The Connicle Curse (8 page)

W
e circumnavigated the Connicle property to little effect before finally cutting south and heading for the Astons' home. I don't know whether Colin purposefully chose to head to the Aston family first, but after the intensity of Mrs. Connicle's grief I know I was looking forward to a household filled with something closer to joy.

We turned off the road and began trudging up the gravel drive toward the stately three-story brick home when a pack of massive dogs suddenly came barreling toward us, barking and scrabbling, from around the far side of the house. “How magnificent!” Colin laughed as he held out his arms as though to hug the lot of them.

“They're bloody huge,” I noted with much less fervor.

“They're Irish wolfhounds. They're supposed to be. But see how their tails wag?!”

Before they could reach us, an authoritative male voice blasted out a single command, to my immense relief. “Down!” And just like that the mighty beasts dropped mid-leap as a tall, slender, sandy-haired young man came jogging around the same corner they'd appeared from. “You must forgive them,” he said with a laugh, “but they're quite incorrigible around visitors. I'm afraid they've no idea the sight they make bounding at people. I trust they haven't addled either of you?” His eyes shifted to me.

“Not in the least.” Colin grinned happily. “Do let them up then.”

The young man had a sharp nose, the smooth skin of late boyhood, and large brown eyes. I guessed him to be in his late teens and, given the impeccable manner of his dress, determined him to be one of the Aston progeny, assumably one of the older. He laughed at Colin's enthusiasm and gave a short whistle, and the three dogs instantly burst up and closed the remaining distance between us. I could not stop myself faltering back a half step as the hounds surrounded Colin, licking and nuzzling and welcoming him to their property. They seemed as pleased with him as he was with them, allowing me to get by with little more than a few cursory sniffs from the lot of them.

“I take it you've owned wolfhounds yourself?” the lad asked as he reached us, his face alight with a smile.

“Not yet.” Colin tossed me a sly wink. “But I know them to be nothing less than big kids.” He stuck out his hand. “I am Colin Pendragon and this is Ethan Pruitt.”

“Phillip Aston,” he replied, stabbing out his arm like a proper gentleman. “You cannot imagine the number of people reduced to hysteria at the sight of them.” He laughed again as he scratched the head of the nearest one.

“No doubt,” I answered, trying to sound cavalier but not even fooling myself.

“We have been hired by Mrs. Connicle to look into the deaths of her husband and groundskeeper,” Colin said. “Might your parents be at home?”

“They are,” Phillip answered, his face clouding. “I hadn't heard about their groundskeeper.”

“He was found this morning. It is too soon to say much more.” Colin flashed a stiff grin as he cuffed the hound closest to him.

“I saw Mr. Connicle just yesterday,” Phillip said as he led us back toward the house, the hounds trailing eagerly in our wake. “I go out riding first thing every morning to keep in shape because I'm hoping to get into Sandhurst in the fall.”

“An admirable goal,” Colin replied, eyeing the boy with renewed interest. “And where did you see Mr. Connicle?”

“I did more than see him,” Phillip said as he swung the front door wide and bade us enter. “I spoke with him as well.” He ushered us inside, skillfully managing to keep the dogs from entering behind us. “Susan . . .” he called to a young girl hopping down the main staircase. “Would you tell Father and Mum that we've company in the study. They work for Mrs. Connicle.” The girl's face went flush as she abruptly turned and hurried back up the stairs.

We followed him through the elegant white foyer and down a hallway at the left side to a grand study near the back of the house. It was filled with books and held two large rolltop desks and a great rectangular table that I envied for all the paperwork that could be strewn across it. How easily I could organize my chronicles upon it. Two settees faced each other near the center of the room with four stout wing-backed chairs arranged around them. All faced a fireplace at the center of the outer wall that looked large enough for the girl we'd seen on the stairs to walk right beneath its mantel. Yet even with all these furnishings there was still plenty of space, keeping the room from feeling the least cramped.

“Tell me,” Colin said casually as we took the seats Phillip had gestured us to. “What did you and Mr. Connicle speak about yesterday morning?”

“He wanted to warn me off.”

“Warn you off?”

The boy gave a slight shrug. “He'd seen me riding along the ridgeline between his property and ours and came charging after me. It gave me something of a start.”

“Did you see him often during your predawn rides?”

“Never. But I knew it was him right away. So I slowed down and let him catch up. I could see he wanted to speak with me.”

“And what exactly did he warn you about?”

