The Connicle Curse Page 4

  “Very well. If you remember something, anything at all, I should very much like to hear it.”

  The man looked pained as he turned and stared outside. “We done?”

  Colin watched him a moment, taking his time before finally answering. “For now.” And as soon as Albert was gone Colin turned to me with a broad grin and announced, “He’s lying.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Inspector Varcoe’s coach drew up under the portico of the Connicles’ house just as their driver, Randolph, brought a carriage around to take Colin and me back to our flat. I was relieved to be leaving, as I knew the only reason Varcoe and two of his nattier men were arriving was to deliver the terrible news to Mrs. Connicle about her husband. Colin and I could serve no further purpose for her tonight, so we climbed aboard the Connicles’ carriage without exchanging more than the briefest of nods with Varcoe and his men.

  As we started the journey home Colin leaned forward and began to engage Randolph in easy conversation, though I knew he was being precise in his seemingly amiable banter. Randolph was a tall, hawkish-looking man with sharp features and a gaunt frame who quickly proved to be a warm and congenial person. He seemed pleased to talk about his employer, confiding that he had been working for the Connicle family since he was seventeen—and given that he appeared to be in his mid-fifties, it was clear that he had known Edmond Connicle the whole of his life.

  “. . . The mister does go ridin’ from time ta time but never the missus,” Randolph told us. “He prefers the big, black stallion, but I don’t trust that one. He’s too skittish if ya ask me. Now Mrs. Connicle . . .” He made a clicking sound with his tongue. “She’s delicate, ya see. She has spells and gets weak as a baby in the blink of an eye, so she can’t be gettin’ up on no horse. Horses are crafty buggers. Ya can’t never let ’em think they’re smarter than you is. Ain’t that right, ya ol’ nag!” he called out, jiggling the reins of the beautiful chestnut pulling us home.

  “What sort of spells does Mrs. Connicle suffer?” Colin asked, managing to sound more concerned than interrogational.

  “Oh . . .” Randolph rubbed a hand through his thin gray hair. “Women things, I s’pose. Ya’d best ask Miss Porter. If it ain’t got four legs I don’t know much about it.” He shrugged easily. “Besides, weren’t nothin’ Mr. Connicle didn’t know about. He was always sufferin’ over her through the years. He’d look about ready ta cry sometimes. And her . . .” Randolph pursed his lips and released a slow whistle of air. “Most a the time she’s fine, but there are days when she creeps around like she’s hidin’ from a ghost, and sometimes she don’t even come outta her room. It’s sad. Some years back he had ta send her ta hospital. Poor thing needed rest. Spent a couple months there.” He shook his head and made a low tsking sound. “Thing was, when she came back she looked the worse for it. Pale and so thin her face weren’t nothin’ but skin and bone. Mrs. Hollin’s set right ta fattenin’ her up. Didn’t speak for weeks when she first returned.” He heaved a wearied sigh. “But eventually she came round.”

  “Where did he send her?”

  “Needham Hills. Looks like a regular estate ’cept there ain’t nothin’ but nurses and attendants and hollow-eyed people walkin’ about. Awful place.”

  “I’m familiar with it,” Colin answered brusquely, taking care not to look in my direction. “You seem very fond of her,” he added.

  “She’s a kind and gentle woman. She don’t deserve all the unhappiness she’s had. And now this . . .” He let his voice trail off.

  “Yes.” Colin’s tone matched Randolph’s with remarkable accuracy. “When was the last time you saw Mr. Connicle?”

  “He went out ridin’ last night. Right after dinner. Wasn’t gone very long, but his horse was knackered by the time he got back. I didn’t see him this mornin’. He gets up early. Not that I don’t, mind ya. If I don’t feed them horses right off they’ll set up a racket kickin’ the walls a their stalls. It’s enough ta make ya feel sorry for ’em if ya didn’t know better.”

  “No doubt.” Colin gave a quick smile. “And when you were attending to them this morning, did you notice anything unusual? See anyone about?”

  “Nah. It’s only ever just me and Albert once the mister heads out.”

  “Was Albert about last night? After Mr. Connicle came back?”

