The Endicott Evil Page 14

  “’Ere, ’ere,” the cabbie scolded as he pulled the horse to an immediate stop. “Ya can git out if yer gonna be poundin’ on me livli’ood.”

  Colin leapt down and barreled off the rest of the way to our flat as I paid the man, adding a generous tip for his troubles. By the time I reached our flat it was to find our front door gaping with no sign of Colin. It was, I supposed, enough that he had left the door open for me. I eased it shut and went upstairs, and was startled to find Colin and Mrs. Behmoth seated in the parlor staring at the two soiled handkerchiefs wadded up on the coffee table as if they were about to shoot up once-a-millennia blooms.

  “I been watchin’ ’em like ya said,” she was explaining with remarkable seriousness. “Not even a puff a air ’as touched ’em.”

  “Very good,” Colin said, his voice equally grim. “Then let us see . . .” he murmured as he carefully touched the uppermost corners of one of the handkerchiefs, cradling its bottom with the small silver tray it had been deposited on almost two hours before, “. . . if my supposition is right.” He moved with the stealth of a thief as he crept toward the fireplace and then, without the slightest pause, threw the handkerchief directly into the rage of flames.

  “ACH . . . !” Mrs. Behmoth hollered as she burst to her feet. “Wot in the bloody ’ell are ya doin’? Ya jest ’ad me sittin’ ’ere watchin’ this shite fer the last—” But that was as far as she got before her mouth snapped shut and her eyes nearly bulged from their sockets.

  I turned at once and saw that the fire around the handkerchief was spitting out licks of luminescent green, turquoise, violet, and blue flame. It looked ethereal and disconcerting and, as it began to sizzle and spark like a hunk of meat on a cast-iron skillet, also unnerving.

  “Phosphorous powder . . .” Colin bothered to say. And I could see why such a ruse would be so compelling. “Our Mr. Nettle would seem to be compromised,” he added. “Or perhaps Lady Stuart is, as she was before, failing to be entirely truthful.” He turned his gaze on me and I could see a cold heat flickering deep within his eyes.

  CHAPTER 14

  Morning broke with a hammering of rain and a deep-set chill. As a result I felt no compelling desire to extract myself from the warmth of our bed until Colin ultimately sat up and gave a huge leonine stretch, heaving an attendant yawn from the base of his soul to go along with it.

  “There is much to be done today,” he said in the next breath, “and none of it will be accomplished if we stay in here.” He turned and gave me a quick peck. “Though it would certainly be more amusing.” He chuckled as he pushed himself off the bed and headed for the WC.

  The necessity of running around the city on such a dreary day did not entice me in the least, so it was with little enthusiasm that I washed and dressed and padded out to the parlor to get the fire stoked. I was only just coaxing it to an acceptable roar when a sudden pounding rattled the door downstairs. “Who . . .” I heard myself grumbling to no one, “. . . could be arriving so blasted early in the morning?”

  “Don’t trouble yerself,” Mrs. Behmoth called up the stairs.

  As if I had been about to, I wanted to holler back, but kept my peace instead. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror over the mantel and thought myself a distressing sight with my unruly hair and my eyes puffy and bagged. A squeal from downstairs thankfully stole my attention just as Colin strode into the parlor finishing the knot of his tie.

  “Sounds like my father is here,” he noted as he came up next to me and began rubbing his hands in front of the fire. “What do you suppose he’s here for?” His expression suddenly fell as he turned his eyes to me. “I do hope it’s not to inform us that the Swiss have released Mrs. Hutton’s accursed funds.” Before I could even think to respond, Colin spun away from me and stalked toward the stairs. “Tell me you’re not here with some pitiful news about those ruddy Swiss. . . .” he hollered down from the landing.

  “And good morning to you.” I heard his father’s voice, as calm and affable as ever. “Would you be so kind as to bring some tea up, Mrs. Behmoth?” he muttered. “I can tell my son is in a rich mood, and I’ve not even spotted poor Ethan yet.”

  “I’m here. . . .” I called out with a woeful lack of enthusiasm as I forced myself to move away from the warming fire’s embrace.

