The Bellingham Bloodbath (12 page)

“My apologies.” She nodded with a delicate smirk as she reached for her tea again. “How I wish we could avoid the topic at hand, but I know we cannot.” She cast her gaze at the ceiling a moment before settling her eyes back on Colin and speaking in a clear, if halting, voice. “It is fair to say that I do not relish talking about Trevor. I find it almost intolerable to speak about what happened to him and poor Gwendolyn. I have known him for ten years, Mr. Pendragon. He was a corporal when I first met him. He and Gwen had only just married.”

“You were close with Mrs. Bellingham?”

She sighed. “I was. And I was also godmother to little Albert. That poor child.” She glanced away again, clearly trying to cling to her composure. “I was newly widowed when Trevor and I met. Not at all in mind of a romance despite what you may have heard. Trevor and I were more like brother and sister.”

Colin flashed the thinnest of smiles before asking, “Exactly how did you meet?”

“At a hunt.” The recollection seemed to lighten her mood. “My husband had been friends with the Duke of Brynhaven. After my husband's death I was occasionally invited up to his estate for the running of the hounds. While it's not actually to my taste, I used to go because I knew it was better than sitting about feeling sorry for myself.

“As you are likely aware, the Duke is a member of Parliament and a former colonel in Her Majesty's service. He is also not the slightest bit averse to availing himself of free labor from the military whenever he sees fit. Trevor was one of several men he had arranged to work at his estate that weekend. His job was to attend the foxes. He was to keep the poor creatures well until they were released to be hunted. Such a gallant pastime,” she murmured.

She fussed with more tea for all of us before continuing, her manner once again relaxing as she continued to recount the story. “I was wandering the grounds behind the stables in a wretched mood while the men prepared their mounts. For no particular reason I had headed into the woods just beyond where the hunt was to take place when I came upon Trevor hidden in a thatch of weeds and brambles cradling this poor terrified fox in the crook of an arm.” She laughed outright. “He had doused it quite thoroughly in the Duke's cologne and was wrapping it in thin strips of cloth from one of the Duke's old shirts. I knew at once what he was up to and absolutely adored him for it.

“As you can imagine, I gave him quite a start, but once I assured him of my like sympathies we combined our efforts. He ripped a large chunk of cloth from the bedding in the fox's cage and handed it to me. I hurried off with this rupture of material dangling from my hand, marking the terrain as I rushed in a diagonal arc away from that section of the woods.

“When I started hearing the baying of hounds, I altered my course and went as deep into the forest as I could, hoping our ridiculous charade might actually work.” She shook her head as a playful smile curved her mouth. “I was surrounded by barking, snarling, befuddled hounds within minutes, sniffing about trying to figure where they had gone wrong. The men were no better.” She released another low, throaty chuckle. “It was the beginning of a friendship I knew would last a lifetime.” Her smile faded. “I just never imagined . . .” She did not finish the thought.

“And what of Mrs. Bellingham?”

Lady Stuart glanced back at Colin, the expression on her face unreadable. “Gwendolyn and I met shortly thereafter, but it was Trevor who was so very patient and understanding of my new widowhood.”

“Consoling, was he?”

She laughed and shook her head. “Such subtlety, Mr. Pendragon. I can only imagine the sort you must deal with, with whom such tactics work.” She took another sip of tea before looking back at him with the same grace and confidence that seemed to infuse everything she did. “Trevor gave me invaluable guidance with respect to my business affairs and wouldn't allow me to give him so much as a farthing for his efforts. Had he not stepped in as he did I am sure I would not now be living as well as I do. That's our shared history, Mr. Pendragon. We communicated without artifice and cared for one another with the purity of family.”

“I understand,” he said, and unlike me, I knew he would. “Did he ever confide any fear for his safety or that of his wife?”

“Never. And there was little we did not discuss.”

“Did he mention any business dealings he was concerned about? Someone new to the regiment he was having an issue with? Any recent disagreements weighing on his mind?”

“Nothing at all. And I assure you, Mr. Pendragon, nothing would please me more than to be able to tell you of such a thing.”

Colin nodded grimly as he stood up and set his teacup on the tray. “Will you permit me one last question?”

