“They’re working,” Varcoe muttered, waving them off without a thought. “There’s been another killing. Actually three more.”
I choked on the sip of tea I’d been taking even as Colin bolted to his feet. “What? Who?”
“Not who.” Again Varcoe ran a hand through his hair before grabbing for a scone. “It’s the Astons’ dogs. Three giant beasts of one sort or another.”
“Irish wolfhounds,” Colin said as he paced over to the windows.
The inspector flicked a disinterested gaze at Colin before taking a bite of the scone. “All three had their throats cut,” Varcoe relayed mechanically, “but I’m betting they were drugged first. You don’t just walk up to three brutes like that and hash their necks. Denton Ross is doing the autopsy now. There’s certain to be tainted meat in their stomachs.”
“Of course,” Colin mumbled as he stopped and fixed his gaze at some distant place outside. Even so, I could tell his thoughts were a world away. “But why? There’s no sense in it. What makes you think they’re connected to the other murders?”
“Each of the dogs had a small fabric sack stuffed in its mouth with those blasted witchcraft items. So you tell me.”
“Voodoo,” Colin corrected while nudging a coin from his pocket and deftly coaxing it between his fingers. “It’s a religion. It has nothing to do with demonic claptrap.”
“I don’t really give a bloody fig.” Varcoe set his tea down and watched Colin pace across the front of the windows. “All I know is that African witch has got to be hooked up in this somehow.”
Colin stopped and scowled at him. “I thought you’ve had her under surveillance since you released her?”
“Well, of course we do!” he snapped. “But just because she never left the Connicle house last night doesn’t mean she isn’t ruddy well up to her bodice in it.”
“And what do you suppose is her motive?”
“I don’t bloody well know!” He jumped from his chair and stepped directly in Colin’s path, his face careening toward fuchsia. “You’re supposed to be assisting me here, Pendragon, but so far you’re about as helpful as the pox.”
“Are you severing our trysts, Emmett?”
“What?!”
Colin waved him off and resumed his pacing. “Has Edmond Connicle regained consciousness?”
“No. The ruddy doctor just keeps shaking his head. Pompous bastard. They had to commit his wife, you know. She’s on the floor below him now, sedated and lashed to the bed. Sixpence short of a shilling, if you ask me.”
Colin stopped and glared at Varcoe before shifting his eyes to me. “I’d suggest we start with a visit to the Astons,” he said, his voice tight.
“We’ve already been out there. You’ll learn nothing more until we get the report back from the autopsy.”
“I doubt we’ll learn anything from that, either,” he clipped, shooting me another look, which brought me to my feet.
“We’ll go see for ourselves.” I gave Varcoe a conspiratorial smile as though I agreed with him. “We’ll meet you afterwards.”
Varcoe’s mouth curled as his forehead creased with displeasure. “If you must. Meet me at the morgue then. We’ll see what Denton Ross has learned. Maybe then you’ll have a clue about what the hell we should do next.” He glowered at Colin, but Colin was paying him no mind, and after what was clearly an unsatisfying minute Varcoe turned and bolted from the room, his men dutifully on his heels.
“I cannot bear him much longer,” Colin erupted the moment the door slammed downstairs. “You should have gotten him out of here a hell of a lot sooner, because I was on the verge of doing it myself. Through the window. But unfortunately, as much as I am loath to admit it, that bloody buggery bastard has been helpful on this case!”
I forced a steady breath. “Do you feel better now?”
He didn’t answer, but when he slipped the coin back into his pocket I took it as a positive sign. “As soon as we’re finished at the Aston house we’ll stop by the Connicles’ and have another word with Alexa. Someone is trying far too hard to frame her and I cannot believe she doesn’t have some inkling of who it might be.”
“She’s an African. Plenty of people would consider that reason enough.”
He waved me off curtly and started pacing by the fireplace again. “Why would someone murder three beautiful Irish wolfhounds? What could be the motive in that? How could their lives have anything to do with the other murders?”
“A warning to Hubert Aston perhaps?”
