Chapter 3 #3
Hugh gripped Miss Vane’s hand and made for the exit, but the crowd surged forward, blocking every path, keen to see McCaffrey land the first blow.
By the time they reached the stairs, Bellingham had gone.
They burst through the door and onto the street, the cold air a welcome relief from the stifling heat of the basement. Those without tickets lined the walls and doorways, straining to hear the roar from below.
“He can’t have gone far.” Hugh scanned the murky darkness for a flash of red. “He saw me and ran. Men don’t do that without reason.”
“Perhaps Rowton saw him?”
A few men nearby turned their gaze to Miss Vane. Hugh cupped her elbow and steered her along the pavement towards his carriage, parked near the Aldgate pump.
“Did you see a man in a red waistcoat leave the building?”
Rowton removed the beaver hat and nodded towards Leadenhall Street. “He headed for St Catherine’s churchyard. Some gent on his tail.”
Damn it. Bellingham hadn’t been running from him.
He yanked open the carriage door, his hand firm at her back. “Wait here, Miss Vane. I’ll get Bellingham. We’ll question him elsewhere.”
She slammed the door. “I’m coming with you.”
“No.” He caught her arm before she could move. “You’ll slow me down.”
“Sir, my parents had me race fifty laps around the garden to test their brass callipers. I can keep up.”
He swore under his breath. There was no time to argue.
“Stanton.”
Bloody hell.
He looked back as the dark-haired earl cut through the crowd, all long strides and sharp focus. “Are you looking for Bellingham?”
Hugh noted Miss Vane’s slight intake of breath and filed it away with some irritation. “He’s assisting with an article on colliery safety. I needed to speak to him, but he left during the McCaffrey fight.”
“You’re not the only one with an interest in Bellingham. A man on the stairs left when he did.” His gaze shifted to the fork in the road. “Did you see where they went?”
“St Catherine’s, so my coachman said. We were about to head that way.” He would have preferred to go alone. The earl had his own reasons for wanting the man and would pull rank.
The earl observed Miss Vane’s tricorn before meeting her gaze. No doubt he made her heart flutter. “My wife owns a ladies’ club,” he said, glancing at the house across the street. “She will keep your friend company while we—”
Miss Vane didn’t wait to hear the rest. She darted along the street towards the churchyard, one hand holding her hat in place.
The earl snorted as they broke into a sprint. “I see you have your hands full, Stanton.”
He had no idea.
They turned into St Catherine’s, the narrow space wedged between buildings, the watch house crouched beside the church like a sentry. Miss Vane stopped at the wrought-iron gate, her shoulders rising with the effort of the run.
She pointed into the darkness, where headstones leaned at odd angles, and mist swirled between the tombs as though the ground were breathing. “I heard a groan and a thud somewhere near the old oak.”
The earl cursed. “Wait here.”
“I have business with Bellingham.” Hugh opened the gate and entered the cramped churchyard. “I must speak to him tonight.”
“I’m coming too.” Miss Vane’s fingers curled around his upper arm as though he were the only solid thing in the gloom.
He’d had less contact with his last mistress.
The earl led the way.
They crept along a path thick with weeds and dead leaves. The damp earth gave beneath their boots. The bare boughs of the oak creaked above them. Behind, the gate clanged shut. Something moved at the edge of the mist.
Then nothing.
Miss Vane’s fingers flexed on his sleeve. “I’m sure I heard footsteps.”
An arm emerged from the shadow of a grave, the skin ghost-pale in the dim light, white fingers wriggling like a corpse clawing free.
It was Bellingham, sprawled between two plots. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. His eyes were wide, his breath shallow.
The earl dropped to the ground beside him, touching his forehead, then checking his pulse. He laid a hand on Bellingham’s chest and drew it back, his fingers wet with blood.
Miss Vane gasped. “Mr Bellingham. Who did this?”
The earl shrugged out of his coat and pressed it to Bellingham’s chest. “We need help. Fetch the watchman. And get your friend away from here, unless you want her named as a witness.” He turned back to Bellingham. “Was it someone who opposed the bill? A man from the syndicate?”
Hugh knew what the earl referred to. The safety improvements to ventilation and the use of child labour in the mines.
But Bellingham shook his head. A faint rattle caught in his throat. His eyes closed. His body went limp.
Then a hand shot out, as though to grip Hugh’s sleeve. Bellingham’s eyes opened, glassy and fading, fixed on him.
His cracked lips parted.
“He buried the truth.”
Hugh leaned closer, catching the iron scent of blood. “Who? What truth?”
But no answer came. Bellingham’s hand fell slack. His eyes closed for the last time. The roar from Fortune’s Den rose beyond the churchyard wall, obscene in its cheerfulness.