“Of course.”

“How did you learn of the murders?”

“Like every other disaffected member of this city, Mr. Pendragon: on the front page of the
Times
.”

T
he early afternoon was proving to be cool and there was a midnight-blue bank of clouds creeping across the horizon that once again carried the portent of rain. With this threat hanging over us, Colin methodically turned his attentions back to the disappearance of the furry Lady Priscilla. As we hiked past a yawning gate and up to the large Stanford and Hildegard Rinton estate, I was struck by the excess of lacey moldings dripping like frosting from its woodwork, making the house appear to be almost edible. It was painted a startling shade of yellow with the trim piped on in variations of cream, tan, and burnt umber. An oversized front porch bound by an explosion of latticework ran the length of the house and wrapped partway down the far side.

Not only did the Rintons live here but also one Bertha Omega, a reportedly dowdy cur who had spent nearly all of her showing years in Lady Priscilla's formidable shadow. At least according to Elsa. We spotted dubious traces of the perpetual also-ran courtesy of uprooted flowers on either side of the porch steps and small yellow circles of poisoned grass that defaced the otherwise velvety green lawn.

“It would seem this bitch has picked up a host of unseemly behaviors,” Colin noted as we climbed the porch steps.

“I should say.” I chuckled. “We had best mind our ankles.”

Colin pulled the bell next to the door and immediately set off a barrage of yapping that was as dogged as a murderous scream. “Incessant barking,” he tsked. “Hardly the sign of a champion.”

A woman's voice could be heard scolding the dog to no avail and a moment later there came a high-pitched yelp that was followed by utter silence. It took another minute before the door finally swung open to reveal a tall, slender man with a rapidly receding hairline, a great, curved nose, and a chin that seemed to be hiding somewhere within the confines of his neck. “Yes?” he asked in a twitchy voice as he planted his frame, such as it was, in the center of the doorway.

“I'm Colin Pendragon and this is my associate, Ethan Pruitt.” Colin flashed his stellar smile, but the man's gaze remained vacant. “I have been retained by Lady Nesbitt-Normand to investigate the disappearance of her pup, Lady Priscilla. Might I have a word with either Stanford or Hildegard Rinton?”

The man began to blink furiously as though fearing a poke in the eye before stammering, “Are H-H-Hildegard and I suspects?”

Colin shot out his hand. “Mr. Rinton, I take it?”

“Who is it, Stanford?” a sturdy female voice belted out from somewhere nearby. “Whom are you talking to?”

The man flinched, his knuckles white where he gripped the doorjamb, as he turned and called back into the belly of the house, “It's Colin Pendragon and some other chap. They want to speak with us about Lady Priscilla.”

“Well, for pity's sake let them in. Our little girl's about to jump out of her skin with curiosity.”

He stepped back to allow us to pass, retaining an unflappable stoicism as he did so. The moment the door clicked shut there came a sudden, frantic scratching on the floor that picked up intensity as it drew nearer, culminating in a pudgy tan and black pug torpedoing into the foyer from a side corridor as though having been shot from a cannon. The dog stopped no more than three feet away before wholly rebuking us with a fresh barrage of barking.

“Bertha Omega, you stop that this instant!”
A short, plump woman of slightly more than middle years lumbered into the room at what must have counted for full speed. “We do
not
bark at guests.”

“She's fine,” Colin said as he knelt down and held out a hand.

But the lady of the household was not to be deterred, as she came up behind the pup and swatted her rear with a mighty flail of meaty palm, causing the poor thing to spin almost completely around before abruptly squatting and relieving herself on the foyer rug.
“Stanford!”
she wailed. “Just look what you've made her do. Really . . . I should think you would have more sense when you answer the door. Now get that cleaned up.” She fixed her gaze on us with evident annoyance. “Stanford has never understood our little girl in the least.” She snatched up the dog and nuzzled her face in its belly while making a host of sloppy sounds, all of which only seemed to further agitate the pup. “Please come in and sit down,” she said at length as she led us to a large front room that appeared to encompass nearly half of the downstairs area. “We are positively
destroyed
about Lady Priscilla's disappearance.”

