My eyes tore open and I found myself crushed in Colin’s arms. “It’s all right. . . .” he was saying. “You’re all right.”
The first tendrils of sunlight were just beginning to filter in through our bedroom windows. “Oh god,” I slurred.
“It’s okay,” he said again as he kissed my eyes and then my forehead.
“I’m sorry—”
“Don’t,” he said at once.
I could find no other words to say and my mouth was so dry I thought surely I would choke on my tongue anyway.
He softened his grip and looked at me. “I have an idea. Why don’t we take the day off. We’ll have Mrs. Behmoth pack us a picnic and go out to Twickenham and get into some mischief in the woods.” He snickered wickedly.
I managed a hoarse chuckle. “I’d sooner have this case behind us.”
He continued to stare at me, studying me, before a gentle smile slowly overtook his face. “Then that is what we shall do.”
CHAPTER 21
The Hutton children were a combination of sadness and fortitude. Anna told us she was eleven, and yet she had the deportment and dignity of someone years older. Her hair was long and dusky blond, and she was a sweet-faced girl who nonetheless did not have the striking natural beauty of her mother. What Anna did have was an unflinching maternal disposition toward her brother, who, she told us with great pride, had just turned six.
William looked almost to have been born of different parents, with his shaggy brown hair and broad, round face. But what merited the most notice was the fact that he seemed to be constantly in motion, his arms flapping or fidgeting even as his body rocked back and forth as though he were in a rocking chair rather than on the settee loosely enveloped in one of his big sister’s arms. His eyes were equally frenetic, constantly darting about the room and never once alighting on a single person other than his sister and, even then, only for the briefest moment. He made sounds but did not speak, and I had the overwhelming sense that he was somehow trapped inside his mind and body without the slightest idea of how to break free.
Anna had joined us as soon as we had been ushered into the library near the rear of the house. She had fearlessly introduced herself to Colin, Inspector Varcoe, Sergeant Evans, and me and ordered tea for all of us as though she herself were the mistress of the manor. That she could be so poised under such circumstances was surely a sign of her remarkable fortitude.
It was as our tea was being delivered that her brother came romping in, his face and fists clenched even as his arms flapped rigidly in front of him. He was making a distressed sort of whining sound as he careened toward his sister, which seemed to wholly delight her as she squealed and threw her arms wide for him to crash into her. She was covering his face with kisses when the same young, redheaded woman we had met several days ago—Janelle, I recalled her name being—came bustling into the room with an exasperated expression clouding her face. “Now don’tcha be teachin’ him that it’s all right ta run from me.” She huffed as she struggled to catch her breath. “Ya spoil him, ya do.” As before, I was struck by her soft Scottish burr.
“Of course I do,” Anna replied with a note of harshness. “You come right up here and sit by me, Willy,” she said as she pulled him up onto the seat next to her. “You’re being unkind. This is a terrible day. He needs to be with me.” The young woman blanched as she stepped back without another word, hovering near the doorway by Sergeant Evans. Anna turned her eyes back to Colin, her face set with determination. “If there is anything I can do to help . . .”
He gave her a warm smile. “Your generous hospitality at such a time as this is assistance enough.” I was relieved by his answer until I saw his brow furrow. “Though I would be interested to know when you last saw your father yesterday,” he could not help but add.
“It was after William and I finished supper last night,” she said at once. “He always likes to see me before he and Mum take their evening meal. Me and Willy,” she corrected, squeezing her brother’s shoulder even as he continued to rock incessantly beside her.
I was beginning to think we had made a mistake in coming here, that Mrs. Hutton would be unable to speak with us, when the young nurse at the door abruptly scuttled back into the room and hissed, “Your mum’s comin’, miss. I should take the boy out.”
“No!” she snapped. “He’s happy. I want him to stay.”
There was no smile on the boy’s face and his constant motion appeared to be more manic than gleeful, so I wondered what made her decide he felt thusly. Still, it was clear he had sought his sister’s solace with good reason.
