HOFFMAN, SENIOR VICE PRESIDENT,
DEUTSCHE BANK.”
“Next!” Mr. Tessler’s feral growl came again.
“This is from the White Star Line,” I muttered.
“CAN CORROBORATE DESCRIPTION OF
PASSENGER FROM WEDNESDAY LAST AS
MARY ELLEN WITTEN. STOP. EMBARKED IN
DOVER, ENGLAND, WITH HER DAUGHTER,
ELIZABETH. STOP. DISEMBARKED IN
WARNEMUNDE, PRUSSIA. STOP. CHEERS.
TERYTON MAYWEATHER, PURSER, OCEANIC, WHITE STAR LINE.”
Wynn Tessler’s breathing had become irregular and staccato. I could hear his jaw clenching and the sound of his teeth grinding with ferocity. “That goddamn bitch! . . .” he hollered. “I’ll kill her. I will hunt her down and rip her into a thousand ruptured pieces with my bare hands. Thinks she can play me the fool!” The timbre and intensity of his voice rose with every curse that passed his lips. His face had gone crimson and the hand holding the revolver had started to quake with the intensity of his rage.
I tried to think what I should do but found I could not move. He continued to rant, his words erupting like water through a fissure in a dam, yet I could not even decipher what he was saying anymore. It was all coalescing into a discordant sound that spoke of hatred and violence and the complete rupture of sanity. Time itself ceased, seeming to flatten and ooze sideways, leaving me unsure whether seconds or minutes had passed. And still, Wynn Tessler’s voice accelerated in both volume and force, his whole body now shaking with the vastness of his outrage, and I knew he was going to shoot us.
Before I could even process that thought I felt Colin’s fingers thread through mine and had to force myself not to cry out. I knew he meant for us to die together, side by side, hand in hand, and I desperately wanted to turn to him, as I could not bear the thought that Wynn Tessler’s detestable face would be the last thing I should ever see on this earth. But before I could even try to shift my eyes, Colin tugged on my arm just as a loud bang erupted from across the room near the door.
He jerked me to him so suddenly that I lost my balance and careened like a rag doll into his powerful chest. He shook free of my hand and shoved down on my shoulders, sending me to the floor in a flail of unaccounted-for limbs. As I was falling, I caught a glimpse of shocking white hair and realized that the explosion had been the screech of the metal door as Emmett Varcoe had burst into the room with a thunderous crash! He was crouched low in the doorway, his black eyes darting about from within his perpetually ruddy face, and I was never so glad to see him.
My hands abruptly collided with the floor, and I barely kept my chin and nose from doing the same, as I struggled to see what was happening.
And then I heard the shots. Four of them in quick succession. Too quick. And before the sounds could begin to recede, just as the burnt smell of spent gunpowder started to assault my nostrils, Colin collapsed on top of me.
CHAPTER 41
Twenty-seven years ago the murmurings inside of my mother’s head became too much for her. As a result, with little warning, she took my father’s small derringer and shot him in the head with it twice. She then reloaded the gun’s two chambers and shot my eight-month-old sister, who was squalling in my now dead father’s lap. The last thing my mother ever did was put that gun in her mouth and squeeze the trigger one last time. Four shots.
The only reason I survived was because I was a coward. I was locked in my room, trembling beneath my bed, when my mother pounded on my door and demanded I open it. Her voice had been brittle, and shrill, and heavy with anguish, and even at nine I’d understood that I must not answer. So I had kept silent, retreating into a tight ball at the farthest corner under my bed, not even moving after I heard my father’s soothing voice urging her away. Urging her back to their room. Nor did I move after the first two shots were fired. I didn’t even move for a time after the second two shots were fired. I have lived with that knowledge every day since.
Three days after that I stood in the churchyard before the coffins of my parents and infant sister with my maternal grandparents hovering somewhere behind me. They were careful to hold their distance as the minister spoke haltingly and briefly, his discomfort plain to see. My grandparents had procured this unorthodox burial for their only daughter through a generous donation to the church, desperate to keep tongues from wagging. But the only time either of my grandparents had touched me that day was when my grandmother leaned forward and pinched my shoulder when I started to cry. I believe they were afraid of me. Afraid that I too carried the madness that had driven my mother. They saw no honor in my having survived. In truth, I was afraid of myself.
My grandparents did not invite me into their home. I was sent at once to Morrissