The Connicle Curse Page 19

  She stared at him a moment, her eyes studying him cautiously, and I suspected she was trying to gauge the validity of a confession I knew Colin had been loath to make. “Den ya know da shorter list is who liked us. Jest da people in dis house. None more den da mister.”

  “Mr. Connicle?” Colin asked as he slipped a coin from his pocket and began easing it between his fingers. “And how did you come to work for the Connicles?”

  “I was sellin’ meat pies on da corner by his office. Tryin’ ta keep me and mine fed. After twelve years da couple wot brought us here from Dahomey had died. Dey left us jest enough ta rent a small room fer a couple months. Bless ’em fer dat. Da rest went ta dey dogs. Dey loved dem dogs.” She made the statement without a modicum of resentment, though I had to turn my head to keep her from seeing the shamed flush of my cheeks.

  “Mr. Connicle had one a me pies and liked it,” she went on with a grin. “Pretty soon he’s eatin’ ’em about ever’ day. Even gets other men he works wit’ ta eat ’em too. I was makin’ a livin’ offa dem!” She chuckled with the first good humor I had heard from her. “Den one day he asks if I wanna come work for he and his missus. Jest like dat. Wants me ta work in dey kitchen. I tells him me husband hasta work too and the mister says he can work dey prope’ty. Brought us home dat very day.”

  “And how were you received here?”

  “Had ta prove meself to Mrs. Hollin’s before she’d let me in her kitchen. After dat it were me job ta take orders from her and dat’s wot I do.” She let out a sigh. “Miss Porter don’t have much ta do wit’ me. She nice enough. I ain’t said a hunnert words ta her. She takes care a da missus. Dey driver . . .” She shrugged. “He were nice enough ta me husband. He don’t talk ta me. He don’t have ta . . .” Her voice trailed off and she went still.

  Colin waited a couple seconds, the coin flipping rapidly between his fingers, before he suddenly burst out with, “And Mrs. Connicle?”

  Alexa took her time. “Da missus ain’t well. I see it when she look at me. Mostly I stay outta her way.”

  “Is she uneasy around you?”

  “She uneasy around life. Dat’s jest da way God made her. She do what she can. Even when dat Yard bloke was sayin’ I done somethin’ to her mister she never looked at me bad. After me own husband died . . .” She shook her head and stared across at Colin. “She a good woman. She ain’t had it easy.”

  “Are you referring to her illness?”

  She screwed up her face and waved Colin off. “She ain’t ill. She delicate, like a flower wot buds too early. Some a us are animals or bugs, some are trees or grass, and t’anks God some are flowers. We gotta take care a dem dat be flowers.”

  “That’s all very good and well,” Colin grumbled as he slipped the whirling coin back into his pocket, “but the one who needs taking care of right now is you. Every clue in these murders is pointing in your direction. Somebody is trying to frame you and I really need you to do more than spout trite sayings. I cannot protect you if you will not help me.”

  “Protect me?!” Alexa crossed her arms over her chest and glowered at him. “I ain’t askin’ you ta protect me. I don’t need ya. I managed me whole life wit’out da likes a you and I plan on goin’ right on about me business jest da same way. You wanna help someone, help da missus. I don’t need shite from you.”

  “Pride is a fool’s game.”

  She grinned. “I bet ya know somethin’ ’bout dat.” She stood up and adjusted her apron so it was sitting just right. “I get along fine wit’ everyone in dis house. It’s true. Been so for a while. Da mister . . .” She shook her head and sagged slightly. “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t fer him. I ain’t never wished him no ill. I’d be a fool ta a done dat.”

  “I never said you did.” Colin got up and stabbed his fists onto his waist. “What I want to know is who wishes you ill?!”

  For the first time she looked as though his words might finally have had an impact. And then she quite simply shrugged her shoulders and said, “Nobody and ever’body.”

  Colin pulled in a deep breath and let it out again before asking, “Could you be just a touch more specific?”

  “I got vegetables ta cut. We done?”

  His face went rigid and his eyes narrowed, yet he did not utter a word. It was quite extraordinary. I don’t know whether it was because he truly did understand how she felt, but as they stared at each other for what seemed the longest time I knew something had passed between them.