Not a moment later Mrs. Hutton swept into the room in a cloud of black crinoline and satin. Her startling beauty was fully in evidence with her sapphire eyes heightening the perfection of her strong cheekbones and delicately chiseled nose. Yet it was the rigidity of her posture and the thin set of her lips that most struck me as she turned to her son’s nurse. “Take William upstairs at once,” she ordered.
“But Mum,” Anna started to protest. “He’s fine with me.”
Charlotte Hutton did not respond to her daughter’s contention. She did not need to, as Janelle quickly moved in to seize the boy. It was the first moment that William seemed to fully connect with what was about to happen. He emitted a frantic howl and began flailing his arms about haphazardly as he sank back against his sister. Anna leaned over and whispered something in his ear, but it had no effect. Either he wasn’t listening or it simply did not register. Whichever the case, a moment later his nurse had him clutched against her chest as she quickly swept him from the room, the sounds of his sorrowful wailing audible long after he had disappeared from view.
“William is not well,” Mrs. Hutton said in a tight, clipped tone. “If you meant to wheedle information from him I am afraid you will find it quite futile.”
“Mum!” Anna sucked in a sharp breath.
“You may go,” Mrs. Hutton said to her daughter as she moved into the room and took a seat near the fireplace. “I hope these men have more pressing things to discuss than can be addressed with a child.” Anna’s face dropped, registering a look somewhere between betrayal and dismay, but she said nothing as she obediently left the room. “So tell me, Mr. Pendragon.” Mrs. Hutton turned and set her glare on him. “Are you and the Yard so stymied in your investigation that you now seek the counsel of girls and simpletons? Your combined ineptitude has left me a widow. How many people have to die before the lot of you put an end to this horror?” She turned toward the fireplace, the light of its flames dancing across her face as though they had been placed there just to amplify her fury and the tears starting to collect at the corners of her eyes.
“Scotland Yard has committed every available resource to this case,” Inspector Varcoe cut in, biting back his humiliation. “We are already implementing a twenty-four-hour patrol around the whole of this area until this thing is settled.”
“This thing?!” She spun on him with the rage of an injured animal. “You would call my husband’s murder a thing, Inspector ?” She swiped at her eyes as though they betrayed her righteous ire.
Varcoe’s face went crimson as Colin got up and moved to the far end of the fireplace, pulling Mrs. Hutton’s gaze along with him. “Please do not lose yourself to the semantics of a poorly chosen word. We are here, all of us, to ensure that your husband’s killer is brought to justice swiftly and appropriately. But to do that we must beg your indulgence at this most inopportune time. It is critical that you permit us to ask you some difficult questions. I will not fail you, Mrs. Hutton. I give you my word.”
“He speaks for the Yard as well,” Varcoe hastened to add.
Mrs. Hutton’s eyes had gone stern again, and did not waver from Colin as she asked, “And how has your word served Mrs. Connicle?”
“That is entirely different,” Varcoe fussed obtusely. “At this point we’re not even certain her husband is dead.”
Mrs. Hutton’s face went slack as she turned on him. “What?!�
��
“This is a complex and ongoing investigation,” Colin interrupted with chagrin. “There is much we don’t yet know—”
She bolted up and stalked to Colin, squaring off with him as though to do battle. “Are you even certain that Arthur is dead?! Or have you gotten this household into an uproar over nothing as well?”
Colin’s face went hard, and I prayed his better nature would lead his reply. “I am afraid there’s no question of it,” he answered smoothly.
She stared at him a moment longer, seeming to take his measure before abruptly moving away. “And what is it you are so eager to ask me?”
Colin struggled to produce the slightest of smiles, which Mrs. Hutton appeared to take no notice of. “Are you aware of anyone who had a recent falling-out with your husband?”
“My husband could be an abrasive man, Mr. Pendragon. There was little secret in that. He did not care if anyone liked him or not.”
“I see . . .” Colin mumbled as he began pacing in front of the fireplace. “And did your husband have any business with Edmond Connicle or his firm?”
