The Bellingham Bloodbath by Gregory Harris Page A

shrugging off the burdens of another day.
    I looked about but did not spot Colin, which was hardly surprising given the crush of patrons. With a weary sigh, I began pressing myself between the clots of people, glancing from side to side as I struggled to find the top of Colin’s dusty blond head. As I neared the back wall I finally heard my name above the din before spotting Colin beckoning me from the rearmost booth. He was wearing an odd, lopsided grin, and as I struggled to make my way over to him I glimpsed a bit of dark hair and the broad shoulder of someone sitting across from him. I changed my trajectory, barely avoiding one of the girls hauling two fistfuls of ale, before I was able to see, with great surprise, that it was the gruff Sergeant McReedy in Colin’s company. He looked decidedly more amenable at the moment, and I could tell by the empty tankards on their table that they’d been drinking and, given the number, plenty.
    â€œYou remember Sergeant McReedy?” Colin popped out of the booth to let me slide in. “A credit to his regiment and a hell of a dipso.”
    â€œAch . . .” He waved Colin off sloppily. “You flatter me.” He slammed his pint onto the table and laughed so hard that a bit of ale dripped from his nose.
    â€œWe’ve been talking about the case,” Colin said through a lethargic inebriation I spotted instantly as a fraud. “You’ve some catching up to do.”
    Sergeant McReedy snickered, turning in his seat to get the attention of a harried barmaid slamming ales onto a nearby table. “Let me get ya somethin’.”
    â€œDon’t trouble yourself—” I started to say, but Colin’s fist thumped my thigh and I knew he meant for me to join his mock revelry. “I’ll get the young lady’s attention myself. . . .” I gave a hearty chuckle as I beckoned for a server.
    â€œThat’s better,” Sergeant McReedy snorted. “I like someone who knows when ta give it up and join them that’s gettin’ blistered.” He saluted his mug at me and tipped it back. A familiar barmaid weaved her way to us just as Sergeant McReedy flipped his empty glass upside down. The fifth one thusly arranged. “You got anythin’ on that tray for me an’ me friend?!”
    She dropped two of the dark ales onto the table and held her hand out to Colin for payment. “You’re really packin’ ’em away tonight, Mr. P.,” she said as she counted out change.
    â€œWell . . .” He handed her a few extra pence with a pointed glare. “Nothing wrong with a bit of hops now and then.” She took the pence with a noncommittal shrug and moved away.
    â€œA touch a sass.” Sergeant McReedy leered after her.
    â€œA touch a sass,” Colin echoed, hoisting his glass and toasting the sergeant, only to roll his eyes the moment the young man’s head tilted back.
    â€œSass.” I lifted my ale. I started to take a sip just as I caught Colin shifting his glass to his left hand and smoothly lowering it beneath the level of the tabletop. Before I could figure out what he was doing the glass reappeared, lower of volume, and gleefully banged onto the table as though he had just enjoyed a hearty pull. I leaned back and stole a glance beneath the table and spied a spittoon nestled between his feet.
    â€œI’d like to propose another toast!” Colin reached over and grabbed my mug just as Sergeant McReedy slid his gaze back. Now aware of the game, I snatched up Colin’s half-filled tankard and lifted it up and, with little more than a taste on my breath, appeared to be well on my way to getting bloody, buggery drunk. “To your Captain Bellingham,” Colin said. “A kind and courageous man.”
    â€œA hell of a leader.” The sergeant smacked his mug against ours.
    â€œAnd to his wife,” I felt compelled to add.
    â€œDreadful awful,” Sergeant