Jade

Her eyes would haunt him for all eternity. He had nightly plagues of those deep jade-green orbs. They would often appear in the fire crackling in his study. Staring into the fireplace had been a common pastime before she had entered his life. Never before had anyone had such a profound effect on Cole Bingham. He sat in his study night upon night pen in hand waiting for inspiration to strike. Rain hurled itself at the windows of his dismal estate in upper Massachusetts. What had possessed him to buy such a large place to live? He was alone in those twenty rooms, save his elderly butler, who was a poor substitute for company. Such a large empty environment signified his condition. He had often felt his heart to be a vast desert: sometimes scalding hot, sometimes harshly cold; but it was always hard and devoid of life.

What inspiration he was waiting for was beyond the troubled man. Not a page had been written since last he saw those jade eyes so mild and unseeing. His own eyes stung with pain and a hand flew to his brow. Never again would he show such weakness. Such frivolities had gotten him to this point; he was alone and close to breaking. Sighing in defeat and perhaps even in disgust he pushed his papers aside. His pen was thrown at the inkwell turning the small bottle on its side. He ignored the blackness spreading upon his desk. He harshly made his way to the liquor cabinet causing his thunderous steps to be heard in the rooms below. He paid no heed to the noise as he cast open the cabinet door pulling a thick heavy glass into his grasp. If his sorrows would not die of their own accord perhaps he could drown them with drink. Amber liquid sloshed messily into the glass, the preferred method of numbing his pain.

He slumped into a large, overstuffed armchair that had been positioned in front of the fire. The heat penetrated his flesh, but he felt no warmth. How could he now that all he loved was gone? Her green eyes had left him. His career had been wrenched out of his grasp. Even his house would soon be taken from him as he could not make the payments. At least the former matter would soon be resolved. He took a large gulp, the liquid burning at his throat and dripping from his scraggly beard. He wiped it away with his sleeve, an action for which his mother would have scolded. He grimaced at the nearly audible scoff his memory conjured. The old maid was long gone and could disapprove of him no longer.

A grunt of anger escaped him as he leaned forward in the chair resting his elbows on his knees. The glass rotated in his hands as he contemplated the firelight and how it played with the object and the liquid inside. Such an activity only served as a minor distraction. How could such an action captivate an intelligent person for long? He threw back his head pouring the contents of the glass down his throat. A minute sound emitted as he did so; it was something between a laugh and a sigh. A grimace adorned his face, emphasizing the lines around his mouth. Wrinkles were beginning to crease his brow. Indeed, he had reflected upon that fact nearly every morning as he gazed into the mirror hanging above the bureau in his extravagant bedroom: a room of dark tones and cherry furniture so large and posh was meant for more, but only one person warmed the canopy bed.

Anger erupted from within him and the empty glass was hurled to explode on the wall of the brick fireplace. Fragments littered the rug around him. They crunched underfoot providing him with a mild satisfaction. He had hoped his outburst would relieve even an infinitesimal amount of his anger, but he was afforded with no such luck. The middle-aged man sighed as he ran his fingers through thick tangled hair and he paced the study restlessly.

The deep sangria red walls and dark wood reflected his mood. Candles were scattered haphazardly about the room; they flickered in the draft he created as he walked heedlessly by. She had forsaken their love, had left him. She would never return to him, he knew, but why his life had fallen apart? Had he known things would have been this hard without her…

A firm knock sounded at the front door. The rain pounded on the windows still, rhythm to a song he was not allowed to hear. Soft clicking footsteps came from the stairs below: the butler coming to answer the door. The muffled sounds of an invitation floated to his ears. He whipped around wild-eyed to stare at the entrance to the study. Who could be here at this time of night? Who would venture out in this storm when the sky was covered in rain-fat clouds? He soon discovered as, much to his displeasure, his butler introduced Detective Hammond and his police escort. Cole combed his fingers through his disheveled hair quickly, straightened the lapels of his coat and, stepping forward, shook the man’s hand.

“Detective,” he said noncommittally while nodding his head curtly in acknowledgement.

“Mr. Bingham,” the detective replied in an accusatory tone, immediately expressing his suspicion. The purpose of the large escort became clear. He was a threat. “This is Markham.” The officer made no move to take Bingham’s hand, which was convenient as Cole had no desire to do so.

