The Connicle Curse (4 page)

“Ethan . . .” he started to say, clearly about to extend some heavy-handed consolation in an effort to neutralize a past I had never been able to set right, when the sound of the opening door thankfully interrupted him. I turned to see the woman they called Alexa coming into the room. She had a flawless complexion the color of tea with a stout dose of cream, and raven-black hair that fell in tight ringlets to her shoulders. Her figure was both lithe and lean, and she stood just an inch or two shorter than Colin's five foot eight. It was evident by the way in which she carried herself that she was neither intimidated nor anxious about being thusly summoned. Which became ever more obvious when she said:

“Now what you be wantin' wit' me?”

“Mrs. . . .” Colin stood up and smiled broadly as he gestured to a chair.

“Alexa. Jest Alexa. Dat's what dey call me.” Her tone was cool but without a touch of artifice as she sat down in the chair next to the one Colin had pointed her toward.

“Alexa then.” He held his smile even though she did not return the pleasantry. Rather, her face remained blank, without reproach, making it clear that she was waiting for some sort of explanation. “I would like to ask you a few questions about your time here with the Connicles.”

“Me time 'ere?” She clucked dryly. “Ya make it sound like I'm on 'oliday. I work for 'em, ya know.”

“Yes,” he answered, his smile faltering at the corners. “That's what I'd like to speak with you about.”

“Then get to it. I got t'ings ta be doin'.”

Colin's brow curdled as she stared back at him expectantly. “Are you really so unconcerned about the welfare of your employer?” he snapped.

To my surprise she smiled. “Now wot makes ya say dat? 'Cause I ain't weepin' all about? Ain't ya never seen a rainbow after a terrible storm? Dat's wot dey call 'ope. Ya see?”

Colin stared at her a minute before turning to me and grousing, “Is she bloody starkers?”

And before I could even think to respond, Alexa leapt up and scowled at me with fire in her eyes. “Is 'e talkin' 'bout me like dat? 'Cause I won't 'ave it.”

“He was joking,” I said, braying the worst sort of laugh. “It was only a joke.” Fortunately, he had turned his back to us as he stood gazing into the fireplace, for I knew she would find no smirk upon his face. “How long have you been working for the Connicles?” I asked, trying to ease the strain.

“Two years. Two years last April,” she sniffed.

“And before that?”

She pursed her lips and sat down again. “Me 'usband and I worked for an old couple in Notting 'Ill. Dey brought us 'ere 'bout a dozen years ago. We were starvin' ta death back 'ome and da blasted French were already sniffin' about for control.”

“And the Notting Hill couple?” I pressed. “What happened to them?”

“Dead. Left us a bit a money, but it weren't enough ta live off, so we 'ad ta come 'ere.”

“You don't like it here?” Colin interrupted, finally glancing around.

“Dey good people. But I'd rather work for meself. Missus is a poor soul and I don't 'ardly see da mister.”

“What did you do back in Dahomey?” Colin leaned against the mantel with a studied indifference.

Her deep brown eyes momentarily betrayed surprise that Colin knew where she was from, but a practiced coolness quickly settled over it. “Stay alive,” she said offhandedly.

“Are you a Christian woman?”

She studied him before answering. “Now why ya askin' me dat?”

“I am conducting an investigation into the disappearance and possible murder of your employer. I'm likely to ask you anything.”

“I go ta church wit' me 'usband when it suits me. I know da stories. Dat make me Christian?”

“Better than some.” He flashed a tight smile. “And in Dahomey ?”

“Ain't no Christians dere,” she said flatly. “'Cept dem French.”

“Yes . . .” he muttered. “And what's the name of the traditional West African religion?”

“Dere are many traditions in Africa.”

“What about yours?” he pushed. “What is
yours
called?”

She settled her eyes on him, but I couldn't otherwise tell what she was thinking. “We call it Vudun,” she finally answered. “It means
spirit
. Da belief of a single, divine Creator named Mawu. So we ain't so very different. We jest use different names.”

“Vudun,” he repeated as if tasting the word. “I believe it's more commonly known here as voodoo. And while the precepts may be similar, we don't have fetishes in the Christian faith.”

