The framingham fiend, p.1
The Framingham Fiend, page 1
PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF GREGORY HARRIS!
THE ENDICOTT EVIL
“An intriguing central mystery.”
—Publishers Weekly
THE DALWICH DESECRATION
“One of my favorite Victorian mystery authors.
The author’s research into the era is impeccable.”
—Historical Novels Review
THE BELLINGHAM BLOODBATH
“A terrific story . . . both storylines come together in
perfect symmetry, making for an incredibly pleasing
mystery. The author nails it yet again!”
—Suspense Magazine
THE ARNIFOUR AFFAIR
“Colin has Holmes’ arrogance but is dimpled and charming,
while Ethan is a darker Watson . . . [T]he relationship
between the leads is discreetly intriguing.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Pendragon matches Sherlock Holmes in his
arrogance . . . he is redeemed, in part, by his
brains and his gentle treatment of Pruitt.”
—Publishers Weekly
“The mystery is extremely well done, the characters
carefully drawn and the story moves quickly
to a satisfying conclusion.”
—Washington Independent Review of Books
Books by Gregory Harris
THE ARNIFOUR AFFAIR
THE BELLINGHAM BLOODBATH
THE CONNICLE CURSE
THE DALWICH DESECRATION
THE ENDICOTT EVIL
THE FRAMINGHAM FIEND
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
THE FRAMINGHAM FIEND
A Colin Pendragon Mystery
GREGORY HARRIS
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF GREGORY HARRIS!
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2018 by Gregory Harris
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
eISBN-13: 978-1-61773-892-0
eISBN-10: 1-61773-892-1
First Kensington Electronic Edition: June 2018
ISBN: 978-1-6177-3891-3
For Carla Navas
One of a kind
CHAPTER 1
The sight before us was worse than anything I had ever seen. More than a dozen years trundling along in Colin’s wake, watching him solve innumerable murders, extortions, malicious acts; none of it prepared me for what we saw when we entered Amelia Linton’s Whitechapel room. The scene was so grisly that Superintendent Tottenshire, the man who had beseeched Colin and me to assist Scotland Yard with this murder, had demurred to join us, leaving us in the hands of his newly minted inspector, Maurice Evans. That alone should have forewarned me.
“The landlady, a Mrs. Simpson, found her this morning,” Inspector Evans was explaining in a spare, rudimentary tone as Colin and I hovered just inside the doorway. “She had a part-time job at the Coventry flower market, but the landlady says Miss Linton went out most nights to earn extra wages. Told us she’d been sending money to her mother and siblings in Leith near Edinburgh. That’s what brought Mrs. Simpson up to Miss Linton’s room this morning. She says Miss Linton was never late for tea before she hurried off to the flower market each morning—no matter what she’d been up to the night before. . . .” The inspector’s voice trailed off.
I found my eyes drawn back to the small dining table where Miss Linton’s mutilated body lay. Her head was thrown back as though she was in the midst of a great laugh save for the fact that there was no such expression on her face or in her eyes—which were diminished and unseeing as they bulged from their sockets. That was when it became evident that her head was cantilevered back not from merriment but because her neck had been carved nearly down to the spine, leaving its attachment to her body tenuous at best. The swath of blood that had rushed from the wound had stained the upper half of her chest, coating it with a black, viscous sheen that held an all too familiar metallic tang.
“She is quite like the superintendent told you the first victim was last week.” Inspector Evans was still speaking. “She was also torn open from clavicle to groin with most of her innards . . .”
He did not finish his sentence, nor did he need to, for it was exactly as had been described to us not an hour prior. Miss Linton’s torso lay open, her rib cage pried apart so it was plain to see that where her internal organs should have been, there was nothing but darkness and blackened gore—the whole of it flattened incongruously as a result of the unnatural void. If there could be any doubt about what we were witnessing it was quickly dispelled by the arrangement on the floor around the table, a tableau so gruesome that I believe my very breath ceased for a period of time.
Just as with the first victim, this woman’s missing organs—one after the other—had been meticulously placed around the table’s circumference: heart, lungs, stomach, liver, kidneys, a tangle of intestine, pancreas . . . I could not contain the gasp that rose of its own volition from my throat.
“It all looks so very particular,” Colin muttered. “As if the killer was looking for something.”
I blanched, glancing over at him to see whether he was trying to ease the thick tension, only to find an expression of thoughtful consideration on his face that was matched by a similar countenance on the inspector’s.
