The Endicott Evil Read online

  PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF GREGORY HARRIS!

  THE DALWICH DESECRATION

  “One of my favorite Victorian mystery authors. The author’s research into the era is impeccable.”

  —Historical Novels Review

  THE BELLINGHAM BLOODBATH

  “A terrific story . . . both storylines come together in perfect symmetry, making for an incredibly pleasing mystery. The author nails it yet again!”

  —Suspense Magazine

  THE ARNIFOUR AFFAIR

  “Colin has Holmes’s arrogance, but is dimpled and charming, while Ethan is a darker Watson. . . . [T]he relationship between the leads is discreetly intriguing.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Pendragon matches Sherlock Holmes in his arrogance.... [H]e is redeemed, in part, by his brains and his gentle treatment of Pruitt.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “The mystery is extremely well done, the characters carefully drawn, and the story moves quickly to a satisfying conclusion.”

  —Washington Independent Review of Books

  Books by Gregory Harris

  THE ARNIFOUR AFFAIR

  THE BELLINGHAM BLOODBATH

  THE CONNICLE CURSE

  THE DALWICH DESECRATION

  THE ENDICOTT EVIL

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  THE ENDICOTT EVIL

  A Colin Pendragon Mystery

  GREGORY HARRIS

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF GREGORY HARRIS!

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2017 by Gregory Harris

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  eISBN-13: 978-1-61773-890-6

  eISBN-10: 1-61773-890-5

  First Kensington Electronic Edition: April 2017

  ISBN: 978-1-6177-3889-0

  For Karen Clemens

  and

  Melissa Gelineau

  Two tireless champions to whom

  I owe a deep debt of gratitude

  CHAPTER 1

  Eugenia Endicott was diminutive of height, stout of figure, and furious of face. Her thinning, silvery-white hair was pulled tight in a small roll at the back of her head that attested to the fineness of what hair she had left. Her austere black dress was wholly unadorned just as one would suspect for a woman in mourning, though she was not wearing the expression of one overcome by the burden of grief and horror at the sudden murder of her elder sister, Adelaide. That she was the only person who currently believed her sister murdered certainly explained some of the rage coloring her face—the Yard had as much as told her that an old woman tumbling out an upper-story window was hardly a concern of theirs—but it was the implication that Miss Adelaide could have done such a thing willfully that left Eugenia Endicott looking ready to claw Colin and me to shreds with her bare hands.

  “Your insinuation is offensive, Mr. Pendragon,” she was stating from her position in the doorway to her sister’s room, her lips curled back as though she had come upon something rotting and foul, and I supposed she felt that she had. “The Endicott family has faultlessly served the Crown and Commonwealth for hundreds of years without the slightest whisper of scandal, and yet here you are, ferreting about in my poor sister’s private quarters on a mission to decree whether or not she might have purposefully contributed to the end of her own life. It is unconscionable.”

  Colin turned toward Miss Eugenia from the casement window he had been carefully inspecting, the window Miss Adelaide’s personal footman, Freddie Nettle, had been the sole witness to her falling from three nights prior. It was that event that had brought him to our door, begging us to prove his innocence in the face of Miss Eugenia’s immediate allegations against him. “You do me a great injustice,” Colin said quite simply. “I have not come to prove anyone’s theory. Your Mr. Nettle may have retained my services, but you may rest assured that I am here only to uncover the truth, wherever that may lead. It is what I do.”

  “He is not my Mr. Nettle,” she fired back. “He served my sister at her request, not mine. I never liked the man. What kind of name is Nettle anyway?”

  Colin’s left eyebrow arced toward the ceiling. “Tell me”—he continued to speak with uncharacteristic patience—“is there some reason you believe he would have taken your sister’s life?”

  “How the devil would I know that?! I am sure there is no explaining the mind of a deviant. Surely you would understand that better than any of us, Mr. Pendragon, given your unseemly line of work.”

  Colin allowed a thin smile to fleet across his lips. “I have found the reasons that compel those who commit terrible crimes to be as complex and fundamental as that which drives the rest of us. It can be a razor’s edge. . . .”

  “Spare me.” She bit out the words with the wave of a hand. “My sister was infirm, Mr. Pendragon. She could not walk. Mr. Nettle’s sole function was to either push her about in her wheeled chair or carry her, as the circumstances necessitated. He brought her down every morning and took her up every night, doing as she bid on all but her most intimate needs. Adelaide had two nurses who shared duties in attending to such chores for her. But it was Mr. Nettle who slept in my sister’s anteroom, not the nurse, though I was never settled with that arrangement,” she added with noticeable distaste. “So how do you suppose Adelaide made it all the way from her bed to that . . . window. . . .” She said the word as though it were something indecent. “Mr. Nettle’s claim that she did so on her own is preposterous and meant to cast doubt on his own disreputable character.”