She looked wholly amused as she let out a laugh. “Ya 'ave saints carved in wood and stone, and shiny crosses 'angin' round yer necks. We jest prefer our t'ings from da earth. But it don't make much difference 'cause it all means da same t'ing: blessings and good life. No.” She chuckled. “We ain't so different at all.”

“Perhaps we're not.” He nodded stiffly, pushing himself away from the fireplace and crossing to one of the large windows overlooking the grounds. “I think we've taken enough of your time for now. Would you be so kind as to ask your husband to come and see us.”

“As ya wish.” She stood up and headed for the same door that led to the kitchen. “You jest let me know if ya wanna talk more about religion.” Her deep chuckle followed her out as the door swung shut behind her.

“I doubt she'll find our next conversation half as entertaining,” Colin grumbled.

“Nor the one she's likely to have with Inspector Varcoe before this night is through.”

Colin shrugged. “She'll deny everything. By the time he gets through haranguing her he likely won't even be able to get her to admit she's from Africa.”

“Well, you almost trod upon her good nature yourself by accusing her of being daft. Must you always say whatever comes into your head?”

He shifted his eyes to me with a sly grin. “I'm not saying what I'm thinking this very minute.”

Not a moment later Alexa's husband, Albert, pushed his way into the room through the kitchen door. He was a short, thickly muscled man, attesting to a life spent in labors of one sort or another. He appeared slightly older than his wife and in marked contrast to her was as dark as the night itself. His clothing was worn, as one would expect of a groundskeeper, yet it was pressed and clean. He clutched a small navy cap in both hands that he was twisting as though trying to wring it of water, making it obvious that he was nowhere near as confident as his wife.

“Thank you for coming.” Colin smiled and gestured to the same chair he had offered everyone else. “Please sit down.”

Albert shook his head and cast his eyes to the floor. “No t'anks.”

Colin pursed his lips and took a seat himself. “I understand you were born and raised in Dahomey.”

He nodded tepidly, wringing his cap first one way and then the other, his eyes remaining down.

“And you have been working for the Connicles a little over two years?”

He gave another nod, all the while twisting the cap.

“Do you like working here?”

Another nod.

“Do you use the shed on the side of the house?”

I thought Albert was going to rend his cap in half as he dropped his chin almost to his sternum. “I didn't do nothin'.”

“I'm just asking whether you use the shed. Do you keep your tools in it?”

It took a minute, but Albert gave yet another nod.

“Were you the one to discover all that blood this morning?”

His head shot up and his eyes locked on Colin's. “I didn't do nothin',” he repeated, this time with force.

“I didn't say you did.” Colin stood up and wandered around behind where Albert was standing, his movements slow and casual even though his words bristled with expectancy. “Tell me, Albert, are you a practitioner of voodoo like your wife?”

“Wot?!” His eyes shot over to Colin as his hands went still.

“Voodoo. Your wife tells us she was a practitioner in Dahomey. Were you as well?”

He shrugged, his gaze drifting back to the floor in front of him.

Colin waved him off. “It doesn't matter. What time did you go out there this morning?”

“ 'Bout five. Same as always.”

“Did you go directly to the shed?”

“Yeah. But there weren't nothin' wrong.”

“No blood?”

He nodded.

“Did you see anyone else?”

He shook his head.

“And what did you do after you went out to your shed?”

“I got me shovel and took it down past da trees ta fix da fence. A couple posts was knocked down yestaday.”

“Beyond the trees on the eastern edge?”

He shook his head. “No. Da west.”

“The west . . .” Colin repeated, and it struck me at once that Albert would have been on the opposite end of the property from where the murder and immolation of Edmond Connicle had taken place. “And what time did you get back to the house?”

Albert shrugged his broad shoulders. “Eight? . . . I don't see da time.”

“Did you go right back to the shed?”

It took him a moment before he nodded again.

“And before you looked inside and saw the blood, could you tell that someone had been there? That anything had happened?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?” Colin stepped toward him, forcing Albert to look up.

He shook his head vehemently as he began winding his cap again.