“He told me to keep away from their property. Said their man Albert was bringing supplies and equipment in to replace a good part of their fence. He didn't want me to get caught unawares in the darkness.”

“And did you heed his advice?”

“Of course,” Phillip said simply, with the grace of youth.

Colin's grin tightened ever so slightly. “How did he seem when you spoke with him? How were his spirits?”

Phillip's brow knit almost imperceptibly as he seemed to consider the question. “A bit agitated as I remember it. But then it seems understandable, given all the work he was talking about.”

Colin nodded as though in agreement. Just at that moment a noise at the doorway caused us all to turn. “Father . . . Mother . . . !” Phillip called out as we all rose. “These men are working for Mrs. Connicle.” He turned to us with a mortified expression. “I'm afraid I have forgotten your names. . . .” He let his voice trail off as his parents entered. His father was tall and slender, with the same sharp nose as his son, though his hair was black and he sported a full, bushy mustache. Phillip's mother stood nearly half her husband's height and had a thick figure and waves of auburn hair pinned up.

“Colin Pendragon,” Mr. Aston filled in for his son. “I recognize you from the papers.” He glanced at me. “And you must be Mr. Pruitt.”

“Indeed I am.” I smiled as we all sat down with the exception of Phillip.

“You will excuse me then. . . .” the young man said.

“Please have Bridget bring us some tea,” his mother commanded.

Phillip gave her a ready smile. “Of course.”

He had barely left the room before a lovely young maid with a great mane of sunny yellow hair brought us tea accompanied by a generous plate of shortbread, about half of which were partially covered in chocolate. Such an indulgence kept us all quiet for several minutes before Mr. Aston finally settled back in his chair and posed the inevitable question. “So how can we help you gentlemen with this awful Connicle business?”

“Not business, Hubert,” his wife corrected at once. “The paper says it's murder.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Poor Edmond.”

“Poor Annabelle,” she corrected again. “That poor woman has been through so much.”

“Has she?” Colin asked with a casualness that, in spite of his best efforts, still sounded heavy-handed. “In what way?”

Her eyes shot over to her husband as she fussed with the folds of her dress. “She is a delicate woman, Mr. Pendragon, and has not always been well.”

“Yes. She told us she spent time in hospital a few years back. . . .”

Once again Mrs. Aston flicked her eyes to her husband. “Go ahead, Genevieve.” He released a begrudging sigh.

“It wasn't a hospital,” she said in a near whisper, her pretty, round face marred by both regret and the weight of a secret needing to be told. “It was an asylum. It was Needham Hills.”

“I see.” Colin sipped at his tea, taking care not to glance in my direction so he did not see me wince. “Do you know why she was sent there?”

“Oh . . .” Mrs. Aston shook her head and glared at the floor. “It's all so awful.”

“Don't trouble yourself,” her husband said as he glanced at us. “Mrs. Connicle is unable to bear children. There was one, but it died the day of its birth and she would not willingly surrender it. Edmond had no choice. It was a tragedy. I don't believe she ever recovered from that.”

“It about killed her,” Mrs. Aston added, her voice catching with emotion. “A woman loses a piece of herself when she bears a stillborn. It happened to me once.” She pressed her eyes shut as her husband leaned over and squeezed her arm. “When poor Annabelle came back from that terrible place I could see she was changed.”

“I'm very sorry,” Colin said. “And what of Mr. Connicle? How has he handled his wife's difficulties?”

“Edmond worried about her,” Mr. Aston answered. “It took its toll on him.” He shifted a quick glance to his wife before continuing. “And that wasn't his only burden with her.”

“Oh, Hubert . . .” his wife protested.

“No.” He waved her off. “They should know all of it. She thinks she hears things. Voices . . . sounds . . . I don't know what all. It's madness. The woman suffers from madness and Edmond stood it longer than I would have.”

“No, Genevieve, I am stating a fact.”

“What do you mean to imply?” Colin asked in a tone of indifference, though I could sense the pulse of his ratcheting thoughts by the clenching of his jaw.

“I should think I have made myself clear.”

His wife stood up and brushed at her dress as though trying to sweep the thrust of our conversation away. “You will excuse me.” She looked pained as she spoke. “Annabelle Connicle has suffered terribly and Edmond always stuck by her just as one would expect a husband to do. I have nothing more to add.”

“Of course.” Colin stood up and bowed his head slightly. “But may I trouble you with one last question?”

She looked leery as she nodded.

“Are you familiar with their scullery maid, Alexa?”

Her brow crinkled. “I know who she is. Why do you ask?”

