“I’ll need you to come with us,” Colin said softly.
“I’ll not fight you,” she answered. She went over to him as I got up, planting herself before him with defiance as Eldon sagged against the bar and Lady Arnifour’s wrenching sobs filled the silence. I glanced over toward the door and noticed that Mrs. O’Keefe was gone, though she had left it ajar in her evident haste to leave. And it made me wonder if perhaps Lady Arnifour was grieving for a daughter who was not her own after all.
CHAPTER 33
The deepest part of the night is the time I find myself most able to collect my thoughts. It’s also one of the few times I can watch Colin without self-consciousness lest the eyes of anyone else should take disapproving note. Some nights I will reach for him; other nights I am content to leave him be and simply marvel at the wonder of it all.
This night found me quite lost to my thoughts. In the space of a single day we had rent two very disparate families, although it could be said that they had severed themselves long before we had been called upon. It made me wonder, this business of family. The stricture of its definition seems careless and arbitrary given the aberrations that can be found within its framework. How well I know that. Twenty-six years after the tragedy that took my life without ending it I still choose to believe that my mother did the best that she could given the phantoms blighting her mind. I will never know for sure. In truth, I hardly even remember her. She has morphed into a cautionary figure of what to be vigilant against. What makes it worse is that I remember even less of my father. So it is my life with Colin that represents the pinnacle of the promise of that word: “family.” And, of course, Mrs. Behmoth, though I’m not as certain how I feel about that.
Colin reached out with a yawn, peering at me through heavily lidded eyes. “Can’t sleep?”
“I guess not.”
He curled up next to me, his arm stretching across my belly. “What’s keeping you awake?”
“I was thinking about Kaylin. What’s going to happen to her?”
“That’s easy.” He exhaled deeply. “Her mother will purchase the best defense and she will be sentenced to a spell in a sanitarium somewhere out in the country. They’ll ascribe her behavior to female hysterics and it will likely run until she’s long into her middle years.”
“When you say ‘her mother,’ do you mean Lady Arnifour or Mrs. O’Keefe?”
“In this instance I am referring to Lady Arnifour, but it really doesn’t matter who gave birth to her. I suppose they both loved her in their own way, and it didn’t seem to make the slightest bit of difference to her life. It’s just a travesty that nature doesn’t see fit to make some people barren.”
“What a thing to say,” I muttered halfheartedly, knowing that I would never have been born had such a natural selection been in place.
“Come now, you know I’m right. And I mean to include Mademoiselle Rendell in that too. None of them was fit to procreate.”
“At least now Drew will have a chance in a decent home,” I said with genuine cheer, determined to relegate my maudlin thoughts back to where they belong: where I can abide them. “Do you think your father will get him placed quickly?”
“That boy will be living like royalty within the month. And in India he’ll be safe from both his mother and brother.”
“Which is good, since Michael’s not likely to remain in the workhouse for more than a couple of years.”
“I’m sure you’re right. And then he’ll be back on the streets: ill equipped, angry, and even more conniving than ever. At least their mother will be spending the better part of the next decade paying for her complicity. Nevertheless, it does seem rather a small price to pay given the destruction she’s wrought on those boys.”
“She has to live with that for the rest of her life.”
“Not everyone has a conscience, you know.”
“They do. Some just learn how to ignore it . . . or anesthetize it.”
He yawned again. “That is the unfortunate truth. But let me ask you a question: Where do you suppose Li Shen disappeared off to?”
“She’ll go to another club somewhere else in the city where they don’t know who she is. It’s what she knows and she is an addict.”
“It’s a shame.”
“It is.” And for a moment a chill tore up my spine as I recognized that could have been me. “Do you think there’s any chance Inspector Varcoe will stop by tomorrow to thank you for keeping him from arresting the wrong person?” I chuckled.
He snickered. “Only if Mrs. Behmoth discovers she’s the long-lost sister of our Victoria.”
“Unlikely then, I suppose,” I drolled, but I could tell by the way his breath was already beginning to even out that he was succumbing to sleep. Lost to my own thoughts once again, I didn’t sleep much more that night, but it was gratitude, not fear, that held my mind enthralled.
CHAPTER 34
“It seems ta me ya oughta be celebratin’,” Mrs. Behmoth said as she set the tray of tea and scones by the fireplace. “I didn’t like a single one a them uppity Arnifours and I’m glad ya found ’em all guilty.”
I rolled my eyes.
“I didn’t find them all guilty . . . ,” Colin started to say.
“Ach.” She waved a hand at him. “They were all guilty a somethin’.”
“I suppose.” He shrugged, one eyebrow arching up as he fussed over our tea. “But it’s hard to feel satisfaction given the cost to their family.”
“Family . . .” Mrs. Behmoth snorted. “They were a regular rogues’ gallery. Ya best appreciate what ya got,” she scoffed.
A sudden and savage pounding on our door brought her to her feet. “We expectin’ someone?” she asked as she ambled for the stairs.
“Not that I’m aware of,” Colin said as he poured a touch of milk into his tea.
Another harsh pounding reverberated from downstairs as Mrs. Behmoth hollered, “Ya better ’ave a good reason for makin’ such a racket!”
Colin laughed as he passed me my tea and then snatched up his own. “I heard a carriage clattering up and was rather hoping it might be coming here.”
I couldn’t help smiling. “I’m sure you were.”
The sound of a slight scuffle came from downstairs, followed by the hurried pounding of feet barreling up. It was clearly not Mrs. Behmoth, and the trailing fury of her voice only confirmed it. “Ya got no ruddy manners. I don’t care if ya are wearin’ the old bird’s crest.”
Before I could guess who Mrs. Behmoth was referring to, a sour-faced young man, somewhere shy of the quarter-century mark, appeared on our landing. He was dressed in the scarlet tunic and black-panted uniform of Her Majesty’s Guard. He held a steel helmet in the crux of one arm atop of which sprayed a white plume like the tail of a prideful show horse. “I apologize for the intrusion . . . ,” he said in a tone that did not support his contention, “. . . but I’ve been sent on the most urgent and sensitive business.”
“So I would presume.” Colin smiled thinly as he stood up. “And by whose command do you come in such a manner?”
The young man sent a sideways glance in my direction as he let his pause lengthen.
“You will speak to both of us or neither of us,” Colin said. “I really don’t care which.”
To his credit, the guard appeared to carefully consider his options before turning back to Colin with a bit more acid. “All right then.”
No one said anything for a moment as Colin slid out a crown and quietly began weaving it through his fingers. It took another full minute before Colin finally spoke up, keeping his eyes fixed on the young officer as he said, “I’m waiting, Sergeant.”
“Sir?”
“I asked who sent you here.”
He reddened and pulled himself straighter. “Isn’t that obvious, sir?” he said with noticeable disdain.
Colin strode over to the windows, the coin continuing to slide smoothly between his fingers as he glanced outside. “The only obvious thing, Sergeant,
is that you wish me to believe you are on Her Majesty’s business. Arriving thunderously in one of her lesser carriages and parading about in the garments of one of her Life Guards. Yet we all know our matriarch has a multitude of both coaches and staff, and were you actually to be on her business, I would expect a far less ostentatious entrance. What’s your name?”
“My name?”
“Come now.” Colin turned from the window and stared at the young man. “I haven’t stumped you already, have I?”
The sergeant scowled and I struggled to suppress a smile. “Sergeant Dwight McReedy,” he finally answered.
“Well done. And so, Sergeant McReedy, now that we know our Victoria has not sent you, can you tell us who has?”
The sergeant held his own, staring back at Colin with thinly veiled dislike. “While I may not be here at the personal request of Her Majesty, I have come at the behest of a senior member of her staff.”
“A senior member of her staff?” Colin smirked. “Why, that could be anyone from a personal maid to my father. Has my father sent you?”
The man’s face went taut. “Sir?”
Colin shook his head and returned to his seat. “I’ll not ask my question a fourth time, Sergeant. You may take your leave. Good day.”
The sergeant glanced at me in disbelief. Whereas before he’d considered me an intruder, I could now see he was hoping I might intercede on his behalf. I gave him a shrug.
“Sir . . . ,” he began again with some measure of grit in his voice, “I’ve been ordered to escort you back to Buckingham Palace.”
“And suppose we’re not in the mood to go until sometime next week? Would you be obliged to spend the next days counting cobbles and praying against rain?”
The young man managed to hold himself steady. He was clearly a quick study. “You mustn’t dismiss me, sir. I’ve been ordered by Major Dashell Hampstead of Her Majesty’s Life Guard. It is on a matter of the utmost delicacy and urgency.”
Colin looked up at him. “So it’s the Guard itself who requires my assistance?”
Sergeant McReedy blinked. “I’m sure I don’t know,” he answered. “Collecting you was the extent of my orders.”
“Well now, that makes me feel like an old alley cat.”
“You must come with me, sir. I must insist on it.”
“Insist?” Colin finally stopped flipping the coin as he looked over at the young man.
The sergeant cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “It’s a most foul business. Major Hampstead would not trouble you otherwise.”
“How foul?”
“Sir?”
Colin waved for him to get on with it.
“It’s murder, sir,” came the reluctant reply. “The most brutal sort.”
Colin scowled as he stood up again. “Return to your carriage,” he said.
“Sir?”
“We will be down shortly. Go on now. I don’t need you watching us get ready.”
The young man nodded curtly and took his leave, bolting back down the stairs with as much tumult as his arrival.
“Was it really necessary to set him through such paces?”
“Hmm.” Colin shrugged as he pulled his vest on. “That lot can be so full of themselves. And him just a young toady.”
“Nevertheless, it’s not every week we’re summoned by Her Majesty’s Guard.”
“Thankfully.”
“It sounds like a nasty bit of business.”
“Murder usually is.”
I could not help the sigh that escaped my lips. “We’ve only just completed two cases. Shattered two families. I’d rather hoped we might have a spot of time off.”
“Those families imploded long before we were sent for.” He stopped and looked at me. “Makes me appreciate what we have all over again. You and me. That’s all I need.” And I could see by the warmth in his eyes that he meant it.
“And Mrs. Behmoth?” I teased.
“But of course.” He laughed. “Where would we be without our dear Mrs. Behmoth?” And I knew he meant that too.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
While writing is a solitary sport, a published book is the culmination of hard work by many people. In my case, Diane Salzberg, Karen Clemens, and Melissa Gelineau read innumerable drafts and offered insightful notes with nary a rolled eye or shrug of “this again?!”. John Paine gave me an early vote of confidence and helped focus the story into something I could show around. I would be nowhere if Kathy Green and her son hadn’t read the book. Especially since her son convinced her to take me on! The folks at Kensington have been amazing, keeping me honest and making me wonder how I ever passed an English class. Particular kudos to John Scognamiglio for his support, direction, and friendship. Special thanks to my parents and sisters for their love and support through all and everything. And there has been a lot! The very same to Tresa Hoffman. Lastly, a second bow to Lovey, without whom I would never have made it this far. A heartfelt cheers! to all of you.
Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of Gregory Harris’s next Colin Pendragon Mystery
THE BELLINGHAM BLOODBATH
coming in September 2014!
CHAPTER 1
One of Her Majesty’s coaches was waiting to whisk us off to Buckingham Palace. We had only just been told about the killing of a captain in Her Majesty’s Life Guard and his wife, and were being summoned, presumably, to solve their murders. The sergeant sent for us had made it sound like an ugly business indeed.