“Very well. If you remember something, anything at all, I should very much like to hear it.”

The man looked pained as he turned and stared outside. “We done?”

Colin watched him a moment, taking his time before finally answering. “For now.” And as soon as Albert was gone Colin turned to me with a broad grin and announced, “He's lying.”

I
nspector Varcoe's coach drew up under the portico of the Connicles' house just as their driver, Randolph, brought a carriage around to take Colin and me back to our flat. I was relieved to be leaving, as I knew the only reason Varcoe and two of his nattier men were arriving was to deliver the terrible news to Mrs. Connicle about her husband. Colin and I could serve no further purpose for her tonight, so we climbed aboard the Connicles' carriage without exchanging more than the briefest of nods with Varcoe and his men.

As we started the journey home Colin leaned forward and began to engage Randolph in easy conversation, though I knew he was being precise in his seemingly amiable banter. Randolph was a tall, hawkish-looking man with sharp features and a gaunt frame who quickly proved to be a warm and congenial person. He seemed pleased to talk about his employer, confiding that he had been working for the Connicle family since he was seventeen—and given that he appeared to be in his mid-fifties, it was clear that he had known Edmond Connicle the whole of his life.

“. . . The mister does go ridin' from time ta time but never the missus,” Randolph told us. “He prefers the big, black stallion, but I don't trust that one. He's too skittish if ya ask me. Now Mrs. Connicle . . .” He made a clicking sound with his tongue. “She's delicate, ya see. She has spells and gets weak as a baby in the blink of an eye, so she can't be gettin' up on no horse. Horses are crafty buggers. Ya can't never let 'em think they're smarter than you is. Ain't that right, ya ol' nag!” he called out, jiggling the reins of the beautiful chestnut pulling us home.

“What sort of spells does Mrs. Connicle suffer?” Colin asked, managing to sound more concerned than interrogational.

“Oh . . .” Randolph rubbed a hand through his thin gray hair. “Women things, I s'pose. Ya'd best ask Miss Porter. If it ain't got four legs I don't know much about it.” He shrugged easily. “Besides, weren't nothin' Mr. Connicle didn't know about. He was always sufferin' over her through the years. He'd look about ready ta cry sometimes. And her . . .” Randolph pursed his lips and released a slow whistle of air. “Most a the time she's fine, but there are days when she creeps around like she's hidin' from a ghost, and sometimes she don't even come outta her room. It's sad. Some years back he had ta send her ta hospital. Poor thing needed rest. Spent a couple months there.” He shook his head and made a low tsking sound. “Thing was, when she came back she looked the worse for it. Pale and so thin her face weren't nothin' but skin and bone. Mrs. Hollin's set right ta fattenin' her up. Didn't speak for weeks when she first returned.” He heaved a wearied sigh. “But eventually she came round.”

“Where did he send her?”

“Needham Hills. Looks like a regular estate 'cept there ain't nothin' but nurses and attendants and hollow-eyed people walkin' about. Awful place.”

“I'm familiar with it,” Colin answered brusquely, taking care not to look in my direction. “You seem very fond of her,” he added.

“She's a kind and gentle woman. She don't deserve all the unhappiness she's had. And now this . . .” He let his voice trail off.

“Yes.” Colin's tone matched Randolph's with remarkable accuracy. “When was the last time you saw Mr. Connicle?”

“He went out ridin' last night. Right after dinner. Wasn't gone very long, but his horse was knackered by the time he got back. I didn't see him this mornin'. He gets up early. Not that I don't, mind ya. If I don't feed them horses right off they'll set up a racket kickin' the walls a their stalls. It's enough ta make ya feel sorry for 'em if ya didn't know better.”

“No doubt.” Colin gave a quick smile. “And when you were attending to them this morning, did you notice anything unusual? See anyone about?”

“Nah. It's only ever just me and Albert once the mister heads out.”

“Was Albert about last night? After Mr. Connicle came back?”

