The Connicle Curse (19 page)

M
y head was pounding its irritation as I shut the folder and leaned back in the cushionless straight-backed chair. The chair, it seemed, had been aptly selected by the cheerless dark-haired young man who had shown me to this dour room with its lone window and clutter of filing cabinets and bookshelves piled up to the ceiling. It discouraged any but the most rudimentary comfort, which, given that this was the room where audits took place, made perfect sense.

“More tea, Mr. Pruitt?” Wynn Tessler gamely asked as he swept the folder I'd just finished reviewing into a box at his feet.

“Please.” I gave him what I could conjure of a smile despite the steady pulsing at my temples. I had been staring at an assortment of calculations and figures for well over two hours and, as usual, they had been taunting my comprehension almost from the start. There was no surprise that Colin had left me here alone to start poring through the Connicle and Hutton accounts while he made an ostensibly quick detour to check on Edmond Connicle. For if I had an aversion to accounting it was practically toxic to Colin.

“I am afraid you have exhausted the Connicle ledgers,” Mr. Tessler announced as though that were some sort of tragedy. “I do have most of the Hutton documents gathered should you wish to proceed.”

“Of course.” I nodded dimly, knowing I had no alternative. Colin had promised to meet me here to do his share of this drudgery, but as I flipped open the cover of my watch I knew he had found some pretext to forgo his assistance. If his excuse proved feeble I had already vowed to myself to make him share my current misery one way or another.

Wynn Tessler leaned over and flipped open another box as though we couldn't possibly be having more fun in our lives at this moment. He cheerfully dug out several thick folders and shoved them across the table at me. Each was labeled
HUTTON: WEST HAMPTON,
and each held enough papers to condemn many more hours of my life. My head immediately intensified its throbbing.

“Let me get us that tea,” Mr. Tessler chirped as he stood up and called to someone down the hall.

His voice clawed at my temples as I sat forward and flipped open the top folder, once again assaulted by myriad accounts at all the same establishments: Bank of England, Royal Bank of Scotland, C. Hoare & Company, and Pictet & Cie. It appeared that Columbia Financial was consistent in their advice. As I sorted through the first layer of investments and accounts, I was struck by the disparity of holdings between the Connicles and Huttons. While either could have bought and sold me many times over, it quickly became clear that the Hutton family lived within far stricter means. Someone, Mr. Hutton himself I presumed, had made poor choices around a mining concern in South Africa, which had cost his family dearly.

“Here we are then,” Mr. Tessler said as the same grim young man who always seemed to do his bidding entered with a tray of tea and scones. “Thank you, Sebastian. You can take the Connicle ledgers back with you.” The young man set the tray on the desk, taking care not to disturb any of the documents I had spread out before me. He tossed Mr. Tessler a curt nod and swept up the two Connicle boxes as though they held no weight whatsoever, then took his leave. “Come, Mr. Pruitt.” My host smiled. “Leave those things for a moment and rest your eyes. You'll be cursed with spectacles like the rest of us if you keep at it too long.” He laughed.

“I'm sure that day will come,” I answered as I gladly set the file aside and picked up the teacup.

“I know it's all dreadfully dry, but it is a living.”

“I should think it a great deal of pressure, investing someone else's money. Most clients' tolerance for failure must be minuscule. For instance, these mining investments the Huttons have in Africa; it appears far more money is going into them than coming out.”

Mr. Tessler flinched and pursed his lips. “You're an astute man, Mr. Pruitt. More so than many of those we do business for. As you can imagine, while it is our goal to direct all financial holdings for our clients, we can only accomplish that which they will allow us to do. Arthur Hutton chose to heed the siren's call of purportedly easy money.” Mr. Tessler sipped his tea as his eyes flicked up to mine. “Let me assure you, Mr. Pruitt, there is no such thing. So despite my personal protestations, Arthur quite literally poured a vast sum of money down mine shafts that were alleged to be filled with diamonds and such.” He shook his head. “Now his widow must suffer the consequences of his imprudence.”

“How unfortunate,” I muttered, picking up a scone and nibbling on it in hopes it might ease the pressure in my head. “A particular shame, given the regrettable state of health of their son.”

“And in that”—he stared at me with a grim expression—“you have the very heart of Arthur's decision. He worried terribly over William's care. The lad already requires constant supervision. Once he reaches Anna's age he's bound to be quite out of hand. He will need to be placed in a permanent facility and I'm afraid such places are only as good as one's ability to pay. It's tragic.”