“As is Lady Nesbitt-Normand.” Colin flashed a tight smile. “We certainly appreciate your willingness to see us.”

“But of course,” our hostess enthused as she dropped into an overstuffed chair by the fireplace. “An attack against any pug is like an attack against every one of us. Isn't that right?” she cooed to her pup.

“You did show against Lady Priscilla, didn't you?” Colin asked with seeming nonchalance as we sat down across from her.

“Well, of course we did,” she clucked. “She beat us two years running. I must admit
I
find her the barest hint of high-strung, but she does have the most perfect stature when they can get her to stand still. And her face!” She nearly purred. “Such symmetry if you look at her from
just
the right angle.” She leaned forward and set her wriggling pug on the floor by her feet. “Please don't mind my little one. She gets so excited when company comes. She only wants to sniff your shoes. She means no disrespect.”

Colin leaned over to scratch the dog's head, but she would have none of that, leaping back each time he reached out and letting loose a growl of warning. Only after he sat fully back did the pug dare to reel forward again, taking full inventory of not only his shoes but the cuffs of his pants as well. Once the dog had satisfied herself with her inspection of Colin, she turned and came over to me, but I was apparently much less intoxicating, as I was quickly dispatched after a cursory examination so the wearying Bertha Omega could return to Colin.

“Oh, look,” the proud Hildegard Rinton said with amusement. “She likes you, Mr. Pendragon.”

This time he managed to coax the dog over and it fell prey to his ministrations almost at once. “She really is quite the love bug.” He chuckled as he scratched behind the pug's ears.

“I am so pleased that you can tell, Mr. Pendragon.” She beamed.

We all watched transfixed as the pup licked and nestled against Colin for a minute, before quite suddenly, without any warning whatsoever, lurching toward me and sinking her teeth into my nearest boot. Without even thinking I shot my leg out and sent the unfortunate pug in a brief airborne arc that landed little Bertha Omega in a belly skid by the fireplace. Hildegard Rinton screamed as the pug stood up, shook herself off, and started yowling with renewed vigor, all of which brought Stanford Rinton racing into the room with a look somewhere between fear and mortification.

“Ethan—” Colin cringed as he bolted up. “I'm terribly sorry, Mrs. Rinton. I do believe we have overstayed our welcome. You've been most gracious.”

Mrs. Rinton looked apoplectic as she heaved herself to her feet and hurried over to her pup. “My baby . . . My little darling . . . ,” she fretted as she snatched the dog up into her arms. “Is my poor little girl okay?” She glanced over the scruff of her squirming dog. “Well, show them out, Stanford.”

“I am so sorry,” I said, but no one seemed to hear me as Stanford Rinton rushed us back outside. I kept quiet as we fled down the driveway and managed to hold my tongue until we were climbing into a cab Colin had waved down. “I feel awful,” I muttered.

“You would have thought she was an Irish wolfhound the way you reacted.”

“I know—”

“Never mind. There was nothing to be learned there other than the fact that Stanford Rinton would likely do just about anything to keep that wife of his at bay.”

“So you think he could be responsible for the theft of Lady Priscilla on his wife's orders?”

“I wouldn't find that difficult to believe, but it's all just idle conjecture. It would be unwise to discount anything at this point.” He pulled out his pocket watch and glanced at it. “Next is the home of one Buster Brown. What's the name of the spinster who owns him?”

“Edwina Easterbrooke.”

“Yes. And then we must pay a visit to Lady Nesbitt-Normand to see if she has had word from anyone seeking payment for the safe return of her little lady.” He turned and set his gaze out the window, idly fiddling with his watch fob as he stared out at the rows of passing townhomes abutting Regent's Park.

“And I really should get a room at the Devonshire before the whole of the afternoon gets by.”

“What?” He glanced at me for an instant, but his eyes quickly shifted back outside as his thoughts failed to engage with my inanity. “Whatever you think is best,” he mumbled.