“Please have a seat,” he offered as the butler moved more chairs to the fire. “Would you care for tea or coffee?”

“Coffee, thank you,” the detective accepted though not an ounce of gratitude graced his voice.

“Now,” Mr. Bingham said impatiently; already he was anxious to see the end of this meeting. “What has brought you out in such miserable weather? With what might I help you?” he asked, his words touched by irritation.

“I am sorry,” the detective explained monotonously, “to announce your father is dead.” Bingham looked at him a moment before standing. He made his way to the liquor cabinet once more. “Would either of you care for a drink?” he asked without looking up as he filled a new glass. His company declined courteously, not at all disconcerted with his eagerness for the amber liquor. The burning in his throat could distract from the pain in his heart. However, the detective was uneasy about the broken glass lying ignored on the carpet.

The butler swiftly entered with a tray in one hand and a broom occupying the other having noticed the mess upon admitting the two men. He was accustomed to unexplained disarray and had long since learned they were best left without answer. After the tea was served, he quickly swept as Bingham regained his seat. The detective studied his beverage a bit before taking a sip. He watched as the unkempt man took a swig of alcohol. Bingham looked as though he hadn’t slept in years. In fact, Hammond fancied, he probably hadn’t slept since his fiancée left him five years ago.

“Detective Hammond, did you come here with the sole intention of notifying me of a death in the family while you profit from my generosity and pleasantries?”

Hammond recoiled a bit from the insult. He sat up quickly, firmly setting his posture and gritting his teeth as his anger flared. “As a matter of fact Mr. Bingham, I came to question you of your relationship with your father,” he announced stiffly as he produced the means with which he could take notes.

“There wasn’t much to speak of,” Bingham responded irritably. “I haven’t spoken with the man since my mother died nearly ten years ago.” A small clatter arose from the hallway. His elderly butler was not as agile as he once was. Bingham continued, “We had a minor disagreement at the funeral over the funding of my career. He claimed I was simply taking advantage of the family fortune. He wrote me out of his inheritance. I had no qualms about it. As you can see I have done quite well for myself without his help.”

“What is it you do to earn your living, sir?” Hammond questioned with contempt dripping from his every word.

“Have you not heard of me?” he asked holding his glass to the air spilling a few drops on the already discontented rug. “Cole Bingham - famous Egyptologist. I’m currently working on a novel about my findings,” he claimed with voice raised in an air of self-importance. Hammond glanced at the officer next to him who shrugged his shoulders as if to say “I’ve not herd of him either.” The sound of the storm once more intruded the room, filling the silence. Lightning invaded the study granting Hammond and his escort with an enhanced view of the man they questioned. A more tortured soul they would never find. This man was wasting away, in guilt, presumably. Bingham appeared as an empty shell, nothing more. Hammond stood and the escort followed suit.

“We ought to be going,” the detective explained. “Thank you for the coffee. You are most gracious.” The words seemed forced and did not reach his eyes.

“Not at all. Please, do come back. Only, kindly announce yourself and do so at a reasonable hour,” Bingham insisted, remaining in the study to refill his glass.

Hammond nodded and walked to the door where the butler showed him out. “Sir,” he addressed Bingham’s elderly servant. The torrential rain hid his whispered voice. “Should you have anything you wish to tell us I would appreciate it if you would call.”

“You think the master had something to do with his own father’s death?” he exclaimed in a hushed tone though he was not doubtful that Bingham had lied. Rain poured from the overhanging above the doorway.

“Indeed. After all, is it not customary to inquire as to the means of death a loved one has suffered?”

“How did Mr. Bingham die?” the butler asked. His words expressed the fear he had of the answer.

“Murder,” Hammond whispered as the wind chilled him once more. He pulled his overcoat tightly around his body. “Mr. Bingham was murdered.”

The butler’s eyes grew wide as the two visitors made their way down the front entrance. Shutting the door securely behind them, he jumped in fright as he was addressed.

“Charles,” Bingham demanded. “Must you leave the blasted door open all night? I will catch my death of cold.”

“Forgive me, sir. I shall return to my cleaning presently if you have no need of my services tonight.”

