“What the bloody ’ell . . .” I heard Mrs. Behmoth curse from her room.
“Don’t trouble yourself,” I called back as I hurried from the kitchen. “I’ve got it.” And not a moment later I was pressed against the door asking who it was at this hour, though, in truth, I had no idea what the hour was.
“Pruitt . . .” I recognized the voice at once and knew that it could not possibly bode well. “Pruitt, I need to speak with you and Pendragon.”
“Now?” I answered in lieu of a proper thought.
“I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t critical,” he hissed through the door, and there was something in his voice that made me pull it open even though I was wearing nothing but my flannel nightshirt, my hair wildly askew.
Inspector Varcoe stood there looking drawn and nervous, Sergeant Evans and another policeman off to one side behind him. “This is most unorthodox,” I muttered needlessly.
“I know, I know . . .” Varcoe said, signaling his men to remain where they were before he stepped inside.
“Do you mean to leave them outside?”
“They’re fine,” he dismissed as he gazed up toward our study with a look of unmistakable trepidation.
I gave a meager shrug to the two men as I shut the door. “I s’pose you’ll be wantin’ some tea,” I heard Mrs. Behmoth grumble from the darkness of the kitchen hallway, and immediately took her up on it.
“You’ll need to give me a minute while I get Colin,” I said as we trudged up the stairs.
“Fine, fine,” Varcoe muttered vacantly.
I deposited him in the study, lit several lamps, and prodded a fire back to life before I went to wake Colin. He remained just as I had left him, so it took several minutes to get him roused and moving about. Before I headed back to the study I pulled on a robe and slippers, arriving just as Mrs. Behmoth was bringing up the tea.
“We got vermin in the kitchen.” She glanced at me as she set the tray on the side table. “Lightin’ lamps and throwin’ pans on the floor.” She handed the inspector a cup. “Guess I’ll get me a couple a traps.”
“That will be all,” I answered without a trace of humor. “We will see you in the morning.”
She was about to fire something back at me when Colin swept into the room, fully dressed, with his tawny hair immaculately slicked back. He looked like he had been lounging by the fire just waiting for this call. “Inspector . . .” Colin gave a warm smile as he sat down. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”
I thought surely Varcoe was going to sneer some answer back, but he did not. Instead he released a burdened sigh before setting his teacup back on the table and turning to the fireplace as though he might find some solace there. “It’s this bloody Connicle case.” His voice sounded thin and drained. “There’s been another murder.”
“What?” Colin bolted forward, slopping his tea. “Who?”
The inspector rubbed his forehead a moment and then turned his weary eyes to Colin. “Arthur Hutton. He’s one of the Connicles’ neighbors—”
“I know who he is,” Colin interrupted, springing to his feet and stalking over to the fireplace. “I spoke with him just this afternoon.”
“You did? Why?” Varcoe’s curiosity arced in spite of his fatigue.
“Never mind that now.” Colin waved him off. “What happened ?”
I’d have wagered that Varcoe was going to censure Colin for his usual lack of diplomacy, but instead he ran a hand through his shock of white hair with a labored sigh before answering. “We found him about an hour ago on an overgrown trail that borders his property and the Connicles’. He was on the Connicles’ side. That’s when I knew—”
“How was he killed?” Colin cut Varcoe off again, shoving his teacup onto the mantel and picking up a small derringer that he began repeatedly clicking open and closed. “Was it the same as with Edmond Connicle?”
“It is,” Varcoe answered rather pitifully. “Beaten and set afire.”
“What in the hell is happening out there?!”
“My point exactly!” Varcoe said as he stood up, keeping his eyes affixed on Colin. “Which is why I’m here.” He took a hesitant step toward the fireplace, the firelight catching his ashen face and making him look haggard and defeated. “We cannot have another serial killer,” he moaned. “It cannot be. We’re still taking heat off the damn Ripper case even though it’s been almost eight years since they found the body of that blasted Mary Kelly.” He rubbed his forehead and for a moment I thought he might be about to cry. “When the papers find out we’ve got three murders likely connected . . .” He shook his head and sagged. “We’ll be crucified when they learn it’s happening in West Hampton.”
