The Connicle Curse (14 page)

I
t was edging toward five, still predawn, and I was grateful to finally be back in bed. My body felt so heavy it was as if my blood had been displaced by molten lead, and my mind was little better, having been poisoned by the carnage I had just seen—
three
ruined corpses. Colin and I had come home and scrubbed at our hands and faces at the kitchen sink, the smells of putrefaction and chemicals refusing to give way easily. My harried mind became terrified that I would never lose the stench that clung to me. I ticked a glance at Colin to see if he feared the same and could tell by the steady crease of his forehead that his thoughts were traveling far afield. No matter what faced us next, I only wished for enough time to properly parse this night away.

“This case mystifies me,” he said with a burdened sigh a short while later as we climbed into bed. “It seems so arbitrary. Haphazard. And yet there is clearly some purpose here. These are not the random killings of a madman. They are specific and purposeful, and yet . . .” His voice drifted off and I understood precisely what he meant. There seemed little logic to these killings, but there was always logic. Even a case as indiscriminate as the Ripper killings had been born out of both calculation and purpose.

“You'll figure it out,” I said, uncertain whether I was trying to convince him or me.

He reached over and pulled me to him. “You always have such faith in me.”

“What?” I lifted my head to peer at him through the darkness. “Is that self-doubt I hear?”

He chuckled and bussed my forehead. “You know,” he said with a yawn, “one of us has to go out and tell Mrs. Connicle that's not her husband's body.”

“Those teeth . . .” I curled my nose and set my head back on his chest. “I've never seen anything like them. They were worn down to nothing more than nubs.”

“That they were.” Colin exhaled. “I used to see people like that in Bombay, their teeth filed nearly away from working reeds or bamboo into pulp by pulling it through their teeth over and over until they produced just the right texture and thickness to weave baskets or mats or the soles of sandals. As soon as I saw that single wire stitch I knew something was wrong. We were never meant to look in that cadaver's mouth. Denton Ross's carelessness nearly cost us a crucial bit of information.”

“Varcoe was threatening a magisterial hearing against him.”

“As well he should. In the meantime we shall see if Varcoe can figure out whose body that really is.” Colin heaved another sigh. “Though I doubt we'll ever know. In India he would be a member of the shudra caste or perhaps even an untouchable. There will be no record.” He lifted my chin and looked at me, his eyes catching the moonlight from the window next to the bed. “Will you go see Mrs. Connicle tomorrow?”

“Of course.” And now it was my turn to sigh.

“Thank you, my love,” he said with a kiss. “You are so much better at that sort of thing than I am.”

“I wish I thought that a compliment,” I muttered. “It's just that Mrs. Connicle is so confounding. One moment as fragile as gossamer and the next, as when she was insisting she'd spotted her husband at Covington, almost feral.”

“Well, now you understand why.”

“All the same. I can see why she was placed in Needham Hills those years back. She's unsound . . . brittle . . . and that can be devastating.”

“And you know too much about such things.” He gently stroked the side of my face. “Let it be. We shall have further revelations tomorrow.” He kissed me again and settled back, and before I would have thought it possible the world drifted away from me to be replaced by a singular female voice filled with vitriol and rage as it seethed up out of the murky blackness.

“The devil's spawn!”
she howled, her face shiny with perspiration as though she had just run up a flight of stairs. But it was her eyes, coal black and vacantly ferocious, as though she were registering everything and nothing.
“You're the devil's bloody spawn!”
she cried, and this time she spat on me.

“Leave the boy alone, Amelia.”
It was my father, his tone as calm and forgiving as always. I hated him for that. For not fearing her like I did.

“He's tainted!”
she snapped back.
“You can't see it like I can.”

“He's just a boy, Amelia.
Our
boy. Let him be.”

“Go on, Ethan . . .”
my father admonished, and I was certain he regretted having me too.
“Your mother is tired. Go to your room and fasten the bolt.”
I knew what that meant, and when I heard the baby start to cry I did not need to be told again.

It didn't take long. It never took long. First came the rattling of the doorknob, and then, as if her inability to gain entry proved that I could not be there, she began to wander around and call my name.
“Ethan. . . .”
The ferocity of her voice waxed and waned with her proximity to my door.
“Ethan! . . .”

“Leave him be. . . .”
my father pleaded, his tone unexpectedly worn.

