The Connicle Curse (12 page)

“Then you must return the jewelry. It does not belong to either of you. You and your mother appear to be surviving without such things. If you and Sundha love each other as much as you insist, then
that
must be the foundation for your lives together, not ill-gotten gains. Is it not enough that you're already taking one of the three most valuable things the Guitnus have to give? Is Sundha not worth more than all the rest of it?”

“But the things you said earlier . . .” He rubbed at his face and looked about to weep. “If those things come true . . .”

“There is no if,” Colin said as he stood up. “They will happen and either they will make your union stronger or they will rend it. But you have already lost if you start with a legacy of malfeasance.” He sighed and tossed me a glance as I got to my feet, my head and heart reeling. “You and Sundha have much to discuss, Cillian. I will give you three days to bring me your mutual decision, but know that I will
not
be hindered in the solution of this case. And do not seek to disappear before our next meeting as I shall have eager eyes on your every move until then.” He flashed a tight grin and took a quick step back before abruptly stopping. “You spoke about regret,” he added. “I would caution you to remember that it encompasses both ends of the spectrum. Regret for the choices you did not make, as well as for those that you did.”

He nodded curtly, leaving Cillian looking quite feeble and done in as we headed for the door.

C
olin's steady breathing beside me should have lulled me to sleep hours before, and yet I remained wide awake. One of his legs was astride my hip and he had an arm flung across my chest, and all I could think was how fortunate I was and how very sad I felt for Sunny Guitnu and Cillian. It made me wonder where I might be had Colin and I not come together in spite of the law, convention, and, in my case, a self-imposed abuse driven by the opium that soothed my fears and ceased my doubts.

I had been aware of opium as a boy, but it wasn't until I was sent to Easling and Temple Academy that I had my first taste. It was a dare from an older boy, as such things so often are. But while he and his mates determined it great good sport to addle the minds of a few twelve-year-olds, I was delirious with relief at the anesthetizing of my every thought. Neither the spectre of my mother's broken mind nor my own growing sense that I was, in fact, somehow different from every other boy could hunt me under the gentle stroke of opium's comforting release.

How I would like to say that it was a slow and stealthy process, but I would be lying, for it was not. Within weeks I was stealing small amounts from classmates whenever I could, and long before that year was out I had become a regular in the East End, prowling about like a spectral waif, picking pockets, begging, plying whatever trade I needed to get the one thing I valued more than any other: relief. Fleeting though it was—sporadic, destructive, debilitating—nothing mattered more.

By the time I was fifteen Maw Heikens had taken me into her club to watch over her girls and tend to chores. For this she had given me a tiny room in her cellar and enough food to keep me alive. Food had ceased being much of a concern for me anyway. By then I was spending far more time in her establishment than at Easling and Temple, but since my grandparents sent their generous payments to the school without fail, no one said a word. I was certain no one knew or cared, but I was mistaken. Colin had been there, always on the periphery, but there just the same. He was not of my league and I paid him little mind, but fate would not leave it be so. Or perhaps it was more than fate. I do not profess to know. But what I am certain of is that without Colin's interference there is little chance I would have survived very much longer.

The relentlessness of my thoughts finally drove me from our bed. I slipped on a nightshirt and crept downstairs to warm some cocoa for myself even though I knew I risked the wrath of Mrs. Behmoth if caught. With the stealth of a mouse I tiptoed into the kitchen and lit one of the lamps near the stove. I painstakingly lifted a small saucepan from the rack overhead, my bare feet masking my every footfall, and almost dropped it when there came a sudden pounding. My jaw unhinged, as I thought it impossible for Mrs. Behmoth to have heard me. It wasn't until the pounding came again, more pronounced than the first, that I realized it wasn't Mrs. Behmoth at all. Someone was at the front door.

“What the bloody 'ell . . .” I heard Mrs. Behmoth curse from her room.

“Don't trouble yourself,” I called back as I hurried from the kitchen. “I've got it.” And not a moment later I was pressed against the door asking who it was at this hour, though, in truth, I had no idea what the hour was.

“Pruitt . . .” I recognized the voice at once and knew that it could not possibly bode well. “Pruitt, I need to speak with you and Pendragon.”

“Now?” I answered in lieu of a proper thought.

