Blood Autumn Read online

"Dreams?" Montchalmers asked blankly.

  "Yes, you know, Henry. The dreams about August Hamilton. The ones that you and I and poor Wyndy were all having about the same time. Remember them?" Lyttleton shook his head. "Amazing, isn't it?"

  "Oh, those." Montchalmers blinked. "No, not at all, old boy. They've gone."

  He was lying, Lyttleton thought, and that hurt him. Or perhaps he couldn't tell the truth, even though he might want to. Why did he lie about not having the dreams? Was Henry ashamed? He hadn't been before.

  "Glad to hear that," Lyttleton said. As he lit his cigar he glanced at the newspaper that lay spread at his friend's feet. The top headlines caught his attention. "It's ghastly about those murders, isn't it?"

  Montchalmers nodded. "Yes, yes, terrible."

  "And now an innocent child." Lyttleton's stomach turned whenever he thought of the boy. His note to Dr. Napier had inquired about the expression on the dead child's face. He was convinced that Dr. Napier would be able to determine that, and if it were one of terror, then — no, he refused to think about it yet. "What a terrible shame. You know, Henry, whoever's doing this is an animal." Lyttleton exhaled and a perfect smoke ring sailed over Montchalmers' head.

  "The bloody culprit ought to be shot," said a club member who was passing by.

  Lyttleton nodded amiably to Christopher Smyth-Fellowes, a portly gentleman of some forty-six years with a large brood: Of ten children, six were sons, five of them under the age of seven. He also had a petite wife, twenty years his junior, who rarely left her rooms, being exhausted from frequent childbirth, and while the Smyth-Fellowes family was, by and large, rather boisterous, Lyttleton knew that both Smyth-Fellowes and his wife were loving parents. "Better yet," Smyth-Fellowes suggested as he draped his arms across the back of Montchalmers' chair, "he ought to be bloody well taken out and dragged behind a coach, then hanged!"

  "Hear, hear," another member murmured as he passed the three men.

  "Isn't that a bit harsh — " Montchalmers began timidly.

  "Harsh?" bellowed Smyth-Fellowes. Montchalmers winced at the blast of sound next to his ear. "I'll give you harsh! I know the family involved, sir, indeed I do, and let me tell you that I've never met a more Christian family in my life, and that boy, an angel compared to my own ruffians, was their only child — the other children having died in early childhood — and his poor grieving parents are in their fifties and not likely to have another chick in their nest! Harsh, sir, what I recommend? Harsh? Not at all!" He harrumphed and glared at the top of Montchalmers' head, as if daring the man to disagree with him again.

  Montchalmers had no reply to this.

  "I had hoped — as I'm sure we all do — that the deaths might end soon," Lyttleton said. "How long can they go on?"

  "It's this damnable hot weather we've been having," Smyth-Fellowes said, making a growling sound in his throat. He had moved around Montchalmers to sit in a chair between the two men. He sighed as he stretched his legs out. "Strangest October weather I've ever seen. The heat brings out the beast, makes men damned crazy. Mark my words, Lyttleton, these terrible deaths will stop once the heat breaks and autumn begins in earnest. Mark my words!"

  "I certainly hope you're right, Chris, old fellow, I certainly do."

  "It's all the talk wherever one goes," said another member. The gentleman was Felix Andrews, whose youthful daughter Felicia was becoming well-known in social circles for the colorful travelogue on Egypt which she just had published. "One can't escape it. It's in all the clubs, the parties, dinners." Andrews shook his head. "No one talks of anything else. The papers shout it from the front page."

  "With good reason," Smyth-Fellowes said, Lyttleton and Andrews nodded agreement. "Makes me damned uncomfortable, goin' about the city now, what with this beast or madman or whatever running amuck — though," he said, lifting a bushy grey eyebrow and eyeing Lyttleton, "I don't know that we old fellers, Felix, have to worry as much as these whelps do."

  Amused, Lyttleton stroked his moustache. "Come now, Henry and I didn't get out of short pants yesterday."

  Andrews chuckled. "No, you didn't, but then you're near half our age, and that's what seems to get these chaps killed, doesn't it?"

  Lyttleton nodded. "I'm afraid so. Men of a certain age — but now a little boy."

  "A sad business." Smyth-Fellowes shook his head. "A sad business, indeed."