“Arthur invested a great deal of money with Columbia Financial. But Wynn Tessler handles our finances, not Mr. Connicle. And all Arthur did was complain that Mr. Tessler was a scourge anyway.”
“Unhappy with your returns?”
“I really wouldn’t know,” she said, her tone like ice.
Colin allowed an irritated sigh to escape his lips even as he flashed a fleeting grin. “Was your husband preoccupied of late? Distracted perhaps . . . ?”
“You spoke with him yesterday,” she answered brusquely. “Did you find him so?”
“I would very much prefer to hear what you think,” Colin said, the strain in his voice threatening to rupture at any moment.
“My husband neither confided in me nor sought my opinion. If he was preoccupied or distracted I would not know it. Now have I not suffered enough for one day? Must I continue to be hounded by your inanities?” She glowered at Colin, her eyes piercing him as though daring him to press ahead, which, thankfully, he did not.
CHAPTER 22
I studied Mrs. Connicle’s face, thin and sallow, her eyes shot through with threads of red, and regretted having allowed myself to be coaxed here. It was an odd confluence of emotion that coursed through me as I listened to her. Everything from curiosity to pity to unrelenting dread. There was no mystery in my discomfort around her. Around her mental frailty. I recognized its insidious grip. Even so, it did little to lessen the impact of sitting across from her.
“Dr. Renholme insists I not agitate myself,” she was saying. “He has kept me swimming in laudanum for days now. It has left me quite addled, I’m afraid.” She cast her gaze down to her trembling hands, seeming to fade even further away. “Things that I should know I cannot seem to pull forward. I cannot find them in the haze.”
“Please don’t,” I tried to soothe, and was mortified when my voice caught. “You mustn’t trouble yourself,” I added as soon as I could draw a full breath. “Whether you can provide a single detail or not will have no bearing on how hard Mr. Pendragon works to determine if that was your husband yesterday at Covington.”
“It was,” she said with surety, her voice thick and sluggish. “You must believe me, Mr. Pruitt.”
“I most certainly do,” I answered at once. “Now that we know the body discovered on your property is not that of your husband, Mr. Pendragon and the Yard are redoubling their efforts to find him.”
“Yes . . . yes . . .” she muttered as she wiped a handkerchief across her upper lip in a gesture that seemed at once as nervous as it was agitated.
I cleared my throat and tried to recall all the things Colin had instructed me to ask her about. He’d been quite undone by Mrs. Hutton’s vitriol, suffering equal parts guilt and effrontery, and had been less than articulate as he sent me on this undertaking. “Has your husband ever gone off without telling you before? Perhaps on some quick bit of business that took longer than he meant?”
“Never. Edmond has always been the most considerate of men, patient and kind. I have never had a quarrel with him, Mr. Pruitt. If you are imagining such a thing I can assure you that you are wrong.”
“I meant no offense.” I felt myself flush slightly as I struggled to hold her determined gaze. “You understand that we need to rule out every possibility?”
“I understand,” she said, though I caught a whisper of flintiness in her voice, “but my husband is missing and that means that something is terribly wrong. You and Mr. Pendragon must implement a search for him at once.” She pushed herself forward on the settee as her delicate brow coursed into a frown. “Where is Mr. Pendragon? I have pledged good money for his services and yet haven’t any idea whether he has given the slightest thought to what might be happening to Edmond.” Her hands fidgeted in her lap as if they must surely ache.
“Please be assured, Mrs. Connicle, that at this very moment Mr. Pendragon is at Scotland Yard rereviewing the evidence they have collected from your gardener’s shed as well as seeing to the release of your woman, Alexa. Your husband’s well-being is very much at the forefront of his mind.”
“Oh . . .” She sagged back in her seat. “Poor Alexa. What she has been through.” She turned her eyes to me and I could see a well of pain in them. “I do not doubt her loyalty for a moment and you must make sure she knows she is expected back in this house.”