“I wouldn't be here if it wasn't critical,” he hissed through the door, and there was something in his voice that made me pull it open even though I was wearing nothing but my flannel nightshirt, my hair wildly askew.

Inspector Varcoe stood there looking drawn and nervous, Sergeant Evans and another policeman off to one side behind him. “This is most unorthodox,” I muttered needlessly.

“I know, I know . . .” Varcoe said, signaling his men to remain where they were before he stepped inside.

“Do you mean to leave them outside?”

“They're fine,” he dismissed as he gazed up toward our study with a look of unmistakable trepidation.

I gave a meager shrug to the two men as I shut the door. “I s'pose you'll be wantin' some tea,” I heard Mrs. Behmoth grumble from the darkness of the kitchen hallway, and immediately took her up on it.

“You'll need to give me a minute while I get Colin,” I said as we trudged up the stairs.

“Fine, fine,” Varcoe muttered vacantly.

I deposited him in the study, lit several lamps, and prodded a fire back to life before I went to wake Colin. He remained just as I had left him, so it took several minutes to get him roused and moving about. Before I headed back to the study I pulled on a robe and slippers, arriving just as Mrs. Behmoth was bringing up the tea.

“We got vermin in the kitchen.” She glanced at me as she set the tray on the side table. “Lightin' lamps and throwin' pans on the floor.” She handed the inspector a cup. “Guess I'll get me a couple a traps.”

“That will be all,” I answered without a trace of humor. “We will see you in the morning.”

She was about to fire something back at me when Colin swept into the room, fully dressed, with his tawny hair immaculately slicked back. He looked like he had been lounging by the fire just waiting for this call. “Inspector . . .” Colin gave a warm smile as he sat down. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”

I thought surely Varcoe was going to sneer some answer back, but he did not. Instead he released a burdened sigh before setting his teacup back on the table and turning to the fireplace as though he might find some solace there. “It's this bloody Connicle case.” His voice sounded thin and drained. “There's been another murder.”

“What?” Colin bolted forward, slopping his tea. “Who?”

The inspector rubbed his forehead a moment and then turned his weary eyes to Colin. “Arthur Hutton. He's one of the Connicles' neighbors—”

“I know who he is,” Colin interrupted, springing to his feet and stalking over to the fireplace. “I spoke with him just this afternoon.”

“You did? Why?” Varcoe's curiosity arced in spite of his fatigue.

“Never mind that now.” Colin waved him off. “What happened ?”

I'd have wagered that Varcoe was going to censure Colin for his usual lack of diplomacy, but instead he ran a hand through his shock of white hair with a labored sigh before answering. “We found him about an hour ago on an overgrown trail that borders his property and the Connicles'. He was on the Connicles' side. That's when I knew—”

“How was he killed?” Colin cut Varcoe off again, shoving his teacup onto the mantel and picking up a small derringer that he began repeatedly clicking open and closed. “Was it the same as with Edmond Connicle?”

“It is,” Varcoe answered rather pitifully. “Beaten and set afire.”

“What in the
hell
is happening out there?!”

“My point exactly!” Varcoe said as he stood up, keeping his eyes affixed on Colin. “Which is why I'm here.” He took a hesitant step toward the fireplace, the firelight catching his ashen face and making him look haggard and defeated. “We cannot have another serial killer,” he moaned. “It cannot be. We're still taking heat off the damn Ripper case even though it's been almost eight years since they found the body of that blasted Mary Kelly.” He rubbed his forehead and for a moment I thought he might be about to cry. “When the papers find out we've got three murders likely connected . . .” He shook his head and sagged. “We'll be crucified when they learn it's happening in West Hampton.”

Colin glared at the inspector. “So you have finally given up the notion that the Connicles' groundsman fell to his death?”

The inspector looked crestfallen and worn as he nodded.

Still, it was not enough for Colin. “And are you concerned about the killings of these three men or just the reputation of your band of incompetents?” he pressed.

I could not help cringing.

“I worry about both,” Varcoe answered in a small voice.

“And what is it you want from me?” Colin asked as he delicately set the derringer back on the mantel. It was the question I had been waiting for from the moment I'd found Varcoe on our doorstep.

I watched the inspector grip the back of the settee before he spoke, but when he did his voice was clear and firm. “I need your help. I need you to work with the Yard on this case. Help us to solve these murders at once.”