“Albert's always about. It's his job. He's got a lot a property ta keep up. He don't get paid ta lay about on his arse.” Randolph chuckled. “I see more a him than anybody else round here. Seems a good sort. Don't know where the mister found him and his Alexa, but I don't hear no one complainin' about 'em, either.” He guided the horse onto Gloucester Road as we drew close to our flat.

“Did you see the shed before Scotland Yard arrived this morning?”

Randolph's posture stiffened as he steered the carriage down our street. “I saw it,” he said after a moment.

“What do you suppose happened?”

He shook his head as he pulled the carriage to a stop in front of our flat. “I don't know. I'm hopin' the mister will show up and tell us before another day goes by.” He craned around as we climbed out. “Ya think he'll be doin' that?”

Colin's expression softened as he settled his gaze on Randolph. “I'm afraid we should prepare ourselves for the worst.”

Randolph dropped his eyes and shook his head. “I remember the night Mr. Connicle was born. It's not right. It jest ain't right.”

I longed to offer some words of encouragement but knew that I mustn't. He would learn the truth soon enough and, until then, could bind himself in the comforts of hope. Many times I had sought refuge there myself.

We bade him good evening and went inside, the scent of roasted chicken caressing my nose and stomach, reminding me that we had never stopped for lunch. Colin clearly had the same thought, as he bypassed the stairs and headed straight for the kitchen, me tagging eagerly in his wake. But as soon as he pushed the door open I knew we were in trouble. A fully cooked chicken stood coagulating on a platter on the wooden table. The chicken had been picked apart, leaving it as forlorn looking as my stomach felt.

“Well . . . look 'oo finally bothered ta show up,” Mrs. Behmoth grunted as she came out of the larder with a biscuit tin in her arms. “I 'ope ya ate 'cause
I
ain't fixin' ya nothin'. This meal were done an 'our ago. Just like every night.” And true to her word she dumped the carcass into a pot of simmering water and slammed a lid onto it.

“We have
not
eaten!” Colin barked sourly. “And while we are sorry to be delayed in getting back to your meal, I will thank you to rummage something up for us.”

She picked up a small bowl and waved it at him. “You can eat the cold Brussels sprouts. I can't reheat 'em anyway.”

His eyes narrowed. “There must be some chicken left.”

“I'm usin' it for soup.”

“Then use a little less.”

“I work 'ard plannin' meals.”

“I know you do. I said we were sorry.”

She glared at him and I knew she would give in. Eventually almost everyone gives in to him. She brusquely turned and started pulling dishes out of the cupboard, all the while grousing under her breath. “I'll make ya some porridge, but ya ain't gettin' any chicken!” A sudden pounding on the front door brought us all up short before she said, “And I ain't gettin' that, either.” Then she turned and headed back to the larder.

I suppressed a laugh as I headed out to the foyer while he stayed behind to protest her choice for our evening meal. I most certainly wasn't going to have any impact on her. She had raised Colin from the age of seven, not me. I had long ago decided that the only reason she even tolerated me was because Colin insisted on it.

By the time I reached the door I realized the pounding had become decidedly persistent. I yanked it open and found myself facing a broad, angular-faced Indian man of middle age and medium height with jet-black hair and coal eyes.

“Mr. Pendragon?” he blurted at once.

“No. He's”—I gestured into the flat, uncertain what to say—“indisposed. I'm Mr. Pruitt.”

“I must speak with him,” he implored over my introduction, staring at me with such determination that I found myself feeling oddly uneasy.

“Is he expecting you?” I asked, though I knew he wasn't.

A thin sigh escaped his lips, but his eyes never left mine. “He is not. But Mr. Pendragon grew up in my country. He is a friend to my country. I require such a friend now. Will he not agree to speak with me for that reason alone?”

He would. Colin held a special affinity for India and her countrymen despite having left the country at the age of thirteen to attend the Easling and Temple Senior Academy, where our paths had first crossed. Never mind that his interest would be piqued by the way this man was holding me in the thrall of his unwavering gaze anyway.

“Please come in,” I said, stepping aside and bidding the man enter. I led our guest up to the study and got him settled on the settee before quickly stoking the fireplace embers back into a soothing blaze. “You will excuse me while I fetch some tea and Mr. Pendragon,” I said before heading back downstairs.