  “Ya know what I t’ink?” Her eyes sparkled as she managed a wistful smile, her gaze riveted on Colin. “I t’ink whoever done dees t’ings done ’em so you an’ dem Yarders be followin’ dere trail a crumbs jest like dey mean ya to.” She gave a sardonic smile. “Dat’s what I t’ink.”

  Colin remained resolutely mute as she nodded her chin at the two of us and took her leave.

  CHAPTER 30

  My head was pounding its irritation as I shut the folder and leaned back in the cushionless straight-backed chair. The chair, it seemed, had been aptly selected by the cheerless dark-haired young man who had shown me to this dour room with its lone window and clutter of filing cabinets and bookshelves piled up to the ceiling. It discouraged any but the most rudimentary comfort, which, given that this was the room where audits took place, made perfect sense.

  “More tea, Mr. Pruitt?” Wynn Tessler gamely asked as he swept the folder I’d just finished reviewing into a box at his feet.

  “Please.” I gave him what I could conjure of a smile despite the steady pulsing at my temples. I had been staring at an assortment of calculations and figures for well over two hours and, as usual, they had been taunting my comprehension almost from the start. There was no surprise that Colin had left me here alone to start poring through the Connicle and Hutton accounts while he made an ostensibly quick detour to check on Edmond Connicle. For if I had an aversion to accounting it was practically toxic to Colin.

  “I am afraid you have exhausted the Connicle ledgers,” Mr. Tessler announced as though that were some sort of tragedy. “I do have most of the Hutton documents gathered should you wish to proceed.”

  “Of course.” I nodded dimly, knowing I had no alternative. Colin had promised to meet me here to do his share of this drudgery, but as I flipped open the cover of my watch I knew he had found some pretext to forgo his assistance. If his excuse proved feeble I had already vowed to myself to make him share my current misery one way or another.

  Wynn Tessler leaned over and flipped open another box as though we couldn’t possibly be having more fun in our lives at this moment. He cheerfully dug out several thick folders and shoved them across the table at me. Each was labeled HUTTON: WEST HAMPTON, and each held enough papers to condemn many more hours of my life. My head immediately intensified its throbbing.

  “Let me get us that tea,” Mr. Tessler chirped as he stood up and called to someone down the hall.

  His voice clawed at my temples as I sat forward and flipped open the top folder, once again assaulted by myriad accounts at all the same establishments: Bank of England, Royal Bank of Scotland, C. Hoare & Company, and Pictet & Cie. It appeared that Columbia Financial was consistent in their advice. As I sorted through the first layer of investments and accounts, I was struck by the disparity of holdings between the Connicles and Huttons. While either could have bought and sold me many times over, it quickly became clear that the Hutton family lived within far stricter means. Someone, Mr. Hutton himself I presumed, had made poor choices around a mining concern in South Africa, which had cost his family dearly.

  “Here we are then,” Mr. Tessler said as the same grim young man who always seemed to do his bidding entered with a tray of tea and scones. “Thank you, Sebastian. You can take the Connicle ledgers back with you.” The young man set the tray on the desk, taking care not to disturb any of the documents I had spread out before me. He tossed Mr. Tessler a curt nod and swept up the two Connicle boxes as though they held no weight whatsoever, then took his leave. �
��Come, Mr. Pruitt.” My host smiled. “Leave those things for a moment and rest your eyes. You’ll be cursed with spectacles like the rest of us if you keep at it too long.” He laughed.

  “I’m sure that day will come,” I answered as I gladly set the file aside and picked up the teacup.

  “I know it’s all dreadfully dry, but it is a living.”

  “I should think it a great deal of pressure, investing someone else’s money. Most clients’ tolerance for failure must be minuscule. For instance, these mining investments the Huttons have in Africa; it appears far more money is going into them than coming out.”