  “Yes.” Sir Atherton sounded as if he was chuckling. “Perhaps we shall need a couple of pots.”

  “Don’t ya worry,” Mrs. Behmoth was quick to answer. “I got plenty a tea and a fresh batch a currant scones. Ya picked the right mornin’ ta stop by.”

  “Outstanding,” he said with genuine delight, and not a second later I heard him beginning to make his way up.

  “If this is about those Swiss . . .” Colin said again as he turned back for the fireplace.

  “Calm yourself,” I hissed as I tried to coax my hair into place before settling into my chair and praying that wasn’t why Sir Atherton was here.

  “Late night?” Sir Atherton teased as he rounded the landing and headed for the wing-backed chair beside me as he always did, Colin’s chair. “On second thought”—he gave a mock sort of sputter—“I’m not at all sure I want to know.”

  “Is this about Mrs. Hutton’s Swiss accounts?” Colin asked yet again with nary a hint of amusement as he leaned against the mantel, effectively blocking the fire from doing much good for me. “Because if it is . . .”

  “Do settle yourself, boy.” Sir Atherton waved him off. “I’ve had warmer greetings from people who despise my politics. Now I am not here about our goodly Swiss allies, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to start any sort of discussion without a spot of tea first.”

  As if on cue I heard the thundering footsteps of Mrs. Behmoth as she began to make her way up the stairs. While I was immediately relieved that he was not here to bear ill tidings of Mrs. Hutton’s funds, I could not help but begin to wonder exactly why he had come so early. Sir Atherton Pendragon was not known for his social calls.

  “I’ve got yer favorite clotted cream,” Mrs. Behmoth announced as she rounded the top of the stairs and came into the room with the tea tray and a plate of steaming scones.

  “I told you not to keep that in this house,” Colin reminded her with a lack of patience as he crossed to her, thankfully allowing the warmth from the fireplace to freely radiate into the room again. “It isn’t good for any of us. I’ve told you that repeatedly.”

  “Don’t you bark at me,” she scowled as she batted him away from the tray. “I ain’t done nothin’ ta git yer arse up. I’m jest servin’ a fine man who’s always done right by me. Where’s the ’arm in that?”

  “Could we please have the tea?” I cut in over both of them.

  “An outstanding idea.” Sir Atherton chuckled, sitting back and watching Mrs. Behmoth prepare our repast with the assurance of one who has done so a thousand times before. She handed him his cup and a scone, but I noticed that neither of them touched the little dish of clotted cream. “You are most kind,” he said with a smile.

  I was served next, with Colin relegated to the settee normally reserved for our guests, receiving his last. “Let me know if ya need anythin’ else,” Mrs. Behmoth offered directly to Sir Atherton before finally leaving the room and trundling back downstairs.

  “You really should go easier on her, you know,” Colin’s father said as he sipped at his tea. “She is advancing in years and won’t be around to take your guff forever.”

  “She will outlive us all,” Colin shot back over the rim of his cup. “Now what has brought you here? If someone has requested my father to come and set me in my place, then I will know it at once.”

  Sir Atherton shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You are your mother’s son. Very well . . .” He set his teacup down but continued to nibble on his scone. “Thomas Endicott practically tore my door off its hinges late yesterday. I must say you have His Lordship quite riled. Whatever are you up to at his sister’s estate? I have been as much as ordered to set yo
u straight, just as you supposed.” He shook his head again and gave a low chuckle.

  “We are investigating the death of his sister Adelaide.”

  “Ah. A dear girl. Gentle soul. But whatever is there to investigate? I thought her attendant pushed her out the window in a fit of pique. . . .”

  “Is that what Lord Endicott told you? Because it is certainly what his sister believes, though I have yet to find even the thinnest of motives. Pique, did he say? A curious notion when it seems Adelaide Endicott was every bit the delicate blossom you and everyone else have painted her to be. It is certainly how I remember her. So whatever could she have done to push her man to such a horrible act against her? A woman he had been devoted to for the better part of a year and upon whom his very livelihood depended.”