My eyes tore open and I found myself crushed in Colin's arms. “It's all right. . . .” he was saying. “You're all right.”

The first tendrils of sunlight were just beginning to filter in through our bedroom windows. “Oh god,” I slurred.

“It's okay,” he said again as he kissed my eyes and then my forehead.

“I'm sorry—”

“Don't,” he said at once.

I could find no other words to say and my mouth was so dry I thought surely I would choke on my tongue anyway.

He softened his grip and looked at me. “I have an idea. Why don't we take the day off. We'll have Mrs. Behmoth pack us a picnic and go out to Twickenham and get into some mischief in the woods.” He snickered wickedly.

I managed a hoarse chuckle. “I'd sooner have this case behind us.”

He continued to stare at me, studying me, before a gentle smile slowly overtook his face. “Then that is what we shall do.”

T
he Hutton children were a combination of sadness and fortitude. Anna told us she was eleven, and yet she had the deportment and dignity of someone years older. Her hair was long and dusky blond, and she was a sweet-faced girl who nonetheless did not have the striking natural beauty of her mother. What Anna did have was an unflinching maternal disposition toward her brother, who, she told us with great pride, had just turned six.

William looked almost to have been born of different parents, with his shaggy brown hair and broad, round face. But what merited the most notice was the fact that he seemed to be constantly in motion, his arms flapping or fidgeting even as his body rocked back and forth as though he were in a rocking chair rather than on the settee loosely enveloped in one of his big sister's arms. His eyes were equally frenetic, constantly darting about the room and never once alighting on a single person other than his sister and, even then, only for the briefest moment. He made sounds but did not speak, and I had the overwhelming sense that he was somehow trapped inside his mind and body without the slightest idea of how to break free.

Anna had joined us as soon as we had been ushered into the library near the rear of the house. She had fearlessly introduced herself to Colin, Inspector Varcoe, Sergeant Evans, and me and ordered tea for all of us as though she herself were the mistress of the manor. That she could be so poised under such circumstances was surely a sign of her remarkable fortitude.

It was as our tea was being delivered that her brother came romping in, his face and fists clenched even as his arms flapped rigidly in front of him. He was making a distressed sort of whining sound as he careened toward his sister, which seemed to wholly delight her as she squealed and threw her arms wide for him to crash into her. She was covering his face with kisses when the same young, redheaded woman we had met several days ago—Janelle, I recalled her name being—came bustling into the room with an exasperated expression clouding her face. “Now don'tcha be teachin' him that it's all right ta run from me.” She huffed as she struggled to catch her breath. “Ya spoil him, ya do.” As before, I was struck by her soft Scottish burr.

“Of course I do,” Anna replied with a note of harshness. “You come right up here and sit by me, Willy,” she said as she pulled him up onto the seat next to her. “You're being unkind. This is a terrible day. He needs to be with me.” The young woman blanched as she stepped back without another word, hovering near the doorway by Sergeant Evans. Anna turned her eyes back to Colin, her face set with determination. “If there is anything I can do to help . . .”

He gave her a warm smile. “Your generous hospitality at such a time as this is assistance enough.” I was relieved by his answer until I saw his brow furrow. “Though I would be interested to know when you last saw your father yesterday,” he could not help but add.

“It was after William and I finished supper last night,” she said at once. “He always likes to see me before he and Mum take their evening meal. Me and Willy,” she corrected, squeezing her brother's shoulder even as he continued to rock incessantly beside her.

I was beginning to think we had made a mistake in coming here, that Mrs. Hutton would be unable to speak with us, when the young nurse at the door abruptly scuttled back into the room and hissed, “Your mum's comin', miss. I should take the boy out.”

“No!” she snapped. “He's happy. I want him to stay.”

There was no smile on the boy's face and his constant motion appeared to be more manic than gleeful, so I wondered what made her decide he felt thusly. Still, it was clear he had sought his sister's solace with good reason.

Not a moment later Mrs. Hutton swept into the room in a cloud of black crinoline and satin. Her startling beauty was fully in evidence with her sapphire eyes heightening the perfection of her strong cheekbones and delicately chiseled nose. Yet it was the rigidity of her posture and the thin set of her lips that most struck me as she turned to her son's nurse. “Take William upstairs at once,” she ordered.

“But Mum,” Anna started to protest. “He's fine with me.”