“Go then,” he said with an impatient wave of his hand. He returned to the study and closed the doors forcibly. Charles was left alone in the front hall. As he descended the steps to the basement he remembered a letter he had seen not so long ago.

Morning had broken though it hardly differed from the night in any respects. Only the ticking of the clock on the mantel above the fireplace indicated the passage of time. Mr. Bingham sat dozing in his armchair before the failing fire. Embers drifted up the chimney providing a surprisingly entertaining pastime. His eyes lazily followed the ash even when Charles appeared in the doorway behind him. The butler knocked to further announce his presence but still he was ignored.

“Sir,” he began without waiting for an answer. “I have finished the cleaning in the basement you requested. Breakfast is on the table in the dining room. Everything is in order. If you haven't any requests I shall go to town. There are some items I would pick up for supper tonight.”

“Has the cement dried downstairs?” Bingham demanded gruffly. He had recently bricked a new wall that had been in need of repair. Charles had found it disconcerting that the eccentric man had done the work himself, though it had not been the first time. Granted Mr. Bingham had run into a bit of financial trouble of late, but it was not characteristic of him to do the work himself. Cole Bingham considered physical labor “deplorable” and “worthy of only the foulest, most despicable rung of humanity.” Nothing short of financial ruin or perhaps another plague of biblical proportion should have been able to convince him to participate in such an arduous act.

“It is nearly set, sir,” he replied. From his chair Bingham waved the butler away. “Be on your way then,” he said dismissively. Charles turned without another word. Again Bingham was left to himself. The rain pounded at the windows relentlessly. Alone in such a large mansion he could not help but think he was the sole survivor of an apocalypse. Only the creaking of the house and the crackling of the fire reached him. Rain had been something to which he had become accustomed. It had been raining in his mind since those green eyes had last focused on his own. How he had longed to see them once more. So many nights had he wasted away with drinks and visions of seeing his love once more.

She had left him. The plain and simple truth was that. They had been engaged to be married. He did not mind that she had not a title and she did not care that he had become estranged with his family. Had she only cared about his wealth as long as they had been associated? Was that the only detail of him which had mattered to her? Either way she had left him with nothing but a letter.

Ford had been his name: a fabulously beautiful farmer of little wealth or standing. “Eliot has asked for my hand,” she had written. Her soft voice filled his head. Even the elegance of her handwriting was unparalleled. “I granted his request. I will be accompanying him shortly at his estate.”

“Estate!” Bingham exclaimed, jumping to his feet both at present and in his memories. Such a man could ill afford a barn let alone anything worthy of being proclaimed an estate.

“It is regretful that I should place you in such a position. I offer you my most heartfelt apologies.”

Bingham laughed maniacally at such a statement. The woman had torn out his heart, tossed it to the dogs and offered him only an apology! What could such words do to ease his aching heart?

“I hope in time you will be able to forgive me and that you understand why I cannot tell you in person. It is enough of a strain on my self just to write this letter. I cannot see you again. Just know that I will be happy with Jacques. I wish happiness upon you with a more worthy woman.”

She had cast him away without a second glance, but Bingham had been unable to let her go. The second he had finished her letter Bingham had called Charles to bring his Buggati. He had rushed to her childhood home, only to find her packing the last of her meager belongings.

“Evelyn,” he had whispered from the doorway to her room. She started and turned to look at him clutching her heart. Those emerald eyes shone with repressed shock and fury. Black curls danced into her face, held into place by the cloche hat she wore. Bingham drew closer and brushed them away. She cringed and shied away from him.

“Cole, I…” she began. He interrupted her.

“I received your letter,” he had told her, his voice becoming harsh. Her eyes darted away from his, unable to accept the consequences of the seed she had sown. Her breathing hastened. He looked at her; his eyes pleading with her. He wanted her heart for his own.

“Don’t leave, Evelyn. I love you. I can be good to you. I can treat you like a queen. You can live in my home and have my children and we will be happy for the rest of our lives!”

“Cole, do not ask this of me! I do not love you. I am sorry to hurt you so, but I am in love with Eliot. I am going to be his wife.” Her eyes were brimming with tears but she held his gaze firmly. She was, and always had been, a woman of strong will.

“What does that farm boy have that I do not? My wealth is tenfold greater than his!”