  Sir Atherton blinked twice before shifting his gaze to me, his eyes filled with astonishment. “Why are you asking me? I am most certainly not the detective here.”

  “I am simply trying to tell you that the circumstances around his sister’s death are not so concise. While I most certainly cannot rule out Mr. Nettle’s involvement, there are clues we have unearthed that would point to at least one other accomplice.”

  “Clues?”

  “We have discovered a residue of phosphorous powder around the window she is said to have been pushed from, and on the outside there are marks along the sill and rails that almost assuredly point to the fact that someone had been pitching small stones from the ground below, no doubt in an effort to attract her attention. And when I climbed a ladder myself there yesterday, I can tell you it came as no surprise that the ladder’s stiles fit snuggly into the two small notches I had spotted there. So while Mr. Nettle may be as guilty as night, he most assuredly did not act alone.”

  “Do believe this Nettle fellow is a part of it?”

  “I do not know yet, and that’s my point. Eugenia Endicott is convinced of the man’s complicity, and while she may be right, she may also be wrong. And when last I reviewed the law, you cannot indict a man on supposition.”

  Sir Atherton gave a slight nod and picked up his tea again, taking his time to sip it even as he also snatched up another scone. When I thought perhaps he might be done with the topic, he spoke up in a thoughtful tone filled with introspection. “Your point is well made. You will have to go back with me to His Lordship’s estate to state your position.”

  “I am not going out to explain anything to that old gas bag.”

  “I will remind you that he is an esteemed member of Parliament.. . .”

  Colin popped off the settee and pounded back over to the mantel, snatching up the small, intricately carved derringer he had left there days ago and buffing it with the soft cloth he’d set it upon. “I don’t care if Victoria herself is going to be there,” he groused irritably, burnishing the pistol as though its very existence depended on it. “I have much to do today. I am not going.”

  “I’m afraid Her Majesty is at Holyrood Palace and will therefore be unable to attend your accounting,” his father said, shifting his gaze to me and casting his eyes heavenward.

  “I didn’t mean literally.”

  “I know what you meant.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what needs to be tended to first,” I quickly spoke up, “and I will take care of it. I handled this case on my own while you were in Zurich,” I reminded him.

  “Whatever became of that Hutton woman?” Sir Atherton asked as he glanced back at Colin, who was still feverishly polishing the pistol. “Shall I send word to the Swiss Federal Council that they can have those funds released?”

  “No!” Colin blurted, his hands recoiling in the same instant. “You mustn’t do that. I need more time. We need more time. . . .” he corrected, as though my involvement would have any greater impact on his father.

  “Oh . . .” Sir Atherton sounded genuinely taken aback. “Then I shall be certain to delay them for you when they contact me, which I am sure will be any time now. . . .” He sniffed and cast his eyes back to me, and I could see a spark of mischief lying therein.

  It only took a minute longer before Colin released a snarl and shoved the gun and cloth back onto the mantel. “I’ll not stay to tea with that pompous oaf nor will I promise to be anything more than civil,” he warned.

  “I could hardly ask for more than that,” Sir Atherton responded ever so agreeably. “Fetch your things then. I told him we’d be by midmorning at the latest. I see little reason to delay.”

  “I’ve not even eaten yet,” Colin protested, the depth of his displeasure wholly evident in his tone.

  “Then grab a couple of Mrs. Behmoth’s scones,” Sir Atherton directed. “You could hardly do better than those. And once we’re finished, since you won’t take tea at His Lordship’s, we can stop somewhere and get a meat pie and some chips.” His eyes lit up. “I haven’t had a good steak-and-kidney pie since I can remember.”

  “I deplore steak-and-kidney pie,” Colin griped. “It smells like absolute rot.”

  “Then I shan’t share mine with you,” his father answered smoothly as he reached forward and wrapped two of the currant scones in a napkin. “Now hurry up,” he chided, “we’ve all got things to do, and you cannot expect Ethan to continue covering for you for the whole of this case.” He glanced over at me from beneath his silvery-white eyebrows. “Not that I don’t think you wouldn’t be perfectly capable, of course. In fact I’m quite certain I wouldn’t be on this fool’s errand if you were leading the charge.”