“I thought you already had your suspect,” Colin remarked without cheek. I credited it to the hour, which, when I finally glanced at the clock, was stunned to find gliding toward half past two.

Varcoe reddened slightly, apparently chagrined in spite of Colin's moderated temperament, and cast his eyes down. “We're still holding the African woman. We've had her in custody since we found her husband's body yesterday morning. She is obviously not the killer. But that doesn't mean she isn't still involved somehow. Perhaps the mastermind . . .” he muttered with a shade of his familiar defensiveness, though he let his voice trail off just the same.

Colin gave a shrug as he picked up his teacup and settled back into his chair. “Perhaps,” he conceded, though without much conviction. “And just how is it you propose that I should”—he hesitated—“work with the Yard?”

“You will have full access”—Varcoe's face went hard as he perched back on the edge of the settee—“to
everything
.”

“I've got a magistrate's order,” Colin reminded. “I already have access.”

“I'll see that you get full cooperation whenever and wherever. No waiting around while your court order wends its way down to the little pricks on the front line.
Nobody
will stand in your way.”

“You're being very seductive.” Colin gave a roguish grin.

“I mean to be.”

“And if I deign to test your goodwill right now?”

“Try me.”

Colin's grin blossomed. “I should like to see Arthur Hutton's body before anyone touches it.”

“I assumed you would ask for that.” Varcoe allowed his own sly grin. “He's right where I left him, waiting for you to have a look. I've even ordered the men to keep off the ground nearby so you can get a
real
look, a
proper
look, like you're always badgering about.”

Colin chuckled. “Do I badger?” He set his tea down. “But what I'd really like . . . after I've inspected this murder scene . . . is to go to the morgue and view the files for both Edmond Connicle and Albert. And I should like to inspect Albert's remains as well.”

“Anything at all!” The inspector leapt up as though loaded with a spring.
“Sergeant!”
he hollered down the stairs.

“Ya tryin' ta wake the bleedin' dead?!” Mrs. Behmoth yelled back.

“My apologies,” Varcoe blustered as he quickly scrambled partway down the stairs.
“Evans!”
he called out in a hissed sort of bark, and I heard the front door immediately open in response. “Go find that pox, Denton Ross, and tell him to get over to the morgue at once and prepare the body of the African for Pendragon to view.”

“Yes, sir,” came the succinct reply. And as the inspector returned to the top of the stairs I heard the sound of a horse galloping away.

“Are you with us then?”

Colin gave a wary smile. “We are.”

Varcoe's eyes slid over to me and he nodded his head. “Of course.”

“You had best make yourself presentable,” Colin said to me. “The inspector and I will meet you downstairs.”

Knowing the two of them were waiting got me dressed and in the inspector's carriage with undue haste, surprising even myself. Though still a bit disheveled and certainly not as focused as I would have liked to have been, I seemed to be the exception among us. Colin looked keen and alert and, in spite of Varcoe's obvious fatigue, I couldn't deny a sharpness lurking behind his eyes. I marveled at the toll to his ego coming to us must have cost him. Greater still, I wondered if his détente would last.

Once we reached West Hampton we followed a slight curve in the main road before abruptly leaving the macadam for a dark, rutted path through the woods near the Connicle home. Almost at once I could see the glow of startlingly bright electric lights ahead. The deepest part of night appeared to be unveiling the very heart of day as we drew closer, bouncing and jostling along a trail that had clearly not been used in some time, given the brambles rubbing against the underbelly of the carriage. By the time we rounded the last curve and drew free of the trees I had to squint to keep from being momentarily blinded.

“It's just as we found it,” Varcoe said as we came to a stop. It was hard to believe, given the number of uniformed men milling about, stomping on potential clues that could lie anywhere within the broader radius. Only the ground nearest the remains was wholly undisturbed, a plot of some twelve feet square. It had been cordoned off with a rope tied around stakes at its four corners. Two officers were posted along alternate sides, which hardly seemed necessary, given that the blazing lights were concentrated on this specific area. If anyone had decided to step inside for a closer look,
everyone
would have noticed it.

“Let us see what we have then,” Colin said as he stalked over to the roped area. He squinted up at the glaring lights a moment before stepping inside and painstakingly picking his way to where the body lay.

The phalanx of men drifting about the periphery began closing in on Colin until the inspector gruffly shooed them away with a barked, “This isn't a bloody sideshow!”