“Only the Devil knows what lurks in the mind of a man capable of such a thing as this,” Inspector Evans said after a moment.
Colin took a step into the room. “Then the challenge will be ours to discover the same thing.”
I sipped a quick breath and stepped forward, stopping at the door to search its jamb for signs of forced entry, though truthfully I was doing everything I could to avoid looking at the carnage.
“How many of your men have already trampled over this scene?” Colin asked from somewhere near the table, his words disturbing the silence enough to make me jump slightly.
“Far more than you will like,” came the answer, and I could tell by the tone of the inspector’s voice that he was displeased himself. “I am afraid the superintendent does not hold to your opinion of contamination at these scenes. The more eyes pledged to a case, the more men committed to shifts walking these same streets, the better he feels.”
“Look how well that served him during the Ripper murders,” Colin murmured.
“You don’t think—” The inspector was interrupted by a harsh, disapproving exhalation from out in the hallway before he could finish.
“What an appalling sight,” Denton Ross hissed, tugging on the white lapels of his coroner’s coat and stiffening his spine. But it was not lost on me that he was staring at Colin and not at the body.
“You will give us a moment,” Inspector Evans snapped, obviously having noticed the same thing. “Are you finished here, Mr. Pendragon?”
“Have photographs been taken?” Colin asked, coming back toward me.
The inspector turned to one of the young bobbies standing just outside the door, ensuring that none of the uninvited curious gained entry, and the young man informed us that a photographer had been there not half an hour before our arrival. The news did not please Colin.
“So we will have photographs of a well-contaminated murder scene taken some seven hours after the discovery of the body. It scarcely seems worth the effort,” he groused. “I should like to see your autopsy report as soon as you are finished, Mr. Ross,” he said as he swept to the door.
“I do not report to you,” Mr. Ross grunted as he moved over to the body, his assistant—the lanky, pock-marked Miles Kindall—following in his wake.
“Mr. Pendragon and Mr
Mr. Ross tsked as he stood over the body. “Well, this is a buggered mess. Get some pans and a bucket or two, Mr. Kindall. This isn’t going to go easily.”
“Please proceed with restraint, Mr. Ross,” the inspector warned. “You will notice the newspapers have yet to be notified.”
A thin sneer tugged at a corner of Mr. Ross’s rubbery lips. “You’re worried that it’s the Ripper again, aren’t you. The Yard’s unfinished business come back for its due.”
“Are you an investigator now?” Colin asked, his voice tinged with distaste. “Because you are speaking absurdities.”
Mr. Ross snickered, and the very sound of it made my stomach seize with fury. “So insistent, Mr. Pendragon.”
“Enough, Mr. Ross,” the inspector cut in. “I’ll not have you inflaming this city with something we have no notion about.”
“Oh, come now . . .”
“You will deliver your report first thing tomorrow morning, Mr. Ross,” Colin spoke up, “or I will have the Yard assign your assistant to take the lead.”
Mr. Kindall reappeared in the doorway as though summoned, a bucket hanging from each hand with various metal pans poking out and one tucked firmly beneath his right arm. “What?”
“You are on the verge of promotion,” Colin answered, and was gone.
“That ruddy bastard.” Mr. Ross seethed before Inspector Evans could hold up a hand.
“Collect the remains and get on your way,” he reiterated. “And we will have the results of your autopsy first thing tomorrow.”
I did not wait for the response but hurried to find Colin, having caught the sudden unsteadiness of his gait as he had left the room. There was no doubt that the wounds he had recently suffered at the hands of Charlotte Hutton—two bullets to the chest and a crack to the back of his skull—were still demanding their due. I feared it was too soon for him to take a case.
CHAPTER 2
The ride back to our flat was silent, as I kept quiet rather than harangue him about the frailness of his health. I held my tongue, watching the neighborhoods slowly improve as we clattered from Whitechapel to Kensington, all the while pledging that I would shoulder the greater burden of this case.
“My father’s here,” he mumbled as our cab slowed, and I too spotted the black Town Coach with its team of horses and the Pendragon lion and griffin crest on its side.
“I wonder what he wants?” I said, though I was sure it was to check on Colin. Sir Atherton had been by nearly every day since Colin’s release from hospital two weeks prior, though he always managed to scrounge up some alternate reason for coming.