“I will.” I took a slow breath and tried to calm my ratcheting heartbeat as I tried to formulate the ground I had to travel. “Does your husband suffer from any illness that might—” But the words caught in my throat as Mrs. Connicle’s face went ashen and the light in her eyes dimmed to a dull steel gray.
“He does not,” she bit harshly. “Surely, sir, you are confusing him with me.”
I nearly choked. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean—”
She waved me off and began to weep, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief pulled from her sleeve as she struggled to contain her composure. “You must not judge my husband by my failings. Even as we sit here in our comforts, Mr. Pruitt, his life is almost certainly at risk. I shall never forgive myself if the taint of my infirmity should cause you to neglect to save my husband. Mr. Pendragon gave me his pledge,” she gasped. “Now he must fulfill it without delay.”
I nodded, afraid to say another word, for I dared not ask this brittle woman any more questions. As for myself, I could not bear another second here.
CHAPTER 23
The moment I entered the study I felt an unmistakable air of tension. Colin and Hubert Aston were seated across from each other by the fireplace, both stoic, both ramrod straight, and both displaying mild annoyance with one another. A notably inauspicious beginning, given that the Astons’ oldest boy had informed me that Colin had arrived not ten minutes earlier.
“Gentlemen.” I smiled gamely as I was shown in. “I apologize for being late,” I blathered on, though we had not set a specific time, given Colin’s preference to catch people at will. A behavior that is tolerated, if seldom appreciated.
“So it is to be the both of you again, eh?” Mr. Aston sniffed as he turned to me but did not bother to stand up. “I am afraid I have nothing to add to what has already been said. And I will have you know that you quite unnerved my wife the last time you were here. You might consider that should you mull a further return visit.”
“It is certainly not our intention to cause Mrs. Aston distress,” Colin answered with an embarrassing lack of conviction. “However, I would like to remind you that three men have been murdered—”
“I do not need to be reminded of any such thing!” Mr. Aston groused. “Do not presume to condescend, Mr. Pendragon. I shall not abide it.”
“Condescend?” Colin repeated with the height of feigned surprise as he stood up and moved to the fireplace. “We have only come to ask a few simple questions and seem to have brought down a world of offense.”
“Simple questions, are they?” Mr
. Aston scoffed. “Damned personal ones.”
“Nothing is too personal when people are losing their lives. Now I have asked you about the potential of Arthur Hutton’s extramarital activities because it could be relevant to this case, given what you have already told us about Edmond Connicle’s trysts. Surely you can understand that.”
I cringed at Colin’s tone, though curiously, Mr. Aston seemed not to care. He flicked his eyes at me, a hint of some perception brewing there, and then slid his gaze back to Colin. “How old are you, Mr. Pendragon?”
Colin leaned against the fireplace mantel as he studied Mr. Aston a moment. “Thirty-eight,” he said at length.
“Thirty-eight . . .” Mr. Aston repeated airily, clearly pleased with the answer. “And yet no wife and no children.” His gaze hardened. “How can someone like you understand what men like Edmond, Arthur, and me contend with? You come here looking for salacious details to infer all manner of indecencies that I, quite frankly, find insulting.”
“I what?” Colin’s brow crashed down. “If you believe my questions to be disapproving then you had best cleanse your conscience with your vicar. Be assured I don’t give a ruddy piss whom any of you shag. I am looking for a connection, Mr. Aston.”
“But you are doing so in the most sordid way!” he blasted back. “Has it occurred to you that our households all frequent Covington Market? Perhaps there is where your connections lies.” His voice dripped acid. “And both Arthur and I are clients of Columbia Financial. Edmond’s firm. Has that ever struck you? Not to mention that nearly everyone who lives out here is administered to by Dr. Renholme. Have none of those possibilities stirred within your tawdry mind?”
Colin’s gaze was hard and unflinching. “And if I told you we have reason to believe that Edmond Connicle might still be alive? What other hypotheses might you have?”
Hubert Aston stopped and looked truly struck for the first time. “Alive?!” He scowled. “Are you referring to the ravings of Edmond’s unhinged wife?”
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