Colin came to a halt as a grin slowly blossomed on his face. “Outstanding thought. Or perhaps it’s meant to throw suspicion from himself. Mr. Aston may be in this up to his bushy black mustache.”
“And then we’ll have to head to the morgue?”
“Whatever for?”
“To meet Varcoe. To find out the autopsy results from the dogs.”
Colin screwed up his face as he dropped to the floor and quickly ticked off a series of push-ups. “There’s nothing to be learned from the dogs’ stomachs. They were killed and they were killed for a reason.” He jumped up and gave me a dark grin. “And I’m thinking Hubert Aston knows that reason.”
CHAPTER 28
Hubert Aston’s face was a vivid red, though I couldn’t be sure whether it was the result of his outrage or if he had been crying and was using his fury to cover that fact. Whichever the case, there was no denying that he was fuming. He had planted himself in front of his fireplace and had not spoken below a bellow since Colin and I arrived and, as was true on our last visit, his wife was apparently unwilling to make an appearance. “. . . absolutely appalling . . .” he was saying, “. . . the whole damnable lot of you. You should all be censured by Parliament.”
If the slaughter of his dogs had been meant as a warning, then I could see that he was well warned. If it turned out that he was actually a part of these murders, then he was doing a remarkable job of covering it.
“I am not here to give you excuses,” Colin was saying with unexpected restraint. “Nothing I can say will ever make the murders of your three magnificent hounds tolerable. Children . . . animals . . . their innate innocence can never be made right when such things happen. Not ever. And I will not insult you by proposing to do so. But I need you to tell me if there is someone you suspect of having been able to do such a thing? Someone looking to impart an unmistakable message to you perhaps?”
Mr. Aston’s expression remained livid as he repeatedly slid his fingers along his thick, black, heavily waxed mustache. The ritual, however, seemed to be having little impact on his mood. His voice dropped a decibel when he spoke again, his tone remaining brittle and tight. “There is no such person. You are flailing like a landed fish. It is inexcusable.”
Colin cracked a wry smile even as he tossed me a look brimming with irritation. “Someone has murdered the men of your neighboring estates. So how is it that your dogs were killed in a like manner and yet you have no notion why? Surely the poor canines cannot be guilty of whatever has precipitated this rampage.”
“What are you insinuating?” he snapped.
“I find your ire around the slaughter of your dogs disproportionate to what you displayed when confronted with the murders of the men who were your neighbors. Have you lost your sense of propriety or does all this bluster mean to deceive?”
“How dare you . . .”
Colin waved him off perfunctorily. “Are you aware that Edmond Connicle was found alive last night?”
“What?!” His face bore his shock as he dropped down onto the nearest sofa. “Then it’s true. Annabelle really saw him?”
“It would seem so.”
“But how could such a mistake have been made?!” he snarled, his brow furrowing as he seemed to regain his composure again.
“The body found on the Connicle property was similar enough to draw the initial conclusion, given the catastrophic damage it had sustained. There was little reason to think it might be someone else.”
“I c
an’t believe it. . . .” He shook his head and gazed off, though he seemed to be focused on nothing.
“Indeed.” Colin sat down for the first time since our arrival, looking quite pleased with himself.
“Where is he now? Have you spoken with him?” Mr. Aston fired the questions off rapidly and I wondered if it was out of concern or something else.
“That’s the thing.” Colin heaved a sigh. “Mr. Connicle was the victim of a brutal attack. He has yet to regain consciousness.”
Mr. Aston’s brow knit as he swung his eyes back to Colin. “I take it his injuries are severe?”
“Regrettably so.”
Mr. Aston shook his head repeatedly, banked embers reigniting behind his eyes. “And there it is. You don’t even know who’s been killed and who has not. You and that band of miscreants at the Yard are incompetents.” He stood up again and glowered down on Colin. “You, Mr. Pendragon, are a disgrace. Good day.” He turned from us with the assurance of a man above reproach and stalked out of the dayroom.