  “Could she not support herself on her feet at all?” Colin pressed. “Is it not possible that she might have been able to hold on to the wall and make her way forward?”

  Miss Eugenia’s expression disintegrated even further. “I will not quibble with you about the state of my sister’s ability to move.”

  “Of course not,” Colin answered, his patience beginning to show signs of fracturing. “But Mr. Nettle states that he was woken in the middle of the night by your sister’s screams, and when he rushed into her room it was to find her already by the window. Is it truly not poss
ible—” But he got no further before Miss Eugenia blasted over him.

  “I know what he claims. He claims that she unlatched the window and threw herself to the cobbles below before he could even attempt to reach her. She was eighty-three years old, Mr. Pendragon. Mr. Nettle is barely out of his twenties. Do you really believe such a story merits so much as a whisper of consideration?” She spoke in a tone that was harsh and acerbic, leaving no doubt as to precisely how she felt.

  “I will not deny that his tale would seem to stretch the boundaries of credulity and sense, yet I can assure you that I have come upon equally implausible events over the years. And I have very often found that such events are not only explicable, but many times will lead to the very heart of the case itself.”

  She curled her heavily lined face into a most disapproving pucker. “This is not a case, Mr. Pendragon.” Once again she was able to say a word as though it were foul and untoward. “It is the murder of my sister at the hands of a malevolent rogue. And you may be certain that I take great umbrage at your willingness to come here and root about my sister’s room, giving credence to what that man has said against her.”

  “Miss Endicott—” Colin started to say, his own voice edging toward a tightness that concerned me, before being interrupted again as though he had not even taken a breath.

  “I have known your family since long before you were born. Your mother . . . God rest her soul . . . was an outspoken and headstrong woman, but she would be scandalized to find her son here on such a devil’s errand. As will your father when I inform him.”

  The muscles in Colin’s jaw clenched as his eyes went dark and steely, and I knew he was about to say something regrettable. “Miss Endicott . . .” I blurted before Colin could have a chance to say anything. “It would seem that Mr. Pendragon and I have been unforgivably insensitive.” I nearly choked on the lie as I forced it past my lips, but was determined to avoid a surly visit from Colin’s father demanding to know why we had so agitated a genteel spinster in the midst of her grieving; a spinster whose younger brother just happened to be a senior member of the House of Lords. “It is not our intention to suggest that your sister inflicted any sort of injury upon herself,” I insisted, keeping my voice low and steady as I locked my gaze on hers and hoped that Colin would remain silent. “We would never presume to sully either your sister’s memory or the reputation of the Endicott family itself. We mean only to ensure that the facts are appropriately gathered so that the scoundrel responsible is made to pay for his actions as he should, whether that might be Mr. Nettle or another.”

  She stared back at me and I could tell she was trying to gauge the depth of my sincerity as she did so. It took a long moment, but she finally relented, though in a notably begrudging way. “I suppose you have something of a point,” she said, flipping her hand glibly as if I were just another domestic to be dismissed. “Scotland Yard has been woefully inadequate in responding to my insistence that they charge Mr. Nettle. It is appalling that everyone seems so content to believe that a righteous, God-fearing woman would harm herself.” She shook her head and her expression soured. “It is really most unsavory.”

  “I’m afraid the Yard has its hands full with countless other cases,” I pointed out, “so when a death occurs that would seem to be as straightforward as that of your sister . . .”

  “Straightforward?!” she barked.

  “I meant only in its cause,” I hastily added, desperate not to lose her dollop of goodwill. “Mr. Nettle appears to have told them a tale that they feel both sound and believable, which allows them to close one file without any undue fuss. They don’t have the wherewithal to realize that there might indeed be a great deal more at hand here. That perhaps there is some reason why Mr. Nettle would wish to harm your sister.” I continued to watch her to see if my supposition had struck a note, but her face remained unreadable behind its discontent.

  “Well, of course there would be reasons,” she sallied back after another moment, but did not elaborate.

  “It is also possible”—Colin spoke up, and I could tell by the evenness in his tone that he had settled himself again—“that Mr. Nettle is mistaken about what he believes he saw. After all, he admits to having been awakened from a sound sleep. Without so much as a candle in hand, how can he be certain of anything that happened? For all we know, Miss Adelaide herself was disoriented and simply lost her balance. . . .” He let his voice trail off.