I let out a muffled sigh and cursed myself as we rattled up to a large four-story town house not far from our own flat. I paid the driver and then joined Colin as he stared up at the towering redbrick building with its tiny rectangle of perfectly manicured green grass out front. Red geraniums bordered the stamp-sized porch and window boxes overflowed with the same scarlet flowers. The boxes and casements were painted a snowy white, but unlike the Rintons' home this one displayed no signs of a malcontent pup on either the gardens or lawn.

Colin rapped on the door and we waited several minutes before a rotund man with a flush face and pink jowls hauled it open. “Yes?” he said in a labored voice that made me fear he had been on the top floor when we'd knocked.

Colin made the introductions, informing him that we were there on an urgent matter, and I noted the look in the man's eyes as he registered Colin's name. I supposed he suspected why we had come just as the Rintons had. “I'm afraid I must ask you to wait a moment while I ascertain if Madam is available,” he said officiously, in spite of whatever he may have been thinking.

“Of course.” Colin smiled easily. “Ascertain away.”

The man closed the door and Colin and I were left to our disparate musings for several minutes. It was enough time for Colin to check his watch—twice. I was afraid he might be on the verge of barreling in uninvited when the door finally swung open again.

“Your patience is appreciated,” the houseman announced as he did his best to move aside and allow us entry. “I am afraid the volume of stairs are getting the best of me as the years press on.”

“Be wary of laying too much blame on your age,” Colin offered carelessly as he crossed the threshold.

I tried not to blanch as I added, “We certainly appreciate your mistress granting us a bit of her time.”

He nodded perfunctorily, thankfully too professional to remark on Colin's insinuation. He led us up a single flight to a large open space that stretched the entire length and width of the flat. There were several seating areas spread across the floor, making it look more like the great room in a hotel than a living space for a home. A large carved fireplace of white marble stood at the far end of the room, a tumbling pattern of ivy accentuated in bold relief across its face. We were shown to chairs in front of it as the corpulent man went huffing back downstairs to fetch some tea.

We sat in silence until I began to hear a strange, methodical clicking coming from overhead. It sounded like an overzealous clock, but when I caught the delicate tread of a woman I realized what it was. I turned away from the blazing fireplace warding off the chill in this great space and found Colin already on his feet looking at the staircase behind us. I stood up just as an unusually tall, rail-thin woman with a harsh, angular face made her way down the steps in the wake of an obese pug.

“Mr. Pendragon . . . Mr. Pruitt . . . ,” she said, her voice as thin and frail as her frame, yet quite incongruous with her towering height.

“Miss Easterbrooke.” Colin returned a generous smile as he glanced up at her before bending and scratching the ears of the dog, who had dropped at her feet in a flurry of labored panting. “And you, little man, must be Buster Brown.”

“You have heard of him?!” Her face lit up as she perched on the edge of a chair across from us. “He was a champion once, when he was younger, and has caught the eye of many a judge through the years.” She too leaned over and scratched between the pug's ears with a hand that dwarfed his pudgy head. “He can be quite the charmer.”

I stared at the dog as he hoisted himself back on his derrière, which was twice the width of his head, and struggled to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“I can see that he's certainly able to charm his way into table scraps.” Colin grinned.

“Oh!” Miss Easterbrooke offered a polite twitter that came out oddly harsh. “I'm afraid that's my fault. I cannot bear to see anyone go hungry.”

“An admirable quality,” he mused, though it was clear she did not feel the same about herself.

“Thank you, Alvin.” She turned to her houseman as he set out a tray of tea. “I think I will do the honors myself today. That will be all.” He withdrew far more silently than someone of his bulk should have been able to. Miss Easterbrooke leaned forward and rearranged the cups and saucers on the tray to suit some inner demon before looking over at us and asking, “Tea?” We both agreed and watched as she started mixing the tea, milk, and sugar with the focused precision of a chemist. She topped off the process by placing each cup on its matching saucer and twisting it just so to ensure the handle faced us properly, and only then did she hand them across to us. For herself she poured a mere half cup, adding nothing more than a light squeeze of lemon. “You will tell me if it doesn't suit you,” she said.

“It is perfection.” Colin smiled.

She reached for a small plate of gingersnaps and shortbread fanned out like a deck of cards and delicately segregated the two sweets with a small knife before holding them out. “Biscuit?”