Colin glared at the inspector. “So you have finally given up the notion that the Connicles’ groundsman fell to his death?”
The inspector looked crestfallen and worn as he nodded.
Still, it was not enough for Colin. “And are you concerned about the killings of these three men or just the reputation of your band of incompetents?” he pressed.
I could not help cringing.
“I worry about both,” Varcoe answered in a small voice.
“And what is it you want from me?” Colin asked as he delicately set the derringer back on the mantel. It was the question I had been waiting for from the moment I’d found Varcoe on our doorstep.
I watched the inspector grip the back of the settee before he spoke, but when he did his voice was clear and firm. “I need your help. I need you to work with the Yard on this case. Help us to solve these murders at once.”
“I thought you already had your suspect,” Colin remarked without cheek. I credited it to the hour, which, when I finally glanced at the clock, was stunned to find gliding toward half past two.
Varcoe reddened slightly, apparently chagrined in spite of Colin’s moderated temperament, and cast his eyes down. “We’re still holding the African woman. We’ve had her in custody since we found her husband’s body yesterday morning. She is obviously not the killer. But that doesn’t mean she isn’t still involved somehow. Perhaps the mastermind . . .” he muttered with a shade of his familiar defensiveness, though he let his voice trail off just the same.
Colin gave a shrug as he picked up his teacup and settled back into his chair. “Perhaps,” he conceded, though without much conviction. “And just how is it you propose that I should”—he hesitated—“work with the Yard?”
“You will have full access”—Varcoe’s face went hard as he perched back on the edge of the settee—“to everything.”
“I’ve got a magistrate’s order,” Colin reminded. “I already have access.”
“I’ll see that you get full cooperation whenever and wherever. No waiting around while your court order wends its way down to the little pricks on the front line. Nobody will stand in your way.”
“You’re being very seductive.” Colin gave a roguish grin.
“I mean to be.”
“And if I deign to test your goodwill right now?”
“Try me.”
Colin’s grin blossomed. “I should like to see Arthur Hutton’s body before anyone touches it.”
“I assumed you would ask for that.” Varcoe allowed his own sly grin. “He’s right where I left him, waiting for you to have a look. I’ve even ordered the men to keep off the ground nearby so you can get a real look, a proper look, like you’re always badgering about.”
Colin chuckled. “Do I badger?” He set his tea down. “But what I’d really like . . . after I’ve inspected this murder scene . . . is to go to the morgue and view the files for both Edmond Connicle and Albert. And I should like to inspect Albert’s remains as well.”
“Anything at all!” The inspector leapt up as though loaded with a spring. “Sergeant!” he hollered down the stairs.
“Ya tryin’ ta wake the bleedin’ dead?!” Mrs. Behmoth yelled back.
“My apologies,” Varcoe blustered as he quickly scrambled partway down the stairs. “Evans!�
� he called out in a hissed sort of bark, and I heard the front door immediately open in response. “Go find that pox, Denton Ross, and tell him to get over to the morgue at once and prepare the body of the African for Pendragon to view.”
“Yes, sir,” came the succinct reply. And as the inspector returned to the top of the stairs I heard the sound of a horse galloping away.
“Are you with us then?”
Colin gave a wary smile. “We are.”
Varcoe’s eyes slid over to me and he nodded his head. “Of course.”
“You had best make yourself presentable,” Colin said to me. “The inspector and I will meet you downstairs.”
Knowing the two of them were waiting got me dressed and in the inspector’s carriage with undue haste, surprising even myself. Though still a bit disheveled and certainly not as focused as I would have liked to have been, I seemed to be the exception among us. Colin looked keen and alert and, in spite of Varcoe’s obvious fatigue, I couldn’t deny a sharpness lurking behind his eyes. I marveled at the toll to his ego coming to us must have cost him. Greater still, I wondered if his détente would last.