  “Oh . . .” Miss Eugenia caught her breath, one hand flying up to her mouth, and I realized that, like me, this was a possibility she had not conceived of. “Oh . . .” she repeated as she came into the room and nearly fell into one of the chairs just inside. “But could you ever prove such a thing?” And for the first time since our arrival she sounded almost contrite and dismayed.

  “The truth can often be elusive, but it is never fickle.” Colin flashed the barest of grins. “I believe it can be found whenever one seeks it with an open mind.”

  Miss Eugenia exhaled in a slow, arduous way, as though it had come from deep within. “Yes,” she finally said. “I can see that I owe my sister better than the possible folly of my indignation over the perceived cause of her death. While I have never held Mr. Nettle in any esteem, neither do I wish to see him castigated for no greater reason than one moment’s foolish misperception.”

  “There you are then.” Colin gave a slight nod. “We are all intent on the same resolution.”

  “You have a most peculiar way of saying things,” Miss Eugenia noted as her spine stiffened and her eyes once more assumed a stern cast. “I do believe I prefer the finer considerations of your point of view, Mr. . . .” She turned to me and her face went blank, and I knew she had no memory of my name. And so it ever was.

  “Pruitt . . .” I said with a smile, “Ethan Pruitt.”

  “Pruitt . . .” she repeated in a vague sort of way. “Why does that name sound familiar? Did your family come from Coventry?”

  “No. We were from Leeds. Sheep farmers before my grandfather began working in the printing trade. My father was the first from his family to settle in London. He eventually became the Deputy Minister of Education,” I heard myself brag before realizing what a dangerous wire I was walking.

  “Oh . . .” Miss Eugenia sucked in a startled breath as she leaned away from me, her ramrod posture accentuating what was clearly a desire to put space between the two of us. “Are you referring to John Pruitt? Was John Pruitt your father?”

  I cursed myself for having said too much. “He was,” I answered stiffly, knowing what would come next.

  “How . . . unfortunate,” she said, her eyes darting away from me even as her face pinched with distaste. “Such a sordid end and all of it trundled out in the Times. It’s a wonder you didn’t move to the Continent. I can see why you understand how unacceptable it would be for the Endicott name to suffer any such similar stain.”

  “We seem to have traveled quite far afield from the topic at hand.” Colin spoke up before I could even fathom how to respond. “Do we have your consent to continue our investigation into your sister’s death?”

  “You have better than that,” she replied as she pushed herself back to her feet. “I shall hire you myself for just that purpose. And should you come to discover that my dear Adelaide did indeed suffer a terrible accident”—she let out a stilted breath—“then it shall be thus. But if you uncover the specter of malfeasance, then I will insist you persevere with Scotland Yard until they fulfill their rightful obligation by arresting that duplicitous Mr. Nettle.” She nearly spit the man’s name as if it were caustic or barbed in her throat.

  I was so surprised by this sudden turn of events that I found myself quite at a loss for words and so it was Colin who responded first. “Yes,” he managed to say quite effortlessly. “It is likely to be one or the other.” Colin flashed her a mirthless smile that Miss Eugenia seemed quite content to accept as she started for the door.

  “I hope you will join me for some tea in t
he drawing room once you have finished here,” she said, turning back in the doorway and giving us a smile as forced and fleeting as Colin’s had been. She did not wait for our answer before turning and leaving the room.

  “I believe that is the first time I have ever heard your mother’s memory exploited in order to get you to do something. . . .” I remarked as soon as I knew Miss Eugenia was well gone. “Does she really imagine you to be so difficult?”

  Colin gave a sly shrug. “Well, she has known me all of my life.” He released a soft chuckle before abruptly waving a hand through the air as if to dismiss her as nothing more than a pestering insect buzzing about our ears, which is precisely what I knew he meant. “I told you before there was good reason she has always been a spinster.” He turned back to the window and shoved both sides of it wide open, and then leaned out and began running his fingers along the wood casement. “I always found Adelaide a gentle soul if slightly potty in her thinking,” he continued as he sat down on the sill, his broad shoulders not quite fitting between the mullion and the jamb so that he had to turn slightly sideways before he could stretch farther out and slide his hands along the smooth stones of the building itself. “But Eugenia was always just this side of intolerable.”

  “And Lord Endicott?” I could not stop myself from asking. “Which of his sisters is he most like?”