  "I've forbidden my Felicia to go out at all while this is going on," Andrews said. "I won't have her going out and being hurt."

  "I don't believe any women have died," Lyttleton said and glanced toward Montchalmers, noting that he looked distinctly uncomfortable with this topic of conversation.

  "Damned, if that ain't right," said Smyth-Fellowes, an awed tone to his voice. "Still, I wouldn't put it past this madman — if it is — to try to fool us all into believing he only kills men and boys and then turning around and slaughtering our women like lambs. No, I'll keep mine under lock and key, see if I don't!"

  "Excuse me," Montchalmers said suddenly, "but I must be going now. I-I have another appointment."

  "Henry, when can we dine together again?" Lyttleton asked as his friend hurried across the room. "It's been a while, after all!"

  "I don't know. Maybe soon. Don't ask! I've got to go now," Montchalmers called, and then he was gone.

  "In a damned bit of a hurry, what," Smyth-Fellowes rumbled. He glared at the vacant chair. "That's one of the problems with youth nowadays. Always rushing hither and yon for no reason." He subsided into a surly silence.

  Andrews and Lyttleton exchanged smiles, but inwardly Lyttleton wasn't amused. Something was definitely wrong with his friend, something connected somehow to the recent deaths. Could Henry have — No, his friend was incapable of that. Or was he? Surely, though, Henry had been with others when those deaths had happened. Certainly that would be easy enough to check.

  Or, Lyttleton thought, what if Henry simply knew something about them? That seemed more probable. Particularly if August Hamilton were somehow involved with the deaths. He thought of his suggestion to Napier of an accomplice. Montchalmers and Mrs. Hamilton? Perhaps, and he did not like the idea one bit.

  *

  Later, as Lyttleton was leaving the club, his footman John caught up with him.

  "Sir, Mr. Edgar sent me with a note for you, sir," the boy managed to gasp. His face was flushed; he'd obviously run most of the way.

  Lyttleton took the sealed note, broke it open, and scanned the contents. Dr. Napier reported that the boy who had died the night before did indeed have a look of terror on his face when he died. Death by the same means, whatever that was. First young men, now boys. Why? Numbly he thrust the note into his pocket.

  "Sir?" John asked, his round face concerned. "Is there anything more you wish?"

  "No," Lyttleton said absently. He started to walk off, then paused. "It's all right, John. Go on home; I won't be needing you now. First, though," he said, reaching into a pocket, "stop by a confectioner's shop." He dropped a coin into John's hand.

  Wide-eyed, the young footman stared at the shilling.

  "Thank you, sir." Not delaying a moment longer, he rushed off, turning the corner.

  His mind blank, Lyttleton began walking in the direction of Eaton Square. Around him the unseasonable heat pulsed and wavered, shimmering off the streets and the buildings. His skin prickled as a long tentacle of sweat ran down his back, and his starched collar scratched his neck; he was most decidedly uncomfortable. When he reached home, he would read and rest for a while, have Edgar prepare a light meal, and perhaps later, after the sun had gone down, he would feel revived.

  He began whistling soundlessly and stopped off at a bookseller's to purchase a volume of poems and to browse a little through the dusty shelves. By the time he reached Eaton Square, the shadows stretched long across the street. He trotted up the steps; the door swung open to admit him, and Edgar stepped forward to take his hat and cane.

  "A gentleman and a lady inside waiting for you,
sir," Edgar said. His expression was of disapproval: Edgar did not like guests; no doubt, Lyttleton thought wryly, his butler would heartily approve of him becoming a hermit. "I sent the boy after you, but you were nowhere to be found." Again disapproval. Edgar always liked to know where his employer could be found.

  "I stopped off at Ramsey's for this," Lyttleton said as he handed the book to the servant. Edgar did not spare a glance for the volume. "A gentleman and a lady, you say?" Lyttleton began sorting through the mail waiting for him on the tray in the hallway.

  "Yes, sir. They have been waiting for some time. I told them that I did not expect you soon, but the gentleman said it didn't matter. Their names are Captain and Mrs. Grant." Lyttleton looked puzzled, and Edgar elaborated.

  "They said they have come in reference to your recent inquiries regarding Lieutenant Hamilton's stay in India."

  Lyttleton dropped the letters he had been holding. "Send them into the library at once, Edgar. I'll be there as soon as possible."

  "Very well, sir," the butler replied with a slightly disdainful sniff.