Once we reached West Hampton we followed a slight curve in the main road before abruptly leaving the macadam for a dark, rutted path through the woods near the Connicle home. Almost at once I could see the glow of startlingly bright electric lights ahead. The deepest part of night appeared to be unveiling the very heart of day as we drew closer, bouncing and jostling along a trail that had clearly not been used in some time, given the brambles rubbing against the underbelly of the carriage. By the time we rounded the last curve and drew free of the trees I had to squint to keep from being momentarily blinded.
“It’s just as we found it,” Varcoe said as we came to a stop. It was hard to believe, given the number of uniformed men milling about, stomping on potential clues that could lie anywhere within the broader radius. Only the ground nearest the remains was wholly undisturbed, a plot of some twelve feet square. It had been cordoned off with a rope tied around stakes at its four corners. Two officers were posted along alternate sides, which hardly seemed necessary, given that the blazing lights were concentrated on this specific area. If anyone had decided to step inside for a closer look, everyone would have noticed it.
“Let us see what we have then,” Colin said as he stalked over to the roped area. He squinted up at the glaring lights a moment before stepping inside and painstakingly picking his way to where the body lay.
The phalanx of men drifting about the periphery began closing in on Colin until the inspector gruffly shooed them away with a barked, “This isn’t a bloody sideshow!”
His troops dutifully faded back into the blackness, including the two who had been standing guard, leaving me and Varcoe alone on the outside. It was clear that neither of us wanted to be admonished by Colin for stepping inside unbidden, so we stood there agape, watching as he slowly crept toward the body. Once there, he knelt by the battered remains of Arthur Hutton. It was an awful sight and I had no desire to look any closer, though I could tell that Varcoe was almost beside himself with eagerness to cross the barrier.
“Ethan . . .” Colin muttered after a moment, and then turned and looked at the two of us. “You too, Emmett . . .” he added as the afterthought it was.
I stepped over the rope at the precise spot where Colin had entered, a function of habit rather than forethought, but Varcoe was not so well trained. He began to enter to my left, which immediately brought Colin to his feet. “Not there!” he protested. “I’ve not had a chance to look there yet.” He forced a thin smile and gestured to where I stood. “If you wouldn’t mind.”
The incandescent lighting revealed the depth of Varcoe’s minding, as he flushed a noticeable pink. Nevertheless, he kept silent as he quickly fell in behind me. The two of us stole forward, me following Colin’s footprints and Varcoe following mine, until we finally reached the body of Arthur Hutton. It was indeed a horrible sight, made worse by the fact that unlike Edmond Connicle, this body was fully recognizable.
Hutton had been severely beaten, his face misshapen by swelling, abrasions, and discolorations across the cheeks, eyes, and nose. His left eye was swollen completely shut, with something red and viscous drooling out the far corner and down into his hairline. He was on his back, legs akimbo, and it was obvious that he had been neither attacked nor killed here but likely pushed from the back of a moving wagon or carriage, as there were no signs of a struggle. The only thing the killer had stopped to do here was set Hutton on fire. The stench of kerosene on his clothing stung the eyes, but even so, his body hadn’t caught well. By the time the killer disappeared the struggling flames had likely vanquished themselves, leaving the remains of Arthur Hutton only partially blistered from the midsection down.
“Who found him?” Colin asked as he glanced over at the inspector.
“One of my men. Mrs. Hutton sent word just after eleven when his horse returned home without him. She said he’d gone into town, but with things the way they are . . .” He shook his head and stared down at the body. “I sent a dozen men out here to look around.” He scoffed and looked away before adding, “Bloody hell.”
“Commendable instincts,” Colin said. “Your men may well have interrupted the killer, which would explain why this body was not fully burned, as was clearly intended.”
“I was wondering the same thing.”
