The Bellingham Bloodbath by Gregory Harris

more than I. “Indeed,” I answered rather coolly.
    â€œAnd 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.”
    â€œHow 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?”
    â€œLet 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.”
    â€œIt’s what we have been told.”
    â€œNo 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.”
    â€œOf course,” I answered in a tone so dry it nearly caught in my throat. “Do you know her by some other designation?”
    â€œI 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?”
    â€œLancaster Gate, I think. Not exactly the domain of those most noble, but I do believe you will find her slouching about there somewhere.”
    â€œOutstanding.” 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.”
    â€œOh”—a Cheshire grin overtook her face—“I do hope so. Please give him my very best.”
    â€œOf course.” I nodded as I headed for the door.
    â€œDo let him know I’m here should he ever get lonely. . . .” She chuckled.
    â€œPiss off,” I hissed under my breath.

CHAPTER 10
    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