I stared across the room with a mixture of dread and morbid curiosity as I watched Colin continue to fiddle with one of his derringers. Surely he meant for us to leave . . . yet there he sat, painstakingly wiping every centimeter of the little gun until I could finally stand it no longer: “What the bloody hell are you doing?”
He looked up at me with an inconceivably guileless expression. “What?”
“Buckingham?!” I blurted as though speaking to someone quite undone. “The sergeant who came to fetch us is waiting outside. . . .”
“I know,” he answered simply.
“Well, are we going?”
“The sergeant’s a pompous little twit. He can wait.”
“He’s an officer of Her Majesty’s Life Guard—”
“I don’t care if he’s having it off with the old girl herself; let him wait. Be good to teach him some manners.”
“So we’re back in school then?” I parried just as a loud and insistent pounding burst up from the door downstairs.
“See what I mean,” Colin grumbled.
“I’m sure he’s only trying to follow orders. He wasn’t sent here to polish the cobbles pacing.”
A second pounding, even more determined, brought Colin to his feet. “If he does that again I shall go down there and shove my boot up his orders.”
“No doubt Mrs. Behmoth will beat you to it,” I said as the sound of her lumbering from the kitchen to the front door drifted up among her curses. I was certain she would roundly upbraid the young sergeant the moment she got the door open, but no such diatribe ensued. Instead I heard the voice of our elderly neighbor curl up the stairs. “It’s Mrs. Menlo,” I said with little enthusiasm.
“And what is she complaining about now?” He shook his head as he set his derringer onto the mantel. “Is the soldier out front giving her vapors?”
“I should think she’s trying to wheedle information out of Mrs. Behmoth. You know how she despises not knowing our business.”
“Yes. . . .” He snatched up his dumbbells and began curling them over his head. “Though I’m sure we could cause her a good deal of apoplexy with some of the things we get up to.” He snickered. “For the moment, however, I believe it’s time we learned something about this poor captain and his wife. We mustn’t show up at the major’s office completely unawares.”
I stared at the stack of unread newspapers beside the hearth as he continued to train the already taut muscles of his arms. “Fine,” I exhaled. “Let me see what I can find of it.”
“Excellent,” he muttered, dropping to the floor and busting out a set of push-ups on his dumbbells.
Turning my attentions back to the pile of papers, I was relieved when my search proved brief. Stretched across the morning edition of yesterday’s paper was a banner that cried: QUEEN’S CAPTAIN AND WIFE BUTCHERED IN BLOODBATH. I read the article aloud while Colin continued his fevered push-ups, and it was only after I finished that he finally sat up, ran a sleeve across his sweating forehead, and asked me to read it again. This time he listened:
“Sometime during the night of Sunday last, Captain Trevor Bellingham, 32, of the Queen’s Life Guard, and his wife, Gwendolyn, 29, were brutally murdered in the Finchley Road flat they shared with their young son. Miraculously, the young boy, just past his fifth birthday, was found unharmed in his bedroom. Police had to break the boy’s door down as it had been wedged tight, almost certainly by the murderer, though one source close to the investigation suggested that one of the parents may have secured the door in order to save their son.
“Mrs. Bellingham was reported to have been shot and killed in her bedroom, but Scotland Yard has yet to release the cause of death for Captain Bellingham, stating that the matter was still under investigation.” I glanced over to where Colin remained sitting on the floor. “I wonder why the secrecy?”
“We shall have to find out.”
“Police did state that there did not appear to be any signs of forced entry, pointing to the possibility that the killer may have been known to Captain and Mrs. Bellingham. Scotland Yard’s Inspector Emmett Varcoe . . . ,” I read his name, enunciating it with mock esteem, “. . . assures that everything possible is being done to solve this terrible crime against one of the Queen’s own men and his young wife. However, the Times would like to remind its readership that Inspector Varcoe is the same investigator who remains befuddled by the identity of the vicious killer known only as Jack the Ripper.”
The Arnifour Affair Page 25