“Indeed,” I answered flatly, swallowing the truth of how very much I knew of such places. “Do many of your clients fail to heed your advice?”

He gave an amused sort of snort as he refilled our cups. “More than I would care to admit. Most can be reasoned with, but it does rather boggle the mind when someone pays our fees yet refuses to take advantage of the very advice he is paying for.”

“Human nature, I suppose.”

“Pardon?”

I looked over at Mr. Tessler and set a smile on my face. “The ability to believe that one is smarter than everyone else. It is certainly what has kept Mr. Pendragon and me in business.” I took a hearty pull of tea and returned to the Huttons' folder even as a thought began to swirl around the periphery of my brain. “Did Mr. Hutton ever travel to those African mines?”

“Arthur . . . ?” Mr. Tessler let out a chuckle. “I don't think Arthur set foot outside of England the whole of his life. He certainly never traveled to Africa.”

“Extraordinary that he would deem to invest such sums in ventures he had no personal knowledge of.”

“How old-fashioned of you, Mr. Pruitt. Don't you know the world is shrinking all the time? What with telegraphs and that Scotsman Mr. Bell and his telephone, there is little one cannot find out about in much more than a day. I should think the day may come when travel itself will become irrelevant.”

“How breathtakingly mundane we would all become were travel to ever become irrelevant,” Colin piped up from the doorway, Mr. Tessler's assistant at his side. Colin looked tired, and there was an unaccountable dimness in his sapphire eyes. As he scuffled into the room, his usual ramrod bearing appearing almost leaden, I sensed that something was wrong. He nodded to Sebastian, who instantly evaporated back down the hall, and came into the room. “Are we going somewhere?” he asked offhandedly.

Mr. Tessler gestured at me with his chin. “Your Mr. Pruitt has been asking questions about the investments of Arthur Hutton. It would seem he believes I should have more influence than I do.”

“Ah.” Colin smiled thinly. “That must be the bane of your profession.” He moved up beside me but made no effort to glance at the folder I held open. “I'm afraid I have some very bad news,” he said after a moment, and I knew what he was going to say. “Edmond Connicle has died. He has succumbed to the sepsis of his wounds. His wife . . .” Colin shook his head and released a wearied breath. “She is inconsolable.”

“Poor Annabelle,” Mr. Tessler mumbled. “She has lost Edmond not once, but twice.”

“She has.” Colin dragged his eyes over to Mr. Tessler. “Do you have any idea why Mr. Connicle would have taken such sudden leave of his estate as he did? Or what he might have been doing at Tower Hill last night?”

“Edmond kept his own counsel, Mr. Pendragon. He did not confide in me. I served no function for his estate, nor did he for mine. Perhaps those are better questions asked of his wife.”

“Mrs. Connicle is in no state for such enquiries. Is there someone here who worked alongside him? Someone who would have been privy to his business dealings?”

“Edmond stopped working on individual accounts years ago. He wasn't like the rest of us, you know; he never
had
to work. For him it was more a hobby. Or maybe a diversion. When we started to become truly successful it was like a game well played for him. So no, I am afraid there is no one here who holds the key to the things Edmond did.”

“Are you telling me that Mr. Connicle maintained his own accounts ?”

Mr. Tessler chuckled. “He kept a watchful eye on them, but no, one of our senior analysts took care of his bookkeeping.”

“And who might that be?” Colin pressed.

“Noah Tolliver,” Mr. Tessler answered, folding his hands on the table like a grade-school boy. The name instantly stirred in my brain and, as I glanced over at Colin, I could see that his brow had furrowed as well. “He would be the executor of the estate now. Edmond brought him into the firm. I believe they met at Cambridge.”

“Tolliver . . . ?” Colin repeated.

And as soon as he did, I knew where I had heard it before. “Isn't that Mr. Aston's accountant?” I spoke up.

“He is,” Mr. Tessler answered amiably, seeming impressed that I would know such a thing.

“Then we should like to speak with him,” Colin said.

Mr. Tessler sat back with a sigh. “Noah is on leave just now. The poor man suffered a terrible riding accident a few months back and has been convalescing at his country home ever since.”

“How unfortunate,” Colin muttered perfunctorily. “Nevertheless, I should still require a word with him.”

“Of course.” Mr. Tessler stood up and called out into the hallway for Sebastian again. When no response was forthcoming, Mr. Tessler excused himself and left the room.

“Poor Edmond,” I said. “Did he ever regain consciousness?”