“She was arrested this morning. The Yard believes her complicit in the murder of Mr. Connicle. I wondered if you had any impression of her?”

She flicked a quick scowl over to her husband and appeared to noticeably deflate. “I don't know anything about her. Now if you will excuse me.” She did not wait for a response the second time but made a swift exit, swinging the study doors shut behind her.

“You must forgive my wife,” Mr. Aston said as we all sat back down. “She does not approve of the ways of most men.”

“There is often much to disapprove of.” Colin chuckled as he returned to his tea. “May I presume your inference is that Mr. Connicle had taken a mistress or two over the years?”

“Well, of course he had. I think the world of his Annabelle, but the woman is damaged goods. He did everything right by her; she can have no complaints. But you cannot expect a man to be monastic in light of such frailties.”

“Do you suppose his wife knew?”

He made a great effort of shrugging. “It's hard to say what that woman knows. At times she seems quite sharp, yet at other times it's as though she folds herself into a cocoon. I don't know how Edmond stood it.”

“Did he confide in you?”

Mr. Aston laughed. “We are not gossiping women, Mr. Pendragon.”

Colin gave a halfhearted smile as he shoved a hand into his pocket and pulled out a crown, swiftly shuffling it between his fingers. “Do you make anything of the arrest of Alexa?”

“Is that the African woman?”

“She is.”

“Well . . .” He cleared his throat and chuckled slightly. “She is surely a comely woman and most certainly exotic.”

“Are you saying she was his mistress?”

He shrugged. “How would I know such a thing?”

“What if I told you Alexa's husband was found dead this morning?”

“What?!”
He bolted upright and glared at Colin. “That puts a spin on it all, doesn't it? Are all the men around that African wench being murdered?”

“I didn't say he had been killed,” Colin corrected as he caught the spinning coin in the palm of his hand.

“No?” Mr. Aston reached for a shortbread and fussed with it a moment. “Well, I really don't know why he hired that couple in the first place. He knew nothing about them. They're uneducated barbarians hardly different than the beasts they used to dwell amongst.” He stood up. “And now you must forgive me, as I have matters that need attending.”

“Of course,” Colin said. “We appreciate your time.”

Mr. Aston nodded tightly as he scurried us back to the front door. “If there is anything further we can do . . .” he said flatly.

“Thank you.” Colin flashed a mirthless grin. “I am sure we will be back.”

Mr. Aston managed a smile, but I could see there was no pleasure behind his eyes.

A
rthur Hutton looked to have ten years on Colin, putting him in his late forties. He stood slightly taller than Colin, though not as tall as me, and had a broad, square face with thinning hair at the back of his head. He seemed agreeable enough, even if his greater years lent him a gravitas that could not be denied. Certainly he had allowed us to be invited into his home without prior notice and asked that his wife be summoned in spite of his contention that they had fairly little to do with their neighbors the Connicles.

“We'd run into them at the occasional social event, but I would hardly call them friends,” he was telling us. “Mr. Connicle was a nice enough chap, but I always found his wife peculiar. She struck me as being a frail, rather morbid woman. I suppose that's understandable, given her inability to successfully bear children. That sort of thing does something to a woman. Unhinges them, I think. After all, if they can't fulfill their duty, what else is left for them?”

“I hear some of them have thoughts and ambitions,” Colin parried back.

“That they do.” Mr. Hutton smirked. “There's no telling the trouble we'll be in if anyone starts paying them heed.”

“I should think great heed is paid our Victoria.”

Mr. Hutton waved him off. “Now you're being obstinate. I know what I'm talking about.” He leaned forward. “After my own wife bore me a damaged son it left her all at ends,” he hissed. “And I would tell you she is no better for it these six years later.” He sat back again, his face soured. “Thankfully my daughter was born first and is a jewel, but I shall never have a proper heir.”

“Arthur . . . ?” A warm, honeyed female voice brought us to our feet. “Have you not sent for tea for our guests?”

“I have,” he answered gruffly. “Gentlemen, my wife, Charlotte.”

She stood tall and slender and had remarkable curves just where they belonged. Her hair was a true golden blond that looked like a puff of spun sugar atop her head. I guessed her age to be no more than my thirty-five years, given the luster of her skin, as pale and unblemished as Devonshire cream. All of which accentuated her exquisite cheekbones and delicate features set off by eyes every bit as sapphire blue as Colin's own.

“Mrs. Hutton.” Colin nodded politely. “You must forgive our intrusion. We have been hired by Mrs. Connicle to investigate the murder of her husband.”

