The Connicle Curse (25 page)

Colin smiled as he sat back on the settee, his pleasure unmistakable. “The murders of the two men who live on the properties that border your own, Mr. Aston, have been most confounding. Even now I continue to search for every possible connection that may have bound those men. And that fails to speak to the killings of the Connicles' groundsman, Albert, or your noble Irish wolfhounds. The only thing that seems to tie them is the fetishes, though that excludes Albert since his death was meant to appear an accident.”

“Have you a point, Mr. Pendragon?”

“There is always a point.” He flashed a calculated smirk before continuing. “You mentioned at one of our very earliest meetings that you believed Edmond Connicle to be engaged in an affair. You made the point that such liaisons are quite commonplace amongst your gentrified brethren.”

Mr. Aston's face colored with anger, not embarrassment, as his eyes pinched and his mouth drooped down. “What is this about?” he demanded. “Your inference is neither appreciated nor will it be tolerated.”

“I mean to imply nothing,” Colin replied casually. “I simply want to know with whom Edmond Connicle was involved, and whether Arthur Hutton was similarly disposed?”

Hubert Aston stood up with all the authority and indignation of a church prelate. “As I told you before, Mr. Pendragon, I am not a gossiping washerwoman and will not sully the names of two decent and respectable men.”

“Nevertheless . . .” Colin stared up at Mr. Aston as though at a disobedient pupil. “I am afraid I must insist.”

Mr. Aston was so startled by Colin's response that he stood there a moment before collecting himself and snapping, “I beg your pardon?”

“There is a woman, Mr. Aston,” Colin spoke as offhandedly as if he were describing the room, “who is young and petite, with fine, delicate bones and a decided preference for rubies. My guess is that she has dark hair, perhaps even black, and pale skin that immaculately sets off the necklace, earrings, and bracelet you gave her.”

“How
dare
you!” he sputtered.

Colin stood up, refastened his jacket, and tugged his sleeves crisply into place. “I'll have that name.”

The man huffed his indignation, stomping back toward an upright console festooned with crystal decanters containing a myriad of colored liquids, most of which I could not have deciphered. Mr. Aston, however, seemed to know precisely what he was after, as he snatched up a particular carafe and poured himself a finger of something amber. He downed it without a thought, not bothering to offer us a similar repast.

“I find your methods appalling!” he growled as he slammed the glass back down. “Blackmail is a devil's game, but this, Mr. Pendragon, is so very sordid.” He glared at Colin with an undeniable loathing, his enormous mustache amplifying the disapproving droop of his lips. I thought surely Colin would defend himself or at least hurl some flip retort, but he did nothing, his face remaining as steady as his posture. “Edmond had been seeing Charlotte Hutton for years,” Mr. Aston seethed, the words seeming to catch in his throat. “Are you satisfied?”

“It's a start.” If Colin was as surprised as I was his voice and manner failed to show it. “And how did that come about?”

Mr. Aston's eyes went cold. “How does such a thing
ever
come about? Edmond found himself tied to an hysteric and Charlotte Hutton was bound to a fool of a man who had squandered her family's fortune before their daughter was even five.”

“And Arthur Hutton?”

“What of him?” Mr. Aston scoffed. “He was a pompous prig whose death held little significance to anyone other than you and your ruddy Scotland Yard.”

Colin's eyes narrowed. “What of his relationship with his wife?”

“How the bloody hell would I know anything of that?” he exploded. “I had no use for him. She's well rid of him if you ask me.” He poured another drink and downed it. “I liked and admired Edmond Connicle, Mr. Pendragon. While that may mean nothing to men of your ilk, it carries a great deal of weight to a gentleman.”

“Men like Mr. Hutton?”

“That man was a pox! I'm certain he's the reason their boy turned out so wretchedly.”

Colin's eyes narrowed, but when a thin smile gradually formed on his lips I knew he was pleased with what we had learned. “Were you aware that Mrs. Hutton and her daughter have left for Paris?”

His eyebrows creased. “Isn't her boy still missing?”

“She claims to no longer feel safe in London.” Colin gave a small shrug. “Understandable, I suppose.” He tilted his head and peered at Mr. Aston. “Do you feel safe? After the slaughter of your dogs, do you worry about your safety? Or perhaps that of your family?”