“He did.” Colin shook his head with a grimace. “But he was incoherent. Mumbling drivel. I couldn't make sense of any of it no matter how hard I tried.” He glanced away from me. “The doctor banished me from the room for getting in his way. A bloody lot of good
that
did.”

“Colin . . .” I muttered, trying not to scold though horrified at the thought that he might have been a hindrance to Edmond Connicle's survival.

“What?!” he snapped back, and I knew the same thought was already with him. “Have you had any luck here?”

I poked at the papers laid out before me. “Precious little.” I gave him a hurried recounting until Mr. Tessler returned with a sheet of paper clutched in one hand.

“Here you are then, Mr. Pendragon,” he said as he handed it over. “Mr. Tolliver is out in Stratford. If you really wish to see him I'm sure I can have Sebastian arrange something for you.”

“I would be most obliged. The sooner the better.”

“Consider it done. We'll get word to you shortly.”

“And should we require further access to these files?”

“You need only ask.”

“Very well then.” Colin shook Mr. Tessler's hand with an easy smile, but even so, I could see nettlesome doubt lingering behind his eyes.

O
n the way back to our flat we stopped in Holland Park by the Guitnus' home to arrange for our young spy Paul to meet us later in the evening at the same pub where he'd spotted the foreign man tossing about copious coins and crowing about his benefactor. Whether this would prove a reliable lead was based more on hope than evidence, but it was something, and for the moment that had to be enough. We considered stopping in and speaking with Mr. Guitnu to offer a veiled sort of update on our progress, but Paul informed us that while the wife and all three daughters were at home, Mr. Guitnu himself had left some time ago. The information earned Paul a half crown and a sigh of relief from Colin. Neither of us was in any mood to address Mr. Guitnu's thefts with him until after we heard back from his daughter's Lothario, Cillian, whose answer was due tomorrow evening. I only hoped that he and Sunny would choose to do the right thing.

“Mr. Guitnu is going to have a fit when he learns we've implicated his own daughter and her beau,” I muttered as I settled back in the cab for the remainder of the short journey to our Kensington flat.

“Mr. Guitnu is going to have a fit when he learns his daughter
has
a beau,” Colin pointed out.

The cabbie had us home in a matter of minutes and that was when we discovered that our luck had run out. Had I been paying attention I would have realized what was awaiting us at the sight of the carriages pulled up outside our door, but I was not paying attention, and when I heard Colin mumble a curse under his breath I only imagined that he was still fretting about what had transpired in Edmond Connicle's room at the time of his death. So when we crested the top of our stairs and entered the study, I was quite stunned to find Inspector Varcoe pacing in front of the windows, anger evident on his already-reddened face, and Prakhasa Guitnu at his ease on the settee, sipping tea.

“Where in the bloody hell have you two been?!” Varcoe blasted before either of us had even fully entered the room.

“Betting the horses at Ascot.” Colin flashed a tight smile as he made his way to Mr. Guitnu. “A pleasure to see you again, Mr. Guitnu. I apologize that we have been remiss in keeping in touch with you. Be assured that your case is never far from our thoughts.”

“I know how busy you must be,” Mr. Guitnu responded without artifice. “This poor man has been muttering under his breath since I arrived.”

“You're damn right I have.” Varcoe stalked over to us as we sat down across from Mr. Guitnu in our usual chairs. “You were supposed to have met me at the blasted morgue hours ago. I demand to know where you've been.”

“Did you learn anything at the morgue?” Colin sidestepped easily as he poured us tea and refreshed the cup in front of Mr. Guitnu.

The inspector's face soured. “I am
not
about to discuss an ongoing investigation in front of a stranger.”

“Inspector Emmett Varcoe . . . Prakhasa Guitnu . . .” Colin took a quick sip of his tea. “I'm betting Mr. Ross found meat in the poor dogs' innards. Something greasy like pork or lamb. And in six or seven weeks, when it no longer matters, Denton Ross will finally confirm that the meat was poisoned. Cyanide, I believe.”

“Pendragon!”
Varcoe bellowed loudly enough to bring Mr. Guitnu to his feet.

“I should not be here.” Mr. Guitnu fluttered anxiously.

“You have every right to be here,” Colin consoled as he nevertheless jumped up and escorted Mr. Guitnu to the stairs. “You are a wage-paying client while the good inspector does nothing but take.” He chuckled. “Please know, Mr. Guitnu, that we have made significant progress in your case, and while I would like nothing more than to discuss it with you, as you can see, we are ensconced in a pressing matter for the Yard. Did you have the lock to your safe changed as I recommended?”