  Lyttleton went upstairs to wash his face and hands, brushed his hair, glanced at himself in the mirror, then patted his moustache, and went down to the library. He realized he was trembling. He entered, and his visitors stood and turned around to him. They introduced themselves as Malcolm Grant and his wife Emily. Grant declined Lyttleton's offer of a cigar, then came right to the point of his visit.

  "I understand, Mr. Lyttleton, that you are desirous of talking to some of Tommy Hamilton's friends."

  "I was particularly interested in those who had known him while he served in India."

  "Well," said Grant without seeming to boast, "I'm your man. I met Tommy right after he arrived in India, and I probably knew him better than most."

  Lyttleton studied the pair. Malcolm Grant, dark-haired and handsome, was in his late twenties, elegantly attired with carefully tended hands. A three-inch-long scar under his left eye lent him a raffish look. His wife, blonde, with brown eyes tinged with green, was most stylishly dressed in a dress of grey linen, the high-necked bodice trimmed in silver braid. She wore white gloves and a fetching straw bonnet, and was in her early twenties.

  "How did you hear about my inquiries?"

  "Do you know Charles Beck?" Grant asked. Lyttleton nodded. "You'd talked to some lads at the club, and one of them with a long name and a huge family talked to

  Beck, who's a friend of mine, and in turn he relayed this to me."

  "Good, good," Lyttleton murmured as he stroked his moustache thoughtfully. Grant seemed friendly; perhaps he'd be candid. For some reason the wife acted a trifle nervous. Her eyes shifted about the room, and only once had she met Lyttleton's gaze directly. "You do know that Tommy died some time ago, do you not?" He didn't recall seeing Grant at the funeral, but as the ceremony had been heavily attended and as Lyttleton had been paying little attention to those around him, he could easily have missed him.

  "Yes, I heard. I wasn't in London at the time. It was a terrible tragedy. Just terrible."

  "Had you seen Tommy since he left India, Captain Grant, or just prior to his departure?" Lyttleton asked, carefully watching the man.

  "No. In fact, I hadn't seen him since the uprising two years before. The last time I saw Tommy Hamilton was when we were both in Meerut the day the Mutiny began. We fought together, and then were separated, and after that I didn't see him again. I made inquiries, but couldn't locate him. From time to time after that I would hear rumors that he was in Delhi, but I could never find him when I was there. I suppose he must have been injured or sick at the time. A lot of us were." Unconsciously his fingers touched the scar.

  "Did anyone of your acquaintance see Tommy in the two years following the Mutiny?"

  "No, Mr. Lyttleton. At least none of the fellows we served with did, or else they would have said something to me."

  "Captain Grant, tell me, please, if you can — do you know anything about his widow?"

  A surprised look crossed Grant's face. "Tommy married? My God, to whom?"

  "He married a woman named August Parrish. Do you know her?"

  The surprise changed to recognition and pleasure, a look Lyttleton had seen on other men's faces when August Hamilton's name was mentioned.

  "Why, of course, I know the lady. Tommy was courting her before the mutiny. We used to rag him a lot about it, teasing him about being in love and all that, and he took it well, as Tommy did with everything. Miss Parrish — Mrs. Hamilton, I suppose I should call her — lived in Delhi, less than a day's journey from Meerut."

  "Where was she when the Mutiny began?" Lyttleton asked. Emily Grant, he noticed, had clasped her hands in her lap and was keeping her eyes down. Her lips were pressed together, and it was obvious she didn't like the topic of conversation.

  "Miss Par — Mrs. Hamilton — was in the capital that day, and when we were under seige that terrible day, Tommy was terribly concerned about her and her father. He kept muttering about going to Delhi to make sure they were all right. I lost track of him after that, and didn't know if he'd been injured or captured or simply separated from the rest of us. But, by Jove, he managed to reach her, then." A smile now curved his lips, and he chuckled at a memory. "By gad, he was in love with her! Some days that's all we heard from him. Miss Parrish this and Miss Parrish that, and at first we thought the old boy was exaggerating because no one could be a paragon the way he described her, but then we all finally met her, and we could see that Tommy had been right on the mark. Isn't that smashing, Em?"

  Malcolm Grant might think it was an excellent idea that

  Tommy Hamilton had married August Parrish, but by Emily's expression she evidently disapproved as highly of the notion as she did her husband's enthusiasm about the person of August Hamilton.