A houseman returned at once to usher us out, and given Colin’s evident annoyance, I was relieved when the front door latched firmly behind us without another word spoken. I was about to say something glib to cajole him out of his mood when he abruptly turned for the side of the house where the hounds’ bodies had been found. There was a lone bobby pacing around a demarcated area of some ten feet by ten feet looking as serious as if he were protecting the Queen’s jewels.
“Constable,” Colin mumbled as he stepped over the low rope cordoning off the small patch of grass.
“Mr. Pendragon. . . .” He halted with deferential attention. “Mr. Pruitt . . .”
“Has anyone trampled over this area other than you fine Yarders?” Colin asked as he knelt to study the lush emerald grass bent and dappled by a thick, viscous ooze of magenta black in three distinct places. The innate brutality of what had happened sent a prickle up my spine.
“No one, sir,” Varcoe’s man answered. “That’s why I’m here.”
“So it is . . . so it is . . .” Colin replied absently as he circled the three spots from his crouched position. “You’re doing fine work,” he added before stepping out the other side. In that instant I knew he was on to something.
I stayed next to the sergeant, engaging him in idle conversation as Colin slowly moved in an angle toward the edge of the yard where a great number of honeysuckle bushes created a hedgerow in front of the woods behind. After he kicked around the base of the bushes for a few minutes he called for me, earning me nothing more than a disinterested nod from the sergeant.
By the time I joined Colin he was crouched right up against one of the honeysuckles, its sweet floral scent hanging thickly in the air. “Look here.” He pointed to the ground as he stood up. “What do you notice?”
I looked at the black dirt beneath the huge bush and noticed little more than some dropped leaves and snapped twigs. “The start of fall?”
He rolled his eyes. “Get down and look closer. And use your blasted nose.”
“My nose . . . ?” I repeated as I squatted down, realizing almost at once what he was referring to. “Oh.” I leaned forward until my face was mere inches from the loamy earth and immediately detected the acrid stench of burnt almonds in amongst the honeysuckle’s sweet fragrance. “Cyanide,” I said as I stood up, the greasy stain in the dirt and the tiny flecks of meat tossed about retaining the smell of the drug used to bring the dogs down. “However did you find that?”
“I followed the dog prints backwards,” he said as he started back toward the front of the house. “And you can see by the leaves and bits of broken branches at the bottom of that bush that the three hounds were battering about it, causing all manner of damage. They were vying for the tainted meat that would drop them over there.” He nodded toward the roped section of the yard.
“Then you’re right about the cutting of their throats. It was as much a ritual as the fetish sacks stuffed in their mouths.”
“Somebody seems determined to make the Connicles’ scullery maid culpable.”
“But why?”
He flicked a measured gaze at me. “Perhaps she’s right. Perhaps it is for no other reason than because everyone is so eager to believe it so. I think it’s time we find out.”
CHAPTER 29
The Connicle estate looked frozen in place beneath the iron-gray sky pressing down upon it. Drapes and sheers were drawn across its every window as though the inhabitants were hiding from the world behind its considerable walls. Not a soul could be seen as we approached the house, though the breeze rustling the tops of the surrounding trees kept the scene from looking truly suspended. To my surprise, the gardener’s shed where this case had begun five days before had been razed. Its absence left a square, discolored gash in the otherwise pristine lawn, serving every bit as much of a reminder of what had happened as the shed itself.
Colin was walking with such determination that we were able to cover the ground between the Astons’ and Connicles’ in just less than fifteen minutes. His face was grim and I knew better than to pepper him with questions. At this point I hardly knew what to ask anyway.
Miss Porter greeted us at the door and told us what we already knew: that Mrs. Connicle was not at home. She seemed startled when Colin told her we were there to speak with Alexa. And as Miss Porter ushered us inside there was a resignation to her manner that made me wonder if she hadn’t been deliberating herself whether the Connicles’ scullery maid might indeed be somehow involved.
