The Endicott Evil Read online

CHAPTER 3

  The tea was perfection and the red currant scones exemplary, but our questioning of the Endicott staff was getting us nowhere.

  After speaking with three individuals over the last hour and a half, we had learned that Miss Adelaide was a dear, if enfeebled, old woman, who had never once been heard to make any remark about wishing she were departed. That Miss Eugenia was a tough but fair employer, who inarguably ran the household. And that there was an unusually high turnover rate for the staff. This last point, however, was only grudgingly admitted by the housekeeper, a compact woman in her early thirties named Clarice Somerall, who carried herself with the discipline of a headmistress even though she had the fresh beauty of a lovely young woman. She was one of the longer termed staff members and could only claim eighteen months herself.

  Colin’s patience had begun to fray somewhere near the hour mark, and he hadn’t even attempted to be discreet when glancing at his watch over the last thirty minutes. If Miss Somerall had been of a mind to share anything in particular, I am certain her desire ebbed once he set his watch, its gold cover gaping open, onto his knee. At that point there was still three-quarters of an hour before he needed to leave to catch the train to Dover, which had left me wondering whether he was bored with Miss Somerall or if in fact he had grown weary of the entire process. Whichever the case, it had clearly not sat well with Miss Somerall, who clipped her already truncated answers before finally taking her leave, her every movement as tight and austere as the light brown bun she had tweaked her hair into.

  “This is proving to be a bloody waste of time,” Colin growled as we walked around the front of the house and headed for the stable off to the side just at the point where the driveway began to curve back down to the road. As with all estates of such distinction, the stable matched the house in style and construction, built from the same deep umber rectangular stone blocks that comprised the main building. There were three large doors across its front made from the same dark wood and bronzed hardware that adorned the home’s front door. It looked large enough to hold a half-dozen carriages and better than twice as many horses, though it seemed unlikely that any such need had ever existed for the Endicott sisters. But then it was never about need. “If this groundsman . . . What the hell is his name . . . ?”

  “McPherson.”

  “If this Mr. McPherson doesn’t have anything of value to say, I shall be well pleased to be off to Zurich and leave all this to you.”

  “How very fortunate for me,” I said, attempting to goad him out of his mood, but he only ignored me.

  We entered the long single-story structure, dwarfed by the size of the main house and yet quite large in its own right, and I was struck at once by the earthy scent of wood, hay, and horses. While the building itself was stone, its interior was carved into sections by posts and beams that provided places for three coaches and one open buckboard as well as stalls for horses, whose number I gave up trying to figure after reaching ten. There was hay strewn about, both as bedding for the horses and general upkeep for any detritus that hit the creaking wooden floor, except in the farthest section of the stable on my right, which was comparatively clean and held the implements of Mr. McPherson’s grounds work. It was there that we spotted the solid man stripped to his undershirt, sawing a hank of wood in half with sparse, precise movements that were nonetheless powerful enough to make short work of a girth of wood greater than the width of a large man’s thigh.

  “Mr. McPherson . . .” Colin called out.

  “Aye,” he answered without glancing over at us or taking even the slightest pause in his work. “A minute more . . .”

  We paused and watched as the powerful muscles of his shoulders, arms, and back drove the saw blade through the section of tree trunk as if it were a slab of bread. I figured him to be somewhere in his early fifties and yet he moved with the grace and ferocity of a man still in his prime. He was clean-shaven and his short brown hair held little gray, but it was his eyes that gave away his advancing years, framed by deeply embedded crow’s feet and containing an incisiveness that can only come with age.

  At last the section of trunk he’d been cutting sprang free and dropped to the ground from the makeshift table he had contrived from boards laid across two wooden horses. He stood up and swiped an arm across his slick brow, settling his eyes on us. “Mr. Pruitt an’ Mr. Pendragon,” he said, striking me with the oddity of having my name mentioned first until I recalled that I had introduced us as such the day before.

  “And you are Mr. McPherson,” Colin said with the brief flicker of a smile as he seized the man’s hand and shook it, testing, I was certain, how his strength compared to that of Mr. McPherson.

  The two of them were equally broad of shoulder and sturdy of build, but Colin stood almost half a head taller than Mr. McPherson, leaving the older man looking very much like a cast-iron fireplug. “We apologize for interrupting your work,” Colin went on, “but wondered if we might have a moment of your time to ask a few questions about Miss Adelaide?”