“Yes, yes . . .”

“And there have been no additional thefts of your valuables these past several days?”

Mr. Guitnu nodded eagerly. “There have not.” He tilted his head and studied Colin a moment. “Significant progress?” he repeated.

“Significant progress,” Colin restated with a Cheshire's grin. “If I may beg your further indulgence for just another two days then we shall come around and set your matter to rest once and for all.”

“Of course.” Mr. Guitnu nodded fervently. “I thank you most kindly.” He headed down the stairs with an unmistakable lightness to his step.

“Now, Inspector.” Colin came back and resettled himself in his seat. “Am I right about the dogs or not?”

“Lamb,” Varcoe conceded with a grunt. “They had lamb in their bellies. And while it'll be some time before we know what it might have been laced with, Mr. Ross is suggesting they were most certainly drugged, given how cleanly their throats were sliced. So how the hell did you know that? And what makes you say cyanide?” Varcoe grumbled.

“Tea, Emmett?” Colin held out a cup, which the inspector gruffly snatched, his brusqueness reminiscent of his usual self, before our détente. “It's as you said,” Colin carried on smoothly. “Three wolfhounds. What's the first thing any man would do who meant to harm them? He would drug them.” Colin slid his cup back onto the table and sauntered over to the fireplace. “And we happened to find a spot of grease near one of the bushes in the yard.”

“A spot of grease?” Varcoe frowned.

“From meat. Undoubtedly from the lamb your Mr. Ross found in the dogs' stomachs. And there was the unmistakable residue of almonds about. Almost surely from the use of cyanide. But none of that matters. I presume you've been told that Edmond Connicle has died?”

“Well, of course I have,” Varcoe puffed, glaring at Colin. “And I know you were there when it happened, Pendragon. Buggering up the doctor's efforts to save him.”

“What?” Colin turned on him with a grim expression. “He was trying to speak. I was attempting to comfort him.”

Varcoe looked at me and let out an amused snort. “You were trying to get some answers. I'd have done the same damn thing.” A scowl set upon his face. “So what did he say?”

Colin shook his head and stared into the fireplace. “I couldn't make any of it out.”

Varcoe's scowl deepened. “You better not be keeping anything from me—”

“Do I look like I'm doing that?” Colin turned on him, rage flaring in his eyes. “I'm just as frustrated by this blasted case as you are. None of it makes any sense.” He stomped over to the windows and glared down onto the street for a moment. “It seems to me we have all done little more than follow the crumbs that have been left for us, and I, for one, am done with it. You want to know what you can do? Set the full weight and breadth of the Yard onto the Connicles' scullery maid, Alexa. Let's see if maybe there is some rival group unhappy with the way she practices her faith.”

“Rival group?”

“The voodoo religion, Inspector. You've said yourself that it has permeated every aspect of these murders. Perhaps we've just not looked far enough afield yet.”

Varcoe's brow caved in on itself as he studied Colin. “Are you saying that I might have been right about this voodoo piffle all along?”

Colin stared back at him from the windows but did not answer.

“And what will you and Pruitt be doing?” Varcoe asked warily, clearly loath to believe Colin's concession.

“Ethan and I will stay home tonight.” Colin moved back over to the mantel and picked up a coin and began carelessly flipping it through his fingers. “I think I shall buff a few of my antique knives.”

“You will remember that we are partners on this case,” Varcoe warned.

“Nevertheless”—Colin flashed a roguish grin—“I'll not have you gawking at me while I partake of my hobbies.”

“I mean to know everything you're up to,” Varcoe growled, “and every thought that passes your mind!”

“You may find that a bit awkward at times.”

Varcoe's face went as pink as a sunset as he stood up. “We are in this case together and if I get an inkling that you're withholding something from me I shall bring the full weight and breadth of the Yard down on your arse. I'll not be trifled with.”

“ 'Til tomorrow then,” Colin said as he slapped the coin back onto the mantel.

The inspector did not look entirely placated, but he said nothing further before he took his leave, barreling down the steps like a battalion on the move.

“When did he get so suspicious of me?” Colin muttered as soon as the door slammed shut. “Is he getting smarter or am I getting predictable?”

“Perhaps a bit of both.” I chuckled.

Colin scowled. “Well, I shan't be predictable tonight and neither will you. We have quarry to hunt. The Connicle case has taken a turn and I shall not be played a moment longer. Let us have dinner and don our garb for the evening. For tonight we shall change the rules of this ugly game.”