“Investigate . . . ?” she repeated as she came into the room, settling in a chair near her husband. “I heard an arrest had been made?”

“An arrest
has
been made,” Colin acknowledged. “They have taken the Connicles' scullery maid into custody. But an investigation is never concluded until the magistrate's gavel has made its final descent.”

“Yes, of course. And how might we help you?”

“Your husband tells us the Connicles were little more than social acquaintances?”

“They were pleasant enough.” She cast a glance toward the fireplace before looking back at Colin. “But in truth I found the wife rather morose and the husband”—she seemed to struggle for the right word before finally settling on—“boorish. I don't mean to speak ill of the man, but I found him overbearing and brusque with his wife. And she
is
such a frail thing.”

“I think some men struggle with their rougher edges,” her husband announced with an amused smile.

“Some men are nothing
but
rough edges,” she shot back slyly, seeming to freeze the grin on her husband's face. “I realize he was a man of considerable wealth, but that does not excuse indecorous behavior.”

We were interrupted by a young, redheaded woman rushing into the room balancing a tray of tea things, and it was obvious by the careless way she did so that this was not normally her task. “My apologies for the wait,” she said in a soft Scottish burr, without making eye contact with either of the Huttons as she set the things on the table before them.

“That will be all,” Mrs. Hutton answered crisply as she took over the task of preparing our tea.

“Janelle is our son's nurse,” Mr. Hutton informed us. “Though we are forced to press her into other services from time to time.” He shrugged. “Decent household staff is so difficult to come by anymore.” He gave an odd chuckle as his wife doled out our teacups, the crease on her brow not escaping my notice.

“Were either of you aware that the Connicles were having work done to the fence separating your properties?” Colin asked, apparently oblivious to whatever had just transpired between the couple.

“That was my doing,” Mrs. Hutton answered. “Our boy tends to wander if Janelle doesn't keep her eyes on him and I worried he might stumble through a breach in their fence. I understand there were many such breaches.”

Colin nodded as he sipped at his tea. “Did you pay them a visit to discuss their repair of it?”

“I sent them a letter. I must admit to not being particularly comfortable in their company.”

“Yes.” Colin allowed a slight grin to stretch his lips. “You will be pleased to know that their groundskeeper, Albert, had begun work on it.”

“I am certain Mrs. Connicle appreciated my concern.”

“Were you familiar with their groundsman or his wife, Alexa?”

“Whyever would we be?” she asked, staring at Colin.

Colin's mirthless grin extended as he slid his eyes to her husband. “Did you, by any chance, happen to go riding along your property line before dawn yesterday morning, Mr. Hutton?”

The question brought immediate laughter from the man. “While there is much that demands my attention each day, Mr. Pendragon, I am rarely up to greet the dawn and was certainly not yesterday.”

“Why would you be asking such a thing with an arrest already made?” Mrs. Hutton spoke up.

“We were told the Connicles' groundsman, Albert, may have seen a man riding along the ridge between your properties before Mr. Connicle was discovered to be missing. With Albert now deceased—”

“What?!” Mr. Hutton sat forward. “There's been another murder over there?”

“The Yard is calling it an accident at this point.”

“Do you mean to say you harbor doubts about the Yard's conclusion?”

Colin set his teacup down and stood up. “When it comes to that lot I harbor doubts about their ability to saddle their horses in the morning.”

“Mr. Pendragon . . .” Mr. Hutton also stood up, chuckling in spite of himself. “You jest at the expense of our police staff.”

“I make no jest.”

Mrs. Hutton's brow knit. “Then you believe that African woman to be innocent simply because you distrust Scotland Yard?”

Colin's lips pursed as he looked at her. “I do not mean to believe her guilty simply because she
is
African.” He stuck his hand out to her husband. “We've taken enough of your time today.”

“Very well, gentlemen. Let us know if we can provide any further assistance.”

“I hope you don't mean to prolong this terrible affair.” Mrs. Hutton glanced from Colin to me. “Mrs. Connicle hardly seems up to such political gamesmanship.”

Colin's brow instantly collapsed, so I quickly muttered something offhanded and got him out of there before he could say anything regrettable. We had barely gotten off the porch before he growled, “How dare that woman presume that I would play games with the bloody Yard instead of solving these crimes!”

I chuckled. “She doesn't know you, Colin, and besides, her husband warned us that she's been at ends since the birth of their son.”

Colin scoffed. “A woman like that was born at ends.”