When Colin and I reached our study at the top of the stairs, it was to find Sir Atherton in Colin’s chair before the fire, as always, and Mrs. Behmoth across from him on the settee, the two of them deep in what looked to be overwrought conversation. There was a full service of tea laid out before them, as well as a plate of raspberry and lemon tartlets. One pleasant adjunct of Colin’s well-wishers was the fact that Mrs. Behmoth had taken to baking daily. We were ever prepared for visitors now and even happier when there were none to share the spoils with.
“Well . . .” Sir Atherton’s pale gray eyes drifted over to us as he smiled. “Here are my boys at last.”
Mrs. Behmoth shifted around and scowled the instant her eyes fell on Colin. “Ya look like shite.” Her eyes darted to me. “What’re ya thinkin’, keepin’ ’im out ’alf the bleedin’ day when ’e’s still tryin’ ta get well?”
“He is not my keeper,” Colin informed her curtly as he dropped onto the settee next to her.
Her eyes narrowed. “Well, ya still look like shite.”
“You do need to take care of yourself,” Sir Atherton spoke up.
“Are you here for a reason, or are the two of you simply testing my patience?” Colin muttered, picking up two unused teacups stacked to one side of the tray and pouring us tea.
“Besides checking on how you are getting along, I am actually here on another matter,” he answered just before he took a nip of his tea.
“Well, thank heavens. I’ll not be coddled.” He thrust my teacup at me.
“Yer too ornery ta be coddled,” Mrs. Behmoth announced as she pushed herself off the settee, grabbed the teapot, and headed down the stairs.
“That woman is infuriating,” Colin bothered to state as he turned back toward his father. “You were saying . . . ?” And if I hadn’t already been aware of his flagging vitality I could most certainly hear it in his voice.
Sir Atherton gave a thin smile, and I suspected he had caught it as well. “Do you remember a gentleman by the name of Braxton Everclear when we were living in Bombay? He was a junior diplomat who worked in my office and used to come by the house quite a bit after your mother died. Had a son a few years older than you named Henry.”
“I remember Braxton. He was very kind. But I don’t remember a son.”
“His boy never lived in India. I suppose they thought he might do better in London, but he got into quite a bit of trouble anyway and finally died some years back after living what can only be described as a wayward life.”
“Wayward . . . ?” Colin repeated, though I was sure we both knew what Sir Atherton meant.
“He struggled with an addiction to alcohol and opium that brought him to a sorrowful end.” Sir Atherton shifted his eyes to me and offered a gentle smile. “Henry did not have the fortitude to conquer his demons,” he added for my benefit, though it was the love of his son that had truly made it possible for me to vanquish my own. “Braxton and his late wife were devastated. They pledged themselves to care for Henry’s only child, a boy born out of wedlock named Quentin, though he could not be properly claimed as their grandson.”
“What a horror to convention,” Colin mumbled with distaste.
“Braxton has been sending the boy money ever since,” Sir Atherton continued without comment, “encouraging him to attend university, but the lad has been drifting, and Braxton has struggled to have an impact.”
“How old is Quentin?” I asked.
“Nineteen. He was living in Whitechapel with his mother until recently.”
“Whitechapel . . .” Colin muttered thoughtfully. “Why isn’t he living with her any longer?”
“She became ill and died. It has left the boy on his own.”
“And has Mr. Everclear offered his grandson the refuge he deserves, or has propriety forbid him from doing so?” Colin asked, his tone disapproving.
“He has tried to do the best that he can,” his father answered patiently. “You cannot judge him for the tenets of a society he does not control.”
“You needn’t speak to me of such things. Ethan and I would be their victim as well if we did not strive so for invisibility.” He brought a thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose, and I could tell that he had reached the limits of his patience.
“You were telling us about Quentin Everclear,” I said to Sir Atherton. “Does Braxton have some concerns about his grandson?”
“He does.” Sir Atherton nodded. “He’s not heard from the boy in over two weeks now. And what he finds most distressing is that the first of the month has come and gone without word. He has been paying the boy’s rent since his mother’s death, but this month the lad failed to come around and pick it up. Braxton sent a messenger to inquire about the boy, but the man was turned away without a scrap of information. I just thought . . .” He hesitated, his eyes settling on mine, making his apprehension about asking anything of his ailing son clear.
“Your thought is well placed,” I spoke up. “I will go down to Whitechapel myself and see what I can learn. Do you have an address?”