“I do not care for his wealth, his title or to what he bears claim!” she exclaimed backing away from him in disgust. “Eliot has love! He is not concerned with how I will benefit him. He loves me!” Her heated words now calmed and she looked away from him. “He will be a good father to our child.”

“You harlot!” Bingham had exploded, flood waters bursting through the dam. “You mean to tell me you carry his child!”

“I do. I am sorry Cole, but I am leaving now. I wish you happiness.” With a nod Evelyn brushed coldly past him. He stood in shock as his love walked through the door and out of his life.

Rain poured outside with renewed force as the memories gradually faded from his mind. So many times had those images haunted him. With her all his happiness had left him. He would say he was devoid of emotion, but such was not the case. He felt pain and jealousy; he felt anger and the hurt of betrayal. Cole had quickly turned to alcohol as a means of release. His career had gone downhill. The remnants of his social life were tattered and frayed. With all things said and done, Cole Bingham was the hollow shell of the man he once was.

Unfortunately, not much else could be expected of a man who defined himself by the woman he could ensnare, the people who would share his company, or his choice of occupation. Such a man would care not for the mindless joys and simple ways of life. Cole was concerned only with the materials of life, with power and money alone. Ultimately, all men of such caliber remain alone. Alone is what Cole Bingham was and he certainly resented it. He had tried everything he could think of to keep Evelyn in his life and still he had failed. Her emerald eyes had filled with disgust when her gaze fell upon him one last time.

A sharp pain pierced his heart as he thought of her with her lowly farm boy in Oklahoma as they raised a horde of dirty, starving children. 1929 had likely have hit them with brutal force. No doubt they would have made their way to California by now. How could such a life have made her happy when she could have had much more? She could have been rich, with servants to tend to her every need! Instead she chose a life of filth and want with that swine of a man. It infuriated him that the woman he loved could dishonor him so.

The front door opened with a groan as Bingham threw back another drink. Several thunderous footsteps made their way to the study. He went to the window heedless of the impending outcome. The rain had finally relented and the clouds began to disperse. The sun’s golden rays made their way to the Earth. Flowers were opening to bask in the warmth of the life-giving orb. A small smile came to his face. Finally his torture was ending. The study doors, those doors that had shielded him from reality, were forcibly thrown open. Bingham did not turn around or even react. He knew who they were and why they were there and it did not matter to him.

“Mr. Bingham,” came the firm voice of Detective Hammond. “You are under suspicion of patricide. We are to investigate your basement.

Cole Bingham turned around slowly with a glass still in his hand. A smile graced his features. “My dear Detective,” he began with a voice more jovial than he had thought possible. “My home is yours! Search it if you will. I shall accompany you.”

Hammond stared in awe at the man who so dutifully greeted him. He doubted if this was the same man as the night before; if it was, he was truly insane. Bingham brushed by with a slight bounce in his step and the detective followed him to the basement with several men in tow. It was common knowledge that Bingham’s fiancée had left him five years ago. Since then, the man had been shut up in his estate rarely venturing to the outside world. Slowly the insanity must have set in. Hammond kept a wary eye on the man leading him as they descended the staircase. They reached the bottom and Bingham stood to the side allowing the others to file in beside him. The men stood rather close to the suspected criminal, ready to prevent his escape, as Hammond began to search the storeroom.

“Well, Detective Hammond,” Bingham announced in a booming voice which echoed in the large, relatively unfurnished room. “This is my humble basement. If you would explain how this room incriminates me…”

“Mr. Bingham,” the detective replied with a smugness that can be achieved only with endless rivers of confidence. “Last night you informed me that you had not spoken to your father in the ten years since you fought at your mother’s funeral.”

“Indeed,” Bingham smiled joyously. This was vastly amusing to him.

“You see, while cleaning the basement your butler came across a two letters. One was addressed to your father, a request to borrow money. It would seem that the wealthy Cole Bingham is rather in a financial fix.”

“And the second?” he inquired. His smile did not falter.

“A reply from your father. A denial of your request. Your father refused to fund your self-loathing, destructive lifestyle. I have confidence that you killed him for the inheritance.”

“Which makes it ever stranger that he decided to change it on the night he died. Then again, perhaps he had a change of heart before he was murdered,” Bingham chuckled, not feeling surprise in the slightest he was trying to poke holes in the detective’s argument which was perfectly true. He enjoyed toying with the man.