Charlotte Hutton did not respond to her daughter's contention. She did not need to, as Janelle quickly moved in to seize the boy. It was the first moment that William seemed to fully connect with what was about to happen. He emitted a frantic howl and began flailing his arms about haphazardly as he sank back against his sister. Anna leaned over and whispered something in his ear, but it had no effect. Either he wasn't listening or it simply did not register. Whichever the case, a moment later his nurse had him clutched against her chest as she quickly swept him from the room, the sounds of his sorrowful wailing audible long after he had disappeared from view.

“William is not well,” Mrs. Hutton said in a tight, clipped tone. “If you meant to wheedle information from him I am afraid you will find it quite futile.”

“Mum!” Anna sucked in a sharp breath.

“You may go,” Mrs. Hutton said to her daughter as she moved into the room and took a seat near the fireplace. “I hope these men have more pressing things to discuss than can be addressed with a child.” Anna's face dropped, registering a look somewhere between betrayal and dismay, but she said nothing as she obediently left the room. “So tell me, Mr. Pendragon.” Mrs. Hutton turned and set her glare on him. “Are you and the Yard so stymied in your investigation that you now seek the counsel of girls and simpletons? Your combined ineptitude has left me a widow. How many people have to die before the lot of you put an end to this horror?” She turned toward the fireplace, the light of its flames dancing across her face as though they had been placed there just to amplify her fury and the tears starting to collect at the corners of her eyes.

“Scotland Yard has committed every available resource to this case,” Inspector Varcoe cut in, biting back his humiliation. “We are already implementing a twenty-four-hour patrol around the whole of this area until this thing is settled.”

“This thing?!”
She spun on him with the rage of an injured animal. “You would call my husband's murder a
thing,
Inspector ?” She swiped at her eyes as though they betrayed her righteous ire.

Varcoe's face went crimson as Colin got up and moved to the far end of the fireplace, pulling Mrs. Hutton's gaze along with him. “Please do not lose yourself to the semantics of a poorly chosen word. We are here, all of us, to ensure that your husband's killer is brought to justice swiftly and appropriately. But to do that we must beg your indulgence at this most inopportune time. It is critical that you permit us to ask you some difficult questions. I will not fail you, Mrs. Hutton. I give you my word.”

“He speaks for the Yard as well,” Varcoe hastened to add.

Mrs. Hutton's eyes had gone stern again, and did not waver from Colin as she asked, “And how has your word served Mrs. Connicle?”

“That is entirely different,” Varcoe fussed obtusely. “At this point we're not even certain her husband is dead.”

Mrs. Hutton's face went slack as she turned on him.
“What?!”

“This is a complex and ongoing investigation,” Colin interrupted with chagrin. “There is much we don't yet know—”

She bolted up and stalked to Colin, squaring off with him as though to do battle. “Are you even certain that Arthur is dead?! Or have you gotten this household into an uproar over nothing as well?”

Colin's face went hard, and I prayed his better nature would lead his reply. “I am afraid there's no question of it,” he answered smoothly.

She stared at him a moment longer, seeming to take his measure before abruptly moving away. “And what is it you are so eager to ask me?”

Colin struggled to produce the slightest of smiles, which Mrs. Hutton appeared to take no notice of. “Are you aware of anyone who had a recent falling-out with your husband?”

“My husband could be an abrasive man, Mr. Pendragon. There was little secret in that. He did not care if anyone liked him or not.”

“I see . . .” Colin mumbled as he began pacing in front of the fireplace. “And did your husband have any business with Edmond Connicle or his firm?”

“Arthur invested a great deal of money with Columbia Financial. But Wynn Tessler handles our finances, not Mr. Connicle. And all Arthur did was complain that Mr. Tessler was a scourge anyway.”

“Unhappy with your returns?”

“I really wouldn't know,” she said, her tone like ice.

Colin allowed an irritated sigh to escape his lips even as he flashed a fleeting grin. “Was your husband preoccupied of late? Distracted perhaps . . . ?”

“You spoke with him yesterday,” she answered brusquely. “Did you find him so?”

“I would very much prefer to hear what you think,” Colin said, the strain in his voice threatening to rupture at any moment.

“My husband neither confided in me nor sought my opinion. If he was preoccupied or distracted I would not know it. Now have I not suffered enough for one day? Must I continue to be hounded by your inanities?” She glowered at Colin, her eyes piercing him as though daring him to press ahead, which, thankfully, he did not.