“Why should I be worried? I've done nothing.”

“Of course.” Colin nodded at once. “I suppose then we cannot say the same for your dogs—”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Forgive me,” Colin replied smoothly. “I thought you meant to suggest that Edmond Connicle and Arthur Hutton were up to something. Something that should have caused them worry?”

He gritted his teeth and looked on the verge of assaulting Colin. “How eagerly you seek to impugn my words. Yet another of your contemptible games. Now if you are finished extorting from me, I have business to attend to.”

Colin flipped open his pocket watch and glanced at it. “Yes. It is time for us to be off. We are expected next door at the Hutton property, where I am afraid things continue to be grim.” He glared over at Mr. Aston. “Good that you are free of worry.” He stood up and smiled. “Give our regards to your wife.”

“Sod off,” he said, clearly having caught Colin's meaning.

There was no further conversation after that. There was no need for it. Mr. Aston did not bid us anything, silently escorting us to the door and sending it crashing shut behind us the moment we had cleared his threshold. It earned a laugh from Colin, though I failed to find the humor in it. And while our visit had given us some modicum of information, I failed to see that it had drawn us any nearer to a conclusion in the case. All it had done for me was stir suspicions around Mr. Aston, though I could not settle on what his connection to any of it might be. I wanted to grill Colin for his thoughts, but his pace had picked up considerably as we cut diagonally across the Astons' property and I suspected he was trying to process everything himself.

The last tendrils of daylight hung along the horizon as we crossed the unfinished fence that separated the Connicles' land from the Astons'. I kept right alongside Colin as we circled north of the Connicle house, keeping along the irregular fence until we entered onto the Huttons' acreage. We continued to crash through the underbrush by little more than the light of the rising half-moon until we drew closer to the Huttons' home.

The sound of barking dogs drifted toward us before we'd even crested the last hillock. As soon as we reached the top of the slope we could see the stanchions of electric lights grouped in a semicircle and flooding a great wash of luminescence onto a swath of otherwise unremarkable earth. There looked to be dozens of bobbies milling about, with a core group clustered near the center of the focused lights. It didn't take long to spot Inspector Varcoe at the apex of it all, or the multitude of clustered piles of dirt scattered about as though someone had been trying to unearth a gopher.

“Pendragon! . . .
” Varcoe hollered the moment we entered the periphery of the light. “My boy couldn't have gotten to you that fast.”

“Your boy?” Colin said as we walked to where Varcoe was standing near a great commotion of flung dirt and tousled leaves.

“I sent Constable Lanchester to tell you what we'd found.” He stepped back and nodded his chin toward a small, soiled body tossed at the bottom of a shallow pit. The hair was muddied and the face heavily smudged, but even I could attest to the fact that it was William Hutton.

“Oh . . .” Colin exhaled as he knelt down by the body. He prodded the boy's mouth open and plunged a finger inside, coming up with nothing. He looked at me. “Asphyxiation, don't you think?”

I stooped down next to him and looked at William's cherubic face, his eyes staring past me sightlessly. There were tiny red splotches marring the whites of his eyes, and when I leaned over to brush some of the dirt from a cheek there was a trace of a congealed bruise there, suggesting a hand clamped tightly against the front of his mouth. I was certain Denton Ross would find similar hemorrhaging around William's nose and chin.

“Stop touching him!” Varcoe barked, and I suppose he'd felt compelled to do so for the sake of his men.

“Right.” I stood up and nodded to Colin. “I don't think he was ever meant to survive his kidnapping.”

“You don't know that!” Varcoe groused. “And what are you doing here if my man didn't fetch you?”

“We've been at the Astons',” Colin muttered wanly.

“What the hell were you doing there?”

“Trying to collect information, Emmett,” Colin said, taking a step back and seeming to collect himself again. “Why do you think we're here? We knew you and your men were digging about. We came to tell you what we've learned.”

Inspector Varcoe opened his mouth and then shut it again, his brows knitting together as he seemed to be considering whether to believe Colin or not. “Yes . . . well . . . perhaps . . .” he finally conceded.