  “Albert’s always about. It’s his job. He’s got a lot a property ta keep up. He don’t get paid ta lay about on his arse.” Randolph chuckled. “I see more a him than anybody else round here. Seems a good sort. Don’t know where the mister found him and his Alexa, but I don’t hear no one complainin’ about ’em, either.” He guided the horse onto Gloucester Road as we drew close to our flat.

  “Did you see the shed before Scotland Yard arrived this morning?”

  Randolph’s posture stiffened as he steered the carriage down our street. “I saw it,” he said after a moment.

  “What do you suppose happened?”

  He shook his head as he pulled the carriage to a stop in front of our flat. “I don’t know. I’m hopin’ the mister will show up and tell us before another day goes by.” He craned around as we climbed out. “Ya think he’ll be doin’ that?”

  Colin’s expression softened as he settled his gaze on Randolph. “I’m afraid we should prepare ourselves for the worst.”

  Randolph dropped his eyes and shook his head. “I remember the night Mr. Connicle was born. It’s not right. It jest ain’t right.”

  I longed to offer some words of encouragement but knew that I mustn’t. He would learn the truth soon enough and, until then, could bind himself in the comforts of hope. Many times I had sought refuge there myself.

  We bade him good evening and went inside, the scent of roasted chicken caressing my nose and stomach, reminding me that we had never stopped for lunch. Colin clearly had the same thought, as he bypassed the stairs and headed straight for the kitchen, me tagging eagerly in his wake. But as soon as he pushed the door open I knew we were in trouble. A fully cooked chicken stood coagulating on a platter on the wooden table. The chicken had been picked apart, leaving it as forlorn looking as my stomach felt.

  “Well . . . look ’oo finally bothered ta show up,” Mrs. Behmoth grunted as she came out of the larder with a biscuit tin in her arms. “I ’ope ya ate ’cause I ain’t fixin’ ya nothin’. This meal were done an ’our ago. Just like every night.” And true to her word she dumped the carcass into a pot of simmering water and slammed a lid onto it.

  “We have not eaten!” Colin barked sourly. “And while we are sorry to be delayed in getting back to your meal, I will thank you to rummage something up for us.”

  She picked up a small bowl and waved it at him. “You can eat the cold Brussels sprouts. I can’t reheat ’em anyway.”

  His eyes narrowed. “There must be some chicken left.”

  “I’m usin’ it for soup.”

  “Then use a little less.”

  “I work ’ard plannin’ meals.”

  “I know you do. I said we were sorry.”

  She glared at him and I knew she would give in. Eventually almost everyone gives in to him. She brusquely turned and started pulling dishes out of the cupboard, all the while grousing under her breath. “I’ll make ya some porridge, but ya ain’t gettin’ any chicken!” A sudden pounding on the front door brought us all up short before she said, “And I ain’t gettin’ that, either.” Then she turned and headed back to the larder.

  I suppressed a laugh as I headed out to the foyer while he stayed behind to protest her choice for our evening meal. I most certainly wasn’t going to have any impact on her. She had raised Colin from the age of seven, not me. I had long ago decided that the only reason she even tolerated me was because Colin insisted on it.

  By the time I reached the door I realized the pounding had become decidedly persistent. I yanked it open and found myself facing a broad, angular-faced Indian man of middle age and medium height with jet-black hair and coal eyes.

  �
��Mr. Pendragon?” he blurted at once.

  “No. He’s”—I gestured into the flat, uncertain what to say—“indisposed. I’m Mr. Pruitt.”

  “I must speak with him,” he implored over my introduction, staring at me with such determination that I found myself feeling oddly uneasy.

  “Is he expecting you?” I asked, though I knew he wasn’t.

  A thin sigh escaped his lips, but his eyes never left mine. “He is not. But Mr. Pendragon grew up in my country. He is a friend to my country. I require such a friend now. Will he not agree to speak with me for that reason alone?”

  He would. Colin held a special affinity for India and her countrymen despite having left the country at the age of thirteen to attend the Easling and Temple Senior Academy, where our paths had first crossed. Never mind that his interest would be piqued by the way this man was holding me in the thrall of his unwavering gaze anyway.