  Mr. McPherson snatched a rag from his back pocket and mopped his brow, dragging the cloth around to the back of his neck as he squinted at Colin with something of a bemused expression. “Ya can ask me wot ya want, but I don’t work in the ’ouse, so I can’t tell ya much about either a the Misses.”

  One of Colin’s eyebrows ticked up with what I presumed to be annoyance. “Are they good to work for . . . ? Fair . . . ?”

  “Me pay’s on time.” A smirk stretched his lips. “That’s fair ’nough ta me.”

  “Did you have many dealings with Miss Adelaide?”

  “Nah. Miss Eugenia’s the one runs things. She tells me wot she wants and ’ow she wants it ta be. I ’ardly talked ta Miss Adelaide. Didn’t ’ave no reason.”

  “Was it always that way?” Colin pressed. “I know she’s been unwell for the last year. . . .”

  “I ain’t said but ’ello ta Miss Adelaide long as I been ’ere.”

  “And how many years is that?”

  Mr. McPherson shrugged a shoulder. “Don’t remember. Twenty some, I s’pose.”

  “Twenty?!” And this time both of Colin’s eyebrows lifted. “You’ve worked here for over twenty years.”

  “Aye,” he answered with marked indifference.

  “Then you are quite the anomaly, Mr. McPherson,” Colin said, considering the man with renewed interest.

  “Wot?”

  “We haven’t spoken with anyone yet who has served the sisters for greater than two or three years. You would seem to be the exception.”

  “That ain’t nothin’,” he grumbled with the wave of a hand as he slid the soiled kerchief back into his pocket. “Ya mustn’t pay no mind ta that. People say all kinds a things they don’t know shite about.”

  And now it was Colin who looked baffled as he asked, “What?”

  “Mr. Fischer’s been workin’ ’ere somethin’ like ten years,” he continued as though he’d not just lost the two of us. “Devlin!” He took a step past Colin and called out to the far side of the stables where the horses were kept. “’E’s the coachman and tends the ’orses. ’E’ll ’ave somethin’ ta say.”

  I glanced around to find a man of average height with a thick middle and round face that was well covered by a beard and mustache. His dark brown hair was slicked back and tucked behind his ears, and I pegged him to be somewhere in his middle thirties, though his cherubic cheeks made him appear possibly younger. Yet as with Mr. McPherson, this Mr. Fischer’s dark eyes held a maturity and awareness that seemed to signify a youth left far behind. “What are ya bellowin’ about?” he asked as he took his time striding over to us, all the while raking his eyes over Colin and me, obviously taking our measure.

  “Mr. Pruitt and Mr. Pendragon.” Mr. McPherson pointed to us in turn. “They’re the ones I was tellin’ ya Miss Eugenia ’ired. They come ta tell us wot ’appened ta Miss Adelaide. Why she done what she did.” He peered over at the two of us. “’At about right?”


  “Well . . .” Colin slid his eyes from Mr. Fischer back to Mr. McPherson, his face revealing nothing. “I suppose you could say that. Assuming she did anything at all.”

  “Bloody hell . . .” Mr. Fischer scoffed as he finally reached us. “Ya aren’t gonna start blatherin’ about devilish spirits throwin’ Miss Adelaide to her death, are ya?” He waved an irritated hand toward us. “’Cause I got nothin’ ta say if ya mean ta start in on that rot.” He swung his gaze over to Mr. McPherson, who was clearly trying to suppress some sort of snicker. “Is that wot ya bellowed me over ’ere for, Denny? ’Cause yer a right fig if ya did—”

  “Excuse me,” Colin interrupted, rapt keenness igniting his gaze. “I meant only to suggest that perhaps some one had done her harm, not some thing.” He slid his eyes to me and one of his eyebrows drifted for the ceiling. “You would appear to be referring to an entirely different sort of possibility . . . ?”

  “Oh fie . . .” Mr. Fischer scowled at us. “Don’t get me started on them jabberin’ about things they think they see and hear. The lot a them runnin’ around that blasted house like they was bein’ chased by a devil. A ruddy lot a rubbish it is, ya ask me.”