  Mr. Tessler flinched and pursed his lips. “You’re an astute man, Mr. Pruitt. More so than many of those we do business for. As you can imagine, while it is our goal to direct all financial holdings for our clients, we can only accomplish that which they will allow us to do. Arthur Hutton chose to heed the siren’s call of purportedly easy money.” Mr. Tessler sipped his tea as his eyes flicked up to mine. “Let me assure you, Mr. Pruitt, there is no such thing. So despite my personal protestations, Arthur quite literally poured a vast sum of money down mine shafts that were alleged to be filled with diamonds and such.” He shook his head. “Now his widow must suffer the consequences of his imprudence.”

  “How unfortunate,” I muttered, picking up a scone and nibbling on it in hopes it might ease the pressure in my head. “A particular shame, given the regrettable state of health of their son.”

  “And in that”—he stared at me with a grim expression—“you have the very heart of Arthur’s decision. He worried terribly over William’s care. The lad already requires constant supervision. Once he reaches Anna’s age he’s bound to be quite out of hand. He will need to be placed in a permanent facility and I’m afraid such places are only as good as one’s ability to pay. It’s tragic.”

  “Indeed,” I answered flatly, swallowing the truth of how very much I knew of such places. “Do many of your clients fail to heed your advice?”

  He gave an amused sort of snort as he refilled our cups. “More than I would care to admit. Most can be reasoned with, but it does rather boggle the mind when someone pays our fees yet refuses to take advantage of the very advice he is paying for.”

  “Human nature, I suppose.”

  “Pardon?”

  I looked over at Mr. Tessler and set a smile on my face. “The ability to believe that one is smarter than everyone else. It is certainly what has kept Mr. Pendragon and me in business.” I took a hearty pull of tea and returned to the Huttons’ folder even as a thought began to swirl around the periphery of my brain. “Did Mr. Hutton ever travel to those African mines?”

  “Arthur . . . ?” Mr. Tessler let out a chuckle. “I don’t think Arthur set foot outside of England the whole of his life. He certainly never traveled to Africa.”

  “Extraordinary that he would deem to invest such sums in ventures he had no personal knowledge of.”

  “How old-fashioned of you, Mr. Pruitt. Don’t you know the world is shrinking all the time? What with telegraphs and that Scotsman Mr. Bell and his telephone, there is little one cannot find out about in much more than a day. I should think the day may come when travel itself will become irrelevant.”

  “How breathtakingly mundane we would all become were travel to ever become irrelevant,” Colin piped up from the doorway, Mr. Tessler’s assistant at his side. Colin looked tired, and there was an unaccountable dimness in his sapphire eyes. As he scuffled into the room, his usual ramrod bearing appearing almost leaden, I sensed that something was wrong. He nodded to Sebastian, who instantly evaporated back down the hall, and came into the room. “Are we going somewhere?” he asked offhandedly.

  Mr. Tessler gestured at me with his chin. “Your Mr. Pruitt has been asking questions about the investments of Arthur Hutton. It would seem he believes I should have more influence than I do.”

  “Ah.” Colin smiled thinly. “That must be the bane of your profession.” He moved up beside me but made no effort to glance at the folder I held open. “I’m afraid I have some very bad news,” he said after a moment, and I knew what he was going to say. “Edmond Connicle has died. He has succumbed to the sepsis of his wounds. His wife . . .” Colin shook his head and released a wearied breath. “She is inconsolable.”

  “Poor Annabelle,” Mr. Tessler mumbled. “She has lost Edmond not once, but twice.”

  “She has.” Colin dragged his eyes over to Mr. Tessler. “Do you have any idea why Mr. Connicle would have taken such sudden leave of his estate as he did? Or what he might have been doing at Tower Hill last night?”

  “Edmond kept his own counsel, Mr. Pendragon. He did not confide in me. I served no function for his estate, nor did he for mine. Perhaps those are better questions asked of his wife.”

  “Mrs. Connicle is in no state for such enquiries. Is there someone here who worked alongside him? Someone who would have been privy to his business dealings?”

  “Edmond stopped working on individual accounts years ago. He wasn’t like the rest of us, you know; he never had to work. For him it was more a hobby. Or maybe a diversion. When we started to become truly successful it was like a game well played for him. So no, I am afraid there is no one here who holds the key to the things Edmond did.”

  “Are you telling me that Mr. Connicle maintained his own accounts ?”

  Mr. Tessler chuckled. “He kept a watchful eye on them, but no, one of our senior analysts took care of his bookkeeping.”

  “And who might that be?” Colin pressed.

  “Noah Tolliver,” Mr. Tessler answered, folding his hands on the table like a grade-school boy. The name instantly stirred in my brain and, as I glanced over at Colin, I could see that his brow had furrowed as well. “He would be the executor of the estate now. Edmond brought him into the firm. I believe they met at Cambridge.”

  “Tolliver . . . ?” Colin repeated.

  And as soon as he did, I knew where I had heard it before. “Isn’t that Mr. Aston’s accountant?” I spoke up.

  “He is,” Mr. Tessler answered amiably, seeming impressed that I would know such a thing.

  “Then we should like to speak with him,” Colin said.

  Mr. Tessler sat back with a sigh. “Noah is on leave just now. The poor man suffered a terrible riding accident a few months back and has been convalescing at his country home ever since.”

  “How unfortunate,” Colin muttered perfunctorily. “Nevertheless, I should still require a word with him.”

  “Of course.” Mr. Tessler stood up and called out into the hallway for Sebastian again. When no response was forthcoming, Mr. Tessler excused himself and left the room.

  “Poor Edmond,” I said. “Did he ever regain consciousness?”

  “He did.” Colin shook his head with a grimace. “But he was incoherent. Mumbling drivel. I couldn’t make sense of any of it no matter how hard I tried.” He glanced away from me. “The doctor banished me from the room for getting in his way. A bloody lot of good that did.”

  “Colin . . .” I muttered, trying not to scold though horrified at the thought that he might have been a hindrance to Edmond Connicle’s survival.

  “What?!” he snapped back, and I knew the same thought was already with him. “Have you had any luck here?”

  I poked at the papers laid out before me. “Precious little.” I gave him a hurried recounting until Mr. Tessler returned with a sheet of paper clutched in one hand.

  “Here you are then, Mr. Pendragon,” he said as he handed it over. “Mr. Tolliver is out in Stratford. If you really wish to see him I’m sure I can have Sebastian arrange something for you.”

  “I would be most obliged. The sooner the better.”

  “Consider it done. We’ll get word to you shortly.”

  “And should we require further access to these files?”

  “You need only ask.”

  “Very well then.” Colin shook Mr. Tessler’s hand with an easy smile, but even so, I could see nettlesome
doubt lingering behind his eyes.

  CHAPTER 31

  On the way back to our flat we stopped in Holland Park by the Guitnus’ home to arrange for our young spy Paul to meet us later in the evening at the same pub where he’d spotted the foreign man tossing about copious coins and crowing about his benefactor. Whether this would prove a reliable lead was based more on hope than evidence, but it was something, and for the moment that had to be enough. We considered stopping in and speaking with Mr. Guitnu to offer a veiled sort of update on our progress, but Paul informed us that while the wife and all three daughters were at home, Mr. Guitnu himself had left some time ago. The information earned Paul a half crown and a sigh of relief from Colin. Neither of us was in any mood to address Mr. Guitnu’s thefts with him until after we heard back from his daughter’s Lothario, Cillian, whose answer was due tomorrow evening. I only hoped that he and Sunny would choose to do the right thing.

  “Mr. Guitnu is going to have a fit when he learns we’ve implicated his own daughter and her beau,” I muttered as I settled back in the cab for the remainder of the short journey to our Kensington flat.

  “Mr. Guitnu is going to have a fit when he learns his daughter has a beau,” Colin pointed out.

  The cabbie had us home in a matter of minutes and that was when we discovered that our luck had run out. Had I been paying attention I would have realized what was awaiting us at the sight of the carriages pulled up outside our door, but I was not paying attention, and when I heard Colin mumble a curse under his breath I only imagined that he was still fretting about what had transpired in Edmond Connicle’s room at the time of his death. So when we crested the top of our stairs and entered the study, I was quite stunned to find Inspector Varcoe pacing in front of the windows, anger evident on his already-reddened face, and Prakhasa Guitnu at his ease on the settee, sipping tea.