  “Please come in,” I said, stepping aside and bidding the man enter. I led our guest up to the study and got him settled on the settee before quickly stoking the fireplace embers back into a soothing blaze. “You will excuse me while I fetch some tea and Mr. Pendragon,” I said before heading back downstairs.

  By the time I pushed my way back into the kitchen I found Colin hovering behind Mrs. Behmoth in the larder, obviously still trying to coax her to reheat some chicken. “We’ve a gentleman who seems most anxious to speak with you,” I announced, interrupting their joust.

  “Did you tell him I’m busy?” he shot back gruffly.

  “I did.”

  “Then why did I hear you take him upstairs?”

  “Because he was insistent,” I said calmly. “And because he is from India.”

  “India?!” Colin’s face lit up as he stepped out of the larder. “Outstanding.”

  “I thought you might think so.” I smiled. “Bring some tea when you come, won’t you?” I added glibly before turning to leave.

  “That would be Mrs. Behmoth’s job,” I heard him bluster, but I didn’t stay to hear her response.

  Our guest was right where I’d left him, his posture ramrod straight and his face an unreadable canvas of rigid formality. I figured him to be some ten years older than Colin, putting him in his late forties, and was certain, given the stiffness of his bearing, that he had been born to wealth and class. His suit was immaculate, if traditional for this part of the world, leaving me to surmise that he had been in our city for quite some time. He wore a thick gold band on his finger and a heavy gold chain disappeared down the collar of his shirt.

  “Mr. Pendragon will be right up,” I said as I took my usual seat.

  “You’re very kind. Have you ever been to India?”

  “I’m afraid I have not, though I would very much like to go. Mr. Pendragon speaks most fondly of it.”

  “That is a blessing to hear. His father is still a revered man there. I am sure you know he was the Queen’s emissary in Bombay for over thirty years.”

  “I do. Sir Atherton remains devoted to India.”

  “He left a deep void when he returned to England. He was a man of great integrity during a most tumultuous time for our people. A lesser man would not have been successful. I am hoping his son will be his equal.”

  “I believe you will find that to be true,” I said as I finally heard Colin’s sure, hard footfalls on the stairs.

  “Thankfully,” the man replied with the same solemnity with which he had approached our entire conversation.

  As Colin reached the landing I noted with amusement that he was bearing the tea tray. Dear Mrs. Behmoth had an undeniable way with him. Even I could not claim such abilities against his will. So once again I found myself suppressing a chuckle as he set the tray on the table and stuck a hand out to greet our guest.

  “Colin Pendragon at your service.”

  The man popped out of his seat, his eyes filling at once with warmth and gratitude. “Mr. Pendragon . . .” He sounded noticeably relieved. “My name is Prakhasa Guitnu.” He bowed his head slightly, but his eyes remained riveted on Colin.

  “Guitnu?” Colin repeated at once, the name immediately familiar to me as well. “The jeweler?”

  “I am humbled that you have heard of me.”

  “Your designs are renowned. Victoria has been a devotee for years.”

  “Her Majesty has done me a great honor.”

  “Sit down, sit down,” Colin said as he set to pouring tea for the three of us. “Do tell us what has brought you here this evening?”

  Mr. Guitnu cleared his throat with evident discomfort. “I am being robbed, Mr. Pendragon, by a member of my household staff.”

  Colin’s eyebrows sprang up as he passed out our cups. “A member of your own staff? Are you certain?”

  “It can be no other way,” he answered, and I realized it was embarrassment that was coloring his tone. “It has happened many times over the last several months. I did not think it true at first, certain it was my own forgetfulness, but then I had to admit the truth. I have invited a common thief into my home.”

  “Why don’t you start at the beginning.”

  “Of course.” He shifted as though to make himself more comfortable, yet did not pick up his tea. His distress, or perhaps it was something more like humiliation, felt palpable. “I often bring loose gems home when I am designing a new piece or seeking inspiration. It helps me to look at them, glittering like winking stars in the evening sky, until I can see the pattern they belong to. I always have many stones at the house for that purpose. My wife also has a pleasant collection of jewelry,” he added with a shy smile. “It makes her happy. And even she has lost many bracelets, necklaces, and rings in the last several months.” He shook his head and heaved a sigh. “I have no idea how many items are missing. I am ashamed at my carelessness.”