We slowly moved away from the heartbreaking scene, seeking the anonymity of the surrounding darkness, where Colin quickly revealed many of the details of our conversation with Mr. Aston. Colin did not, however, share the information about the affair between Edmond Connicle and Charlotte Hutton, though he was quite forthright about Mr. Aston's animosity toward Mr. Hutton. In truth, I was hardly listening to what they were saying, as I could not stop thinking about that boy, cursed from the moment of his birth. Why would someone take his life? There could be no meaning in it. And yet, as I began to catch the rising pitch of Colin's voice, I was certain I had missed something.

F
ifteen hours later, buried under a pile of paperwork in the Foreign Services Ministry office, I was still dense with my ignorance, which had turned my mood quite sour.

The new day had arrived in a barrage of pelting rain that had evidenced no impact on Colin's disposition whatsoever. I had tried quizzing him the night before about his sudden raft of enthusiasm, but he would not be provoked into a discussion, professing to nothing more than a sense we were moving in the right direction. A sense: The very turn of phrase annoyed me. Yet he refused to be dissuaded, even after I accused him of condoning clairvoyance. It wasn't really his lack of disclosure that was nettling me, however, but rather the fact that he had relegated me to this place under the eagle-eyed scrutiny of the foreign minister's disapproving secretary, Adelaide Crouch.

“Please don't wrinkle the corners of the manifests,” she sniffed at me with unfettered irritation. She didn't like me. Never had. She only had eyes for Colin, endlessly cooing and cloying at him and treating me as though I were a rival for his attentions. The poor thing had no idea.

I tossed her a grin even as I considered, just for an instant, tearing the manifests apart lengthwise. “I am doing my best to treat them with every due respect.”

“Well, see that you do. I'll have to refile all of those,” she scolded before pouring herself more tea. Tea I had been refused lest I should spill any on her inestimable paperwork.

I refrained from saying anything further as I returned my attentions to the manifests, lists really, of passengers who had recently been ferried from Dover to Calais. Colin wanted to know which ship Mrs. Hutton and her daughter, Anna, had taken and I was having a devilish time finding it.

“Are you certain this is all of them?” I asked as I reached the end of the final list for the second time. “I'm not seeing what I'm looking for.”

“Of course it is. Are you suggesting I don't know how to do my job?”

“Not in the least.” I held up my hands in surrender. “I thought perhaps Minister Fitzherbert had moved them or”—I couldn't even think of an or—“something. . . .”

“Well, he didn't and that's all of them.”

“Right.” I fought to keep from glowering at her. “Might I trouble you then for the day before and after this one?”

She afforded me no such similar courtesy, her brows caving in on themselves to make sure I realized how bothered she was by my request. All the same, she leaned behind her desk and quickly sorted through the same box that had produced the paperwork I was currently scouring through and yanked out a dozen sheets from varying places within. She stood up and tossed them at me on her way over to a filing cabinet in the near corner of the room.

“Mr. Pendragon is lucky I think so highly of him,” she noted while pawing through one of the drawers. “I don't do this sort of thing for just anyone.”

“Indeed.” I gave her a grand smile, but only because I was certain it would annoy her. “I know he'll be most grateful for your generous cooperation.”

“Pity he couldn't stop by himself,” she said as she swept past me again, pitching a slender folder onto the table alongside the others she had already given me.

There were so many things I wanted to say back, but I knew my most irksome response would be to simply ask for more manifests. So that's what I did. I asked for every passenger list of each ship that had left Dover over that three-day period, and the bruising glare she threw me confirmed that I had hit my mark. Still, she did as bidden, yet as an inch-thick stack of papers piled up in front of me I realized I had only done
myself
a disservice.

Suppressing the sigh tugging at my chest and ignoring the smirk that had settled on Miss Crouch's face, I set to work, checking Boulogne, Saint-Malo, Barfleur, and Cherbourg, before casting my search broader to include Le Havre and Marseille, lest Mrs. Hutton had decided to sail to the south of France before heading back up to Paris. I could find no mention of her and her daughter. It made me wonder if perhaps an overworked purser had made an error in the spelling of their names, so I began my search anew, concentrating on boarding parties. Families were the most prevalent, couples with scads of children usually accompanied by a governess or two, and there were plenty of men on their own, no doubt attending to the businesses that kept those large families fed. What I could not find was more than a handful of women traveling with a single child, and none of them to any port in France.

“You're sure this is everything . . . ?” I foolishly blurted again.