Miss Porter brought us back to the kitchen, where Mrs. Hollings was working over a pot of something musky smelling. “The gentlemen have come to speak with Alexa,” she announced lightly as she gestured us to chairs at what was clearly the staff’s table.
“She’s in the back cuttin’ veg for me stew,” Mrs. Hollings answered without looking up. When Miss Porter did not move, Mrs. Hollings glanced over and caught sight of the three of us. “Oh,” she muttered awkwardly. “I’ll go fetch ’er.” She covered the pot, extinguishing the flame beneath it, and disappeared without another word.
Miss Porter snatched the teapot from the stove and poured us both a cup. She had no sooner set them in front of us when Alexa entered. Her face was flush from the work she had been doing, but her hair was neatly tucked beneath a white scarf and her black uniform was immaculate. She still managed to walk with an unfaltering dignity and pride that I could not help marveling at, given the loss of her husband and all she had endured since.
“I shall leave you be,” Miss Porter said as she crossed back to the door we had entered through. “Please let me know if you require anything else.” She offered the remnants of a smile and then disappeared out the door.
Colin turned his gaze to the West African woman and gave her a gentle grin. “Thank you for seeing us again, Alexa. Please . . .” He gestured her to a chair across from us. She held her ground a moment, her lips pursed and her eyes wary, before finally deciding to sit down with a guarded sigh. “I know you have been treated with disregard by Scotland Yard from the onset of this investigation—”
“Ya know dat, do ya?” She cut him off as she wiped her hands along the hem of her apron as though to clean the very soot of this case from them. “And jest wot you guon do ’bout dat?”
“I am going to solve these crimes and prove what I have believed from the start. That you have nothing to do with any of it.”
I was surprised by his words and struggled not to show it. He had never told me that he’d released her of any complicity whatsoever.
“Ya know dat too, huh?” she said with an expression far more mocking than mollified. “Is dat why ya let me sit in jail? ’Cause ya t’ink me innocent?”
“There was nothing I could do to stop that lot at Scotland Yard. At least now they know you aren’t the killer.”
She let out a hollow laugh. “Naw. Now dey jest t’ink me da leader. I got dem followin’ me like a pack a ruttin’ dogs every time I show me face.”
&n
bsp; “I will clear your name,” he answered more harshly than I’m certain he intended. “But you have to help me. You must have an idea why someone would be trying so hard to frame you for these murders?”
She leaned back in her chair with a derisive laugh. “It’s like I tol’ ya when ya sprung me from dat jail. Ain’t ya looked at me? The color a me skin? The nap a me hair? How ya go askin’ me a question like dat?”
“Oh, come now!” he snapped. “You cannot expect me to believe that you’re being framed for murder for such rubbish.”
“Den you a fool.”
Colin exhaled brusquely and shifted his eyes to me, and I could see that he was dangling on the precipice of irritation. “It has to be something more,” I said into the protracted silence. “Someone has gone to a great deal of trouble to make you look guilty. Why?” I pressed. “Why you?”
She shook her head. “ ’Cause it easy. People wants ta believe. Yer Yard is happy ta find it so.”
And even as she said it I knew she was right. Hadn’t I been caught myself when Colin had just proclaimed her wholly innocent? Even knowing she couldn’t have committed the murders herself, I was still content to believe she was likely somehow involved. My own willingness to continue to see her potential culpability was as infective as Varcoe’s insistence that all the clues pointed to her. It was easy to believe, comforting even.
“Is there anyone you’re aware of who has a particular distaste for you or your beliefs?” Colin picked right up as though she had not said a word.
Once again she let out an arid, cracking chortle devoid of any humor. “When yer different there’s lots a distaste.” She waved him off. “Why am I botherin’ ta tell you?”
“I understand more than you know,” Colin shot back. “I spent the first dozen years of my life in Bombay. The Indians looked at my fair skin, blond hair, and blue eyes and saw me as an object of curiosity or ridicule. In school it was largely ridicule. Some boys I learned to fear greatly. So let me ask you again, is there anyone you know of who holds you in particular disdain?”
The Connicle Curse Page 18