  Thankfully, Colin did not hear his father, as he had already struck off for our bedroom. “You like to goad him,” I pointed out.

  Sir Atherton gave a little snicker and a shrug. “It is a father’s prerogative.” His face slowly sobered. “Do you agree with Colin? Do you believe Adelaide Endicott was murdered?”

  “Without a doubt.”

  “Always so loyal,” he said with a wistful sort of smile. “I admire you for that.”

  Not an instant later Colin burst back into the room, shrugging into his jacket and fumbling with the last buttons on his vest. “If we’re going to do this, then let’s get it over and done with,” he grumbled before turning to me. “I’ll need you to go and see Mr. Nettle again,” he continued as he paused on the landing while his father ambled over. “I don’t much care what he has to say for himself, but I want you to check his flat. See if you can find anything that would lead us to believe he might have had something to do with that phosphorous powder.”

  “Check his flat?!” I repeated with disbelief. “And how am I supposed to accomplish that while he’s sitting right there?”

  “Well, now . . .” Colin turned toward me though I could tell he was actually glaring at his father. “You are perfectly capable of leading the charge. You needn’t ask a fool like me.” And with that he bolted down the stairs, his black coattails snapping their admonishment in his wake.

  “Oh . . .” Sir Atherton said as he released a prolonged exhalation. “This is not likely to go at all well.”

  CHAPTER 15

  As though to further antagonize this day, the rain picked up in both ferocity and resolve, adding a wind that whirled about the city like a rabid dog. Even my umbrella was barely serving its purpose as I had it yanked all the way down against the top of my head, clutched in both hands, as I tried to keep it from eviscerating itself.

  I had come all the way out to Shandy Street and as I descended from the cab was at once reminded of how close I was to Maw Heikens’s old building; the place where I had lost so much of my youth. For a moment I thought perhaps I should go by and check on her, but my clearer head prevailed and I kept to the task at hand. I knew Colin was counting on my not failing at this charge and did not wish to conjecture at his mood were I to have nothing to say for my undertaking. It was enough to imagine where his disposition was going to wind up once he had finished his accounting for Lord Endicott.

  My boot sank into a fetid puddle that almost assuredly contained equal parts horse urine and rain,
and I cursed as the liquid splattered across the cuff of my pants. There was little consolation in the fact that they were already well saturated halfway to my knees.

  I crossed White Horse Lane and slowed as I clawed the scrap of paper from the inside coat pocket where I had written Freddie Nettle’s address. It turned out to be a rather sorrowful-looking boardinghouse, and I supposed I should have expected nothing more. What else could the man possibly have procured for himself on such quick notice considering that he had been residing at Layton Manor for better than the last year? No doubt the bulk of his compensation from the Endicotts had been paid in room and board. And now he was consigned to a three-story brick building wedged in between more of the same, all of whose faces were blackened by the thick, oily residue of coal smoke belching from the countless chimneys stabbing up into the dull gray sky.

  There was a small, sagging wooden porch tacked on the front that did not appear to have ever seen a coat of paint. The windows that faced the street were either cracked or boarded up, making the conceit of a view absurd at best. Not that there was anything else to look out upon other than more of the same dilapidation. If this had ever been a desirable neighborhood it took a vivid imagination to envision it. There was nothing left now but poverty and rot and indifference.

  I huddled under my umbrella as I pounded on the front door, snatching a quick glance above to find the porch’s decomposing roof as protective as a colander held over one’s head. So it was a relief when the door was finally forced open, sticking mercilessly at its upper corners, by a boy of about nine or ten who looked nearly as disheveled as the building he lived in. “’Oo are you?” he asked with a surly little scowl.

  “My name is Ethan Pruitt,” I answered, my eyes scanning the dimly lit room behind him to see if there wasn’t someone better suited that I might have this conversation with. “I am here to see Mr. Freddie Nettle.”

  “’E ain’t ’ere,” he said as he shoved against the door, clearly intending for our discussion to be over.