“Really, Mr. Pruitt.” Miss Crouch gave me a stare whose meaning could not be mistaken. “You vex me with the same question as though I were daft. Do you think the minister would keep me employed if I were as inept as you seem to suppose?”

I reminded myself that I needed this caustic woman and so bit my tongue. “My apologies.” I dug up a smile. “I certainly meant no such disrespect. I'm only frustrated in that I cannot find the information Mr. Pendragon would have me gather.”

She did not bother smiling back. “I fail to see how that is my fault.”

“And in that you are correct.” I held my grin in spite of its determination to fester. There was nothing else for me to say, so I quickly flipped through the remaining pages regarding ships bound for Spain, Portugal, North Africa, Belgium, the Netherlands, Prussia, Denmark, Sweden, and even Russia, taking a few random notes for no other reason than to make it appear that her efforts had not been in vain. With unbridled relief I shut the last folder and stood up. “I must thank you again for your cooperation, Miss Crouch. Mr. Pendragon will be most grateful, as always.”

The hint of a smile cracked one corner of her mouth as she looked back at me. “Very well then. Please tell him I look forward to seeing him next time.”

“Indeed I will.” I gathered up my notes and gladly took my leave, pleased to be done with this meaningless exercise. I saw no point in knowing which ship Charlotte Hutton and her daughter had traveled on. For all we knew they had been ferried across on a friend's vessel anyway and so there would be no manifest.

I yanked the collar of my coat up against the day's chill as I pushed through the door back onto King Charles Street. Rain was accumulating again in the dense, gray clouds looming overhead, so I set my pace accordingly while keeping an eye out for a passing cab. Colin had instructed me to meet him at Wynn Tessler's office when I finished, which was too far to walk to if the sky didn't cooperate.

I was pulling my gloves on and moving with great purpose, having already made it to the corner of Whitehall, when I heard someone shout my name. It was a voice I would have sworn I didn't know, but when I turned back I found our young accomplice Paul running toward me with a great, loopy grin on his face. “Yer a crafty one,” he snorted as he reached my side. “I took me eye off that ruddy door a bloody second and ain't that just when you come blastin' out.”

“Yes . . . well . . . I am rather in a hurry. You will forgive me if I don't stop to chat.” The boy brayed laughter, and if I hadn't already been worn away by Miss Crouch it might have occurred to me that we weren't simply meeting on happenstance. As it was, I had to struggle to tamp down my rising annoyance. “Really . . .” I started to say before he did me the courtesy of interrupting my unaccountable oblivion.

“I'm 'ere on account a Mr. P.,” Paul said with a crooked sort of smile. “'E asked me ta come fetch ya when you came outta that place.”

“Mr. P.?! Fetch me where?” I asked more gruffly than I had intended.

“'E said you'd trade me this for a whole crown if I'd bring ya.” He held out his hand to show me half a crown.

I sucked in a breath and snatched up the piece before dropping a crown in its place. There was no question that he was playing me, but I hardly cared. The sky was lowering and the wind picking up, and I wanted to know where it was Colin needed me to go.

“Wait right 'ere.” The scoundrel grinned at me. Before I could agree or disagree he spun about on his heel and roared out into the street with thumb and forefinger embedded in his lips, letting loose a ferocious whistle that brought several horses and carriages up short, one of which was a cab. “Over 'ere,” he commanded, grabbing the horse's reins even as the driver cursed at the boy to let go. “Bugger off!” Paul hollered up at the man. “Matter a state, ya bloody wanker.” He waved me over as he coaxed the horse to the curb. “Come on then. We can't keep Mr. P. waitin'.”

I wanted to correct Paul, tell the rascal he had no right referring to Colin in such an informal way, but the cab abruptly lurched into motion and Paul dipped out of sight. It took me a moment to realize where he had gone until I craned around and caught sight of the top of his cap just within view out the back window. He was seated on the rear bumper as though he had purloined a ride. I banged on the glass to gesture him inside, but he only waved me off. And so we rode that way from Westminster to the corner of Threadneedle and Prince streets, the home of the Bank of England.

“'E said you was ta meet 'im at Lord somebody's office,” Paul announced as I paid the driver and the cab pulled away.

“Somersby,” I informed Paul. “He would be the governor of the bank.”