By the time I pushed my way back into the kitchen I found Colin hovering behind Mrs. Behmoth in the larder, obviously still trying to coax her to reheat some chicken. “We've a gentleman who seems most anxious to speak with you,” I announced, interrupting their joust.

“Did you tell him I'm busy?” he shot back gruffly.

“I did.”

“Then why did I hear you take him upstairs?”

“Because he was insistent,” I said calmly. “And because he is from India.”

“India?!” Colin's face lit up as he stepped out of the larder. “Outstanding.”

“I thought you might think so.” I smiled. “Bring some tea when you come, won't you?” I added glibly before turning to leave.

“That would be Mrs. Behmoth's job,” I heard him bluster, but I didn't stay to hear her response.

Our guest was right where I'd left him, his posture ramrod straight and his face an unreadable canvas of rigid formality. I figured him to be some ten years older than Colin, putting him in his late forties, and was certain, given the stiffness of his bearing, that he had been born to wealth and class. His suit was immaculate, if traditional for this part of the world, leaving me to surmise that he had been in our city for quite some time. He wore a thick gold band on his finger and a heavy gold chain disappeared down the collar of his shirt.

“Mr. Pendragon will be right up,” I said as I took my usual seat.

“You're very kind. Have you ever been to India?”

“I'm afraid I have not, though I would very much like to go. Mr. Pendragon speaks most fondly of it.”

“That is a blessing to hear. His father is still a revered man there. I am sure you know he was the Queen's emissary in Bombay for over thirty years.”

“I do. Sir Atherton remains devoted to India.”

“He left a deep void when he returned to England. He was a man of great integrity during a most tumultuous time for our people. A lesser man would not have been successful. I am hoping his son will be his equal.”

“I believe you will find that to be true,” I said as I finally heard Colin's sure, hard footfalls on the stairs.

“Thankfully,” the man replied with the same solemnity with which he had approached our entire conversation.

As Colin reached the landing I noted with amusement that he was bearing the tea tray. Dear Mrs. Behmoth had an undeniable way with him. Even I could not claim such abilities against his will. So once again I found myself suppressing a chuckle as he set the tray on the table and stuck a hand out to greet our guest.

“Colin Pendragon at your service.”

The man popped out of his seat, his eyes filling at once with warmth and gratitude. “Mr. Pendragon . . .” He sounded noticeably relieved. “My name is Prakhasa Guitnu.” He bowed his head slightly, but his eyes remained riveted on Colin.

“Guitnu?” Colin repeated at once, the name immediately familiar to me as well. “The jeweler?”

“I am humbled that you have heard of me.”

“Your designs are renowned. Victoria has been a devotee for years.”

“Her Majesty has done me a great honor.”

“Sit down, sit down,” Colin said as he set to pouring tea for the three of us. “Do tell us what has brought you here this evening?”

Mr. Guitnu cleared his throat with evident discomfort. “I am being robbed, Mr. Pendragon, by a member of my household staff.”

Colin's eyebrows sprang up as he passed out our cups. “A member of your own staff? Are you certain?”

“It can be no other way,” he answered, and I realized it was embarrassment that was coloring his tone. “It has happened many times over the last several months. I did not think it true at first, certain it was my own forgetfulness, but then I had to admit the truth. I have invited a common thief into my home.”

“Why don't you start at the beginning.”

“Of course.” He shifted as though to make himself more comfortable, yet did not pick up his tea. His distress, or perhaps it was something more like humiliation, felt palpable. “I often bring loose gems home when I am designing a new piece or seeking inspiration. It helps me to look at them, glittering like winking stars in the evening sky, until I can see the pattern they belong to. I always have many stones at the house for that purpose. My wife also has a pleasant collection of jewelry,” he added with a shy smile. “It makes her happy. And even she has lost many bracelets, necklaces, and rings in the last several months.” He shook his head and heaved a sigh. “I have no idea how many items are missing. I am ashamed at my carelessness.”

“Where do you store them at home?” Colin asked, idly snatching a crown from his pocket and flipping it between the fingers of his right hand.