  “Indeed,” Colin responded at once, “. . . I am asking you. Spectral sightings, you say?”

  “Huh?”

  “Ghosts . . . ?” Colin hastily corrected.

  And that was all it took for Mr. Fischer to burst out laughing, followed at once by Mr. McPherson. “Now don’t tell me yer one a them blokes gets hisself all caught up in the gossipin’ of a bunch a washerwomen?!”

  Colin’s lips pulled tight. “I make it a habit never to get caught up in anything while working on a case, other than the collection of as much information as possible. Which is precisely what I am trying to do right now, collect information.”

  Mr. Fischer shook his head with poorly concealed amusement. “You can do what ya want, but if you get yerself caught up in that load a shite yer as daft as them loons wot works in the house.”

  “Is that why there’s been such a frequent turnover in staff?” Colin turned to Mr. McPherson. “Are you telling me people are afraid to work here?!”

  Mr. McPherson shrugged one of his meaty shoulders and let out a small laugh, which was echoed much more forcefully by Mr. Fischer. “I don’t talk ta most a the people wot works in the ’ouse,” he said with his typical reserve. “I got me ’ands full with the grounds.”

  “You wanna know about wot goes on in that house, all ya gotta do is talk ta Mrs. Barber in the kitchen,” Mr. Fischer interrupted. “She’s a feisty one. Ain’t no wonder she’s a widow.”

  “A pox on ya,” Mr. McPherson growled.

  “Now, gentlemen,” Colin spoke up, his tone edging toward that of a headmaster. “I am trying to conduct an investigation into the death of one of your employers, and I must tell you that I am finding it most peculiar that neither of you seems particularly interested in providing any assistance beyond making absurd statements and ribbing each other like a couple of schoolboys. I must ask you to either pay heed to the topic at hand or I shall be forced to inform Miss Eugenia that she has a pair of fools in her employ. Do I make myself clear?”

  Mr. McPherson had the decency to look horrified, but Mr. Fischer only pursed his hairy, round face, looking rather like a wild animal that had just been poked with a stick.

  “Good.” Colin bit the word off. “I was asking you about the staff then, Mr. McPherson. Are these shadowy tales the reason there has been such an upheaval in staff over the past several years?”

  I could tell that Mr. McPherson was loath to answer the question, just as it was obvious that Mr. Fischer found the whole matter preposterous. Yet with Colin’s steely gaze fixed upon him, Mr. McPherson realized he had no choice but to respond as he finally spoke up. “Some people are jest daft,” he allowed grudgingly. “They got no sense. Ya ’ave one person goes loose in the cogs and the next thing ya know ya got ’alf the bloomin’ staff believin’ a bunch a piffle.”

  “Piffle . . .” Colin repeated flatly. “And just what kind of piffle are you referring to?”

  Mr. McPherson shuffled his feet and glanced down at his heavily callused hands, and I suddenly began to wonder whether perhaps, just perhaps, the topic made him uneasy because he harbored his own unspoken doubts rather than simply because he found it an embarrassment as I had initially presumed. “Some a them ain’t ’ere no more claimed to ’ave seen a young girl in a white christenin’ gown wanderin’ the ’allways cryin’ like she were lost, but if they tried ta talk ta ’er she jest disappeared like she were never even there. Others of ’em said they never saw ’er, but they ’eard ’er cryin’ somethin’ pitiful.” He shook his head. “I ain’t never ’eard or seen nothin’.”

  “A little girl?” Colin repeated. “Who is she supposed to be?”

  “You ain’t really askin’ a question like that now, are ya?” Mr. Fischer groaned. “Don’t tell me yer as daft as the rest a them. . . .”

  Colin turned on the man with a scowl. “If you’re not going to answer any questions, then I would encourage you to shove off.”

  “’E knows more ’bout it than me,” Mr. McPherson demurred, shuffling back a half step. “I don’t ’ear much. They got no cause ta talk ta me.”

  Colin sucked in a deep breath and shifted his gaze back to Mr. Fischer, leveling a pointed glare at the man. “Well, Mr. Fischer . . . will you tell me the stories you have heard or shall I extricate them myself through the many holes in your head?”

  Mr. McPherson chuckled under his breath, which earned him a deep frown from Mr. Fischer. “Wot is it ya want ta know?”