“ 'At's 'im.” Paul nodded with a grand smile. “Let me know if ya need me 'elp again. I like you two. Ya don't try ta stiff a guy.” He tipped his cap with a flourish and started off.

“Paul . . .” I called to him. He spun back around with the same smile. “Thanks,” I said as I flipped his half crown back at him. He continued to beam as he caught it easily before turning and running off with a
whoop!
How was it, I scolded myself as I entered the massive Romanesque building, that I didn't even know his last name?

I made my way up to the third floor and was not surprised when I heard Colin before I saw him. A fuss was being made, as it always was, for Sir Atherton Pendragon's son. Lord Somersby and Sir Atherton went all the way back to Eton together, and while Colin and I had little reason to pay Lord Somersby many visits at the bank, we had dined with him and his wife numerous times at Sir Atherton's town house just off Belgravia Square.

“Mr. Pruitt . . . !” Lord Somersby's broad, lined face lit up as I stepped across his office threshold behind the junior of the two young men who attended him. “Now we are all here as we should be.” His rich baritone voice rumbled out a chuckle. “Do get Mr. Pruitt some tea, Newcastle, and more of the nibbles if you please.”

“Of course, sir.” The young man nodded and hustled off as though he were the finest of household staff.

“Sit down, Ethan.” His Lordship gestured me to a seat next to Colin on a large, overstuffed sofa. “We shan't stand on ceremony here,” Lord Somersby said as he plopped down across from us. “Not with what this one has asked of me.” He arched his eyebrows toward Colin as he snatched up a shortbread cookie and pushed the plate my way. “He thinks he can get me to do anything simply because I wouldn't be here were it not for his father.” He chuckled.

“Now, Rufus,” Colin said patiently as he sipped at his tea, “you dishonor me. You know I mean to manipulate you on my own merits.”

Lord Somersby gave a delighted laugh as the young man he'd called Newcastle returned with a china cup for me and another sizeable plate of tarts and shortbreads for the group of us. And then, as stealthily as the very best valet, he withdrew from the room. “There you go, my boy,” Lord Somersby said, pouring me some tea. He remained as solicitous of me as ever, though what he and his wife made of my companionship with Colin had never been discussed. I felt it a profound implication of their affections for Colin that they asked no questions.

“And how is Martha?” Colin asked of Lord Somersby's wife.

“Oh . . .” He gave an affectionate snort as he snapped up another shortbread. “She's always on me to slow down. But I tell you, if I stayed at home for more than a day she would have me carted off. She cannot abide having me underfoot. Don't ever let her tell you otherwise.”

We laughed just as Lord Somersby's senior aide, a man I had met before named Chiswell, came bustling into the office with a stack of ledgers and files nearly the height of his lanky torso. He scuttled over to a large table at the far corner of the room and began laying everything out in neat piles. I was too far away to determine the crux of his categorization, but the moment he seemed content with what he had done he stood back and turned toward the three of us.

“Will there be anything else, Your Lordship?” he asked.

“No, thank you, Chiswell.” Lord Somersby got to his feet and with his teacup clutched firmly in his hand headed over to the table. “I'd say you and Newcastle have earned yourselves a repast. Close the door behind you, but do be back in thirty minutes.”

“Yes, sir,” he answered brightly, though what he made of all the documents he'd brought up intrigued me. The bank's business was conducted with the utmost discretion and propriety, and yet Mr. Chiswell had to know that all these ledgers and folders contained far more than the meager information relevant to what Colin and I owned.

“Do you know what you're after?” Lord Somersby asked as the three of us sat around the large table.

“If I did,” Colin sighed as he flipped open the nearest ledger, “I certainly wouldn't be wasting your time having all of this fetched.”

I looked at the spine of the ledger Colin was holding and read:
Edmond Connicle Family Trust 1893–1895
. My heart sank as I realized he meant for us to crawl through the bank's books to see if there might be any discrepancy based on what we had seen in the accounts at Wynn Tessler's firm. I could not help the wearied sigh that escaped my lips as I dragged another ledger toward me, only to be surprised to find that this one read:
Arthur Hutton Accounts 1890–1895
. What caught me most unawares, however, was that the ledger Lord Somersby was absently flipping through was labeled:
Wynn Tessler/Columbia Financial Services July–December 1894
.