Now the detective smiled. “Mr. Bingham, I never once told you the cause of your father’s death. However, you are correct. He was murdered.”

A deep laugh erupted from the disheveled man. “Indeed you are correct. However, are you to assume that I am guilty simply because of these circumstances? I have told you that I have not seen my father since the funeral ten years ago. There is no one who would be able to tell you that I had.”

“We do not need anyone to tell us that you have seen your father,” the detective spat at him, his outrage growing as Bingham remained indifferent. “We have a man to swear that he delivered the letter to your father. However, you somehow have the letter you sent him as well as your own. How did you obtain it if you did not see him?”

"Perhaps he sent it back to me with his reply?"

"Not so, I am afraid. In his journal, your father indicated that he would keep it for the rest of his life in order to remind himself of why he had disowned you. Furthermore, he kept it in a private stash alongside his most personal belongings and important paperwork."

"Even so," Bingham chuckled. "You have no body. You cannot prove he was murdered.”

"But every man in this room can swear that you knew things only the murderer would have known. For example, there is the fact that we do not have a body. You were never informed of that either, Mr. Bingham."

"You may have reason to believe I was the murderer, but without a body how can you prove your wild accusations?”

"As I am sure you are aware, that is why we are in your basement. You recently took up masonry, did you not?" Hammond walked the perimeter of the room inspecting the walls as he went.

"Did my butler tell you that? Perhaps I should have killed him as well. However, as a matter of accuracy, I have practiced masonry for five years."

"He did, though I would like to think I would have eventually discovered as much without his help."

"Yes," Mr. Bingham replied. "You would think so highly of yourself, wouldn't you?"

Detective Hammond ignored him. "Ah..." He sighed full of satisfaction. "It would appear that this cement has not yet dried." He picked a large sledgehammer from the tools lining the adjacent wall. "Let's see what is behind it shall we?" Hammond mocked. Bingham was indifferent. He did not care if he was caught. Anything they could do to him would be a holiday compared with the torture he suffered daily. At least he was being entertained in the process. Hammond inspected the wall carefully before picking a place to begin. He lifted the sledge hammer and began to swing.

"No!" Bingham roared suddenly transforming into a lunatic and running toward the detective. The men, caught off guard tried to catch him. "You'll hurt her!" The sledgehammer connected sending bricks to the ground as he collided with the detective. Dust littered the scene as bricks crumbled on impact. When eyes were blinked into clarity a body could be seen lying amid the rubble. It was not a man's body.

Linen cloth was wrapped tightly around the slender body of a young woman. Men pinched shut their noses to avoid the scent of decomposition. The arms were crossed onto the woman’s chest to hold a heart shaped golden locket. She wore an Egyptian burial mask the likes of which were found only in Tutankhamon's chambers eight years previously. The eyes were made of large emeralds. Bingham fell to the ground and pulled the mummy into his arms. He cradled her head in his arms. "Evelyn dear, did he hurt you? Are you all right, my love?"

Detective Hammond stood and backed away from Bingham. He looked at the men accompanying him. They all stared at him wide eyed. Indeed, Bingham was crazy. He had killed his fiancee. Three canopic jars sat undisturbed inside the wall. Hammond chanced a step closer. Next to Evelyn Bingham had placed his father. The corpse was braced to the wall still, also wrapped in linen though he had not been adorned. Four canopic jars sat at his feet.

"Mr. Bingham, I am afraid we will have to take you into custody now," Detective Hammond said quietly.

"My dear Evelyn, why did you have to leave me?" Bingham moaned.

"You killed her," the detective accused. His voice expressed none of the outrage he felt.

"I had to. She was to leave me for another man. He never even reported her missing,” Bingham scoffed. “I treated her like a queen and she betrayed me!"

"You treated her like a dog. Yet when she tried to leave, you killed her!" His brow furrowed. The nerve of this man! Two men grabbed either of his arms and began to lift him to his feet.

"I loved her. I told her I couldn't live without her," Bingham said with tears filling his eyes. He choked them back. "She couldn't live without me. I wouldn't let her."

Hammond looked him straight in the eye before the deranged man was hauled up the stairs. His jaw clenched and he forced out the words. "May the devil have mercy on your soul."