“Did you have a good nap?” Miss Easterbrooke crowed as she too leaned forward to scratch the pug’s head. The dog plopped down at Colin’s feet as if in answer, his pink tongue bobbing out of his mouth like a seizing worm. “He really does like you, Mr. Pendragon—” She beamed, but before Colin could reply, the dog abruptly shoved himself to his feet and made his way with remarkable haste to the valise. Buster Brown’s single-mindedness was astonishing; as though he were heading for a plate of rib bones and with the swipe of a single meaty paw he batted the valise onto its side and began an olfactory inspection that would have staggered a chemist.
“Buster!” Miss Easterbrooke gasped, grabbing for her pup as though he had just marked the valise in a more rudimentary way.
“No, no,” Colin said with a chuckle. “It’s my fault. Your little gentleman is not to be blamed.” He leaned forward and pulled open the valise to reveal its contents to the agitated beast. The dog’s reaction was instantaneous. He sank into a frenzy of desperate motion as he tried to paw, wiggle, or force his way deep inside the bag. Yet the width and breadth of his anatomy would allow no such entry, leaving him no other recourse but to sink to the floor with a mournful howl of indignation.
“Buster Brown!” the dog’s mistress cried again, her hands fluttering about her neck. “Really, I don’t understand.”
Colin reached in and extracted the worn pink blanket, dangling it for a moment above Buster’s head. “It belongs to Lady Priscilla,” he said as he let it drop to the floor. “I had completely forgotten I had it. Rather a dirty trick on the old boy.”
He started laughing, as did I, but Miss Easterbrooke saw little mirth. I glanced back to find that the pug had seized one end of the blanket in his jaws and was attacking the crumpled bulk of the cloth with his hips in a manner suggestive of procreation. Unfortunately for the pug, Miss Easterbrooke saw it as well and screamed so loudly that her houseman came bounding up the stairs with a look of unbridled terror. By the time the red-faced man stood before us, gasping for breath, Colin had already extricated the blanket from the randy dog and returned it to the valise. Edwina Easterbrooke collapsed back into her chair, her ghostly pallor that of a woman on the verge of a swoon.
The Bellingham Bloodbath Page 16