  “Who is this girl supposed to be?”

  “Hell if I know. I ain’t never seen her.”

  Colin’s lips thinned. “Does anyone who works here now claim to have seen her?”

  Mr. Fischer exhaled loudly, setting the hairs of his wiry mustache wriggling. “Nah, or they’d likely be gone too.” He waved a hand as though the whole topic annoyed him, which it very clearly did. “Pitiful thing is it were Miss Adelaide wot started it all, as far as I can remember. I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ bad about Miss Adelaide, I’m jest tellin’ ya wot I know like ya so nicely asked me to.”

  “And I appreciate that,” Colin replied in a matching tone. “So what was it Miss Adelaide started exactly?”

  Mr. Fischer pursed his faced as though the conversation itself was a cause of irritation to him. “She was always talkin’ ’bout spirits and ghosts and all that sort a rot. Claimin’ all kinds a fanciful things like she were daft or somethin’. But she weren’t,” he was quick to add. “She were a good and kind woman. She jest didn’t have no sense when it came to that kinda nonsense. That used ta drive Miss Eugenia balmy.” He gave a chuckle, and I noticed that, in spite of himself, Mr. McPherson did too.

  “Then Miss Eugenia does not share her late sister’s predilection for spiritualism?” Colin asked.

  Mr. Fischer shook his head resolutely. “Not in the least. I heard ’em have a row a time or two over it, but it didn’t make no matter ta Miss Adelaide. She jest went right on believin’ what she wanted. I think what riled Miss Eugenia was how they kept losin’ staff over the years.” He shook his head again and gave another chuckle, but this one was drier and carried little mirth. “Those stories scared half of ’em away.”

  Colin frowned. “Stories of seeing some little girl wandering about in tears? That hardly seems the stuff of nightmares.”

  “There were more things,” Mr. Fischer added with a sudden note of defensiveness in his voice. “Crazy things. I don’t know what all, but it didn’t take long for some a them kitchen girls and upstairs maids ta start seein’ their own potty things. Some a them went racin’ out without even waitin’ ta get their last pay. Daft . . . every one of ’em.”

  “You seem to know quite a lot about it all.”

  Mr. Fischer gave a smirk that was mostly concealed by his beard and yet still evident by the crinkling of his eyes. “Miss Adela
ide used ta talk ta me about things when I’d be drivin’ her here and there. Especially when I took her out ta see her spiritualist twice a month. Some woman over in Lancaster Gate.”

  “Lancaster Gate?” Colin repeated curiously.

  “’At’s right. But don’t ask me her name ’cause I don’t know it. I never went in. Jest dropped her off and waited outside for an hour till she was ready ta go home again.”

  “Forgive me, gentlemen,” a sonorous voice interrupted from the open doorway behind us, “but your carriage has arrived, Mr. Pendragon.”

  Colin flicked his eyes to me with a look of exasperation. “Really . . .” he muttered under his breath, “. . . this is most inconvenient.”

  “Charlotte Hutton would be delighted to hear you say so,” I reminded him, earning me a scowl for my efforts.

  “Thank you,” Colin called back before returning his attentions to the two men in front of us. “I do appreciate your assistance, gentlemen, however hesitant it was at times.” He flashed the slimmest of smiles. “We hope to exonerate the good name and memory of your Miss Adelaide.” Both men stared back at him with rather blank expressions. “To prove that she did not harm herself,” he tried to clarify. “And most certainly to determine whether Mr. Nettle may indeed bear any responsibility.”

  The two men glanced at each other, but neither said a word nor did their faces betray any semblance of what had passed between them.

  “Very well,” was all Mr. Fischer said after a moment.

  “I trust you will continue to provide Mr. Pruitt with your aid while I am away.” Colin said it more like a command than a request. “We shall get this sorted at once.” He flashed another stiff smile before glancing at me, which was my signal to follow him back outside. “This makes for a rather peculiar turn on things, wouldn’t you say?” he summed up quite aptly as we stepped out into the sunny side yard.

  “I would imagine it will only serve to muddle things. Apparitions and spiritualists? Whatever are we to make of that?”

  “Whatever indeed?” Colin glanced at me with one cocked eyebrow. “Perhaps you will have the opportunity to discover whether it denotes anything at all.”