  “Where do you store them at home?” Colin asked, idly snatching a crown from his pocket and flipping it between the fingers of his right hand.

  “I have a hidden safe.”

  “And who among your staff knows of it?”

  “Until now I would have told you none of them. But I have clearly been a fool. Whoever has discovered it has done so with great evil of heart. Stealing a little here, a little there, thinking I would not notice. I want you to find this man, Mr. Pendragon, so I can cut off his thieving hands.”

  Colin smiled evenly as the crown continued its steady rotation between his fingers, as though he had been told something in jest. Yet I could see by the pinched expression on our visitor’s face that he had meant his words. “Mr. Guitnu . . .” Colin said after a moment, tossing the crown about a foot and snatching it out of the air, “I shall find the perpetrator of these thefts, but not for you to extract your own sort of revenge.” He shoved the crown back in his pocket. “There will be no loss of limbs unless the British courts decree it. Are we in agreement?”

  Mr. Guitnu scowled. “So you will take the case?”

  “I shall have your word, Mr. Guitnu. . . .”

  “Yes, of course.” He waved Colin off, his displeasure evident. “As long as the scoundrel lives under my roof he will be safe. But when he becomes a ward of the prisons I shall pray for his dismemberment every day.”

  “As you wish.” Colin chuckled. “Mr. Pruitt and I shall come by your home tomorrow morning. Will your full staff be in attendance ?”

  “Most certainly.”

  Colin stood up and wandered over to the fireplace with his teacup clutched in his hand. “And how many would that be?”

  “Eight. And you may consider every one of them a suspect. I will not speak for one of them.”

  “Do you have any children?”

  “Three daughters. Vijaya, Sundha, and Kajri.”

  “Is there anyone who comes to your home on a regular basis?”

  He shrugged slightly. “We get deliveries. There is the boy who brings the Times, for one.”

  Colin smiled. “A man of detail. That will make things easier.” He crossed over to the landing and
glanced back. “I should think that will be all for now, Mr. Guitnu. Until tomorrow then.” Before our new client could even rise to his feet Colin turned and pounded down the stairs.

  Mr. Guitnu looked at me with surprise.

  “There will be many more questions tomorrow,” I said by way of reassurance.

  “Of course.” He nodded with his usual seriousness and stood up. “My wife did not wish me to come at all, but I have had enough of this thief. I pay a fair wage and will not be made a fool of by that caste.”

  I cringed at his reference but let it pass, quickly settling on a fee with him even as I became aware of the rising murmur of voices from beneath our feet. Mortified at what I feared was happening in our kitchen, I hurried Mr. Guitnu down the stairs and out the front door. “Tomorrow then,” I called as he climbed into his large, black coach.

  “I shall send my carriage round to fetch you. What time shall we say?”

  “Ten,” I answered hastily, eager for him to be on his way.

  “Very well. Thank you.” Mr. Guitnu ducked into his carriage and it immediately pulled away.

  “Ethan!” I heard Colin shout before I could even get the door shut. “Grab our coats. We’re going to Shauney’s.”

  Not thirty minutes later we were seated at a back table in Shauney’s pub mopping up the remains of a heavenly chicken stew with thick chunks of bread. Colin had long since hit the bottom of his ale tankard and was generously helping himself to the rest of mine. I leaned back on the worn wooden bench and stretched my legs out with a sigh. “It has been quite a day.”

  “There will be much more tomorrow. We’ll go back to the Connicles’ at dawn. I should like to speak with Albert once more before Varcoe locks him away.”

  “He seemed suspicious to me.”

  “Suspicious?” Colin pushed the bill Shauney had left us toward me. “I don’t yet know what is driving him, but he certainly knows more than he was letting on.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked as I tossed a handful of change onto the table.

  He grinned and snatched up a shilling, flinging it into the air. “As certainly as Victoria is our sovereign, my love.” He grabbed my hand and flipped it over so that the coin landed in my open palm, Victoria’s stern profile shining up at me from the silver planchet.