  "Did you know the couple, Mrs. Grant?" Lyttleton asked. Grant was obviously too enamored of the memory of August Parrish to be of any real help. He might find out more from the wife.

  "I knew Lieutenant Hamilton only in the vaguest sense," Emily Grant replied, "having seen him at several dances and dinners while I was in India. English families tended to stay together there, and so I knew August Parrish somewhat better."

  "And?" Lyttleton pressed.

  "I did not like the woman." Her mouth was tightly set, and her fingers curled on her lap.

  He thought the feeling was stronger than dislike. Hatred, perhaps. Why? What had August Hamilton done to provoke this woman? Had Emily Grant wanted Lieutenant Hamilton for her own, then lost him to a rival? Or could it be something more?

  "I see. Is there anything else you can tell me about her? Perhaps where she and her father came from? Their personal background?"

  "May I ask why, Mr. Lyttleton?" She stared unflinchingly at him.

  "My interest in Mrs. Hamilton may help us trace the illness that finally felled Tommy," Lyttleton replied smoothly. He had already given much thought to his replies if they questioned him. "I and the doctor I am working with have good reason to believe that either he or his wife may have inadvertently brought some unknown disease to this country."

  "Are people dying?" Emily Grant asked sharply, glancing sidelong at her husband.

  "Yes," Lyttleton said.

  "I see."

  Lyttleton didn't know quite how to interpret this answer. "Please, Mrs. Grant, if there is anything that you know ..."

  "When I said I knew her better than Lieutenant Hamilton, I did not mean to imply I was an intimate of hers. I think no one was. I never saw her in the daytime, for she always claimed the harsh India sun burned her, and thus she was only social at night. As for her family, I believe her father once mentioned that they had come from the north of India, and before that he had come from England. Supposedly, she was born in India; of her mother I never heard a word. She and her father" — -she shook her head — "they were very close, those two, but I'll wager he took more than a fatherly interest in her." Both her husband and Lyttleton looked shocked at this dis
closure. There was no irony, though, in Emily Grant's expression or voice. "August Parrish was like a brightly burning light, the men like moths, Mr. Lyttleton. I never saw men behave more foolishly than they did around her. No, Malcolm, please allow me to finish." Her husband had started to protest, but Emily shook her head and continued.

  "I left just prior to the Mutiny, Mr. Lyttleton, for my father was wise and heeded the signs of growing unrest, but while I lived there, a number of young men and boys in Delhi — both European and native — died from some mysterious 'ailment' that the doctors were unable to identify. But then the Mutiny broke out, and attention was drawn away from the deaths."

  She paused, then resumed, her tone even more curt than before. "Let me just say, Mr. Lyttleton, that where August Parrish is, men die. I have witnessed it before, and now I find she is here in London and men and boys are dying once again."

  "Emily," said her husband in a pleading tone. The officer's cheeks were flushed, as though he were acutely embarrassed, but of what. Lyttleton was not sure. Was it because Malcolm Grant knew he had acted foolishly over August Parrish and was now being censured by his previously demure wife?

  "Please, Malcolm." She looked at Lyttleton and spoke slowly. "August Hamilton is an evil woman, Mr. Lyttleton. Totally evil and beyond redemption. I suggest that you leave her alone, that you stay far away from her unless you wish to fall under her spell and die, too. My husband was most fortunate, for he had just met her when the Mutiny began and she disappeared from sight. Otherwise, I suspect he would have been fatally mesmerized too." She stood. "Now, if you will excuse me."

  Both men stood and watched as she left the room. Lyttleton glanced at Grant, whose face had now turned a dull red.

  "I'm sorry. Mr. Lyttleton. Extremely sorry. My wife is — she's highly strung, that is, delicate . . ." He hastened to his feet, nearly knocking a chair over, and backed toward the door. "I'm sorry that we haven't been much help. Good luck in your effort, though." He flashed a smile, then was out the door.

  Thoughtfully Lyttleton sat and stared at the painting over the fireplace. Grant thought he and his wife had not been of much use, but they had. Young men and boys, Emily Grant had said, had died previously where August Parrish Hamilton was. Died in India; then died in London. She might be the carrier or the transmitter of some disease. Perhaps, then, she should be informed, or possibly Dr. Napier and other doctors could study her to see what could be done to prevent further outbreak of the disease.