Colin’s eyes flew to Varcoe and I could see a whisper of distress flicker through them at the notion of him and Varcoe being in sync. “Yes,” Colin allowed rather weakly. “And did any of your men mention hearing or seeing anything while rooting about out here?”
Varcoe straightened up quite suddenly, his color flushing as he turned and hollered, “Lanchester, get over here!”
The surly young constable who’d been at the Connicle house the first day came jogging toward us. I remembered him as being rigid and self-righteous and told myself it was only because he looked no more than a minute past his mid-twenties.
“Yes, sir,” he said smartly, coming to a halt outside the demarcated area.
“When you and the others were searching the woods, did anyone hear or see anything unusual?”
“Unusual?” he repeated, as though the word had multiple meanings.
“Yes!” Varcoe waved at him impatiently. “Like a horse bolting, or a carriage receding, or a man screaming bloody damned murder!”
Whether he meant to or not, young Constable Lanchester took a half step backwards. “No, sir.”
“That’s right.” Varcoe allowed the sheerest of grins to alight on his lips. “You’d have told me if anyone noticed anything, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Fine.” Varcoe waved him off as he turned back to Colin. “My men are highly trained.”
“Of course,” Colin mumbled blandly as he knelt back over the body, leaning low across Arthur Hutton’s savaged face. “Do you have a pen?” Colin mumbled over his shoulder to me.
“Always.”
He stuck his hand out without turning and I slipped it out of my pocket and into his palm. To my dismay he gently poked it about the cheeks and chin and then, quite suddenly, stabbed it into the mouth, using it to pry the tightened jaws apart. Two fingers went in next as he extracted a small cloth sack. “Fetishes,” he announced, though I had already figured that out and assumed Varcoe had as well. He stood up and handed the pen back to me, which I clutched between two fingers before depositing it into my handkerchief. I would throw them both out later. “Have your men dig beneath the body once it’s been removed and see if there are more buried beneath as with Edmond Connicle.”
“Of course,” Varcoe answered curtly. “I was going to do that.”
“Yes.” Colin flashed a distracted smile. “And have them notice how they’re buried. Carefully? Or clumsily like the last time.”
“Yes, yes!” Varcoe snapped, as though, once again, he had been planning that all along.
Colin kicked at the dirt and g
rass on the far side of the body a minute before abruptly stepping over the periphery rope and stalking back the way we had arrived. I gave Varcoe a quick shrug as I hurried after Colin, afraid that I might lose him in the absolute blackness beyond the blazing lights. The rigidity of his movements told me he was distracted and displeased, so I was relieved that Varcoe was too busy barking orders to follow me. Orders that had been supplied by Colin.
I drew alongside him just as he began to diverge from the rutted trail we’d entered upon and follow a perpendicular path that headed slightly away from where the body was. “Have you spotted something?” I asked.
“It’s as black as the devil’s ass,” he complained. “I can’t even see my own blasted nose.”
I tagged along quietly while he continued on his apparently rudderless trajectory, each step taking us farther from the murder scene. If there was any sense to his course I couldn’t see it, so when he suddenly drew up short I plowed ahead several steps before realizing that he was no longer beside me. “What is it?” I asked as I scurried back to him.
“This bollocky case isn’t making any ruddy sense!” he snapped. “We are practically handed the Connicles’ scullery maid as the perpetrator until you found that pinky ring near Albert’s body. That was enticing. It seemed to propose an alternate possibility.” He turned and glared at me. “You should have seen Arthur Hutton’s face when his wife said it was his.” Colin brought his fists to his eyebrows and swiped at them. “And now he’s dead?! What the hell? What the bloody hell?!”
“We’re fact-finding,” I reminded him. “You’re always telling me the beginning of a case is about nothing more than assembling the facts.”
Even through the mantle of darkness I could see the incensed look distort his face. “Three men have been murdered in as many nights.” He turned and plunged away through the scrubby brush. “If this is the beginning of the case we’re in a load of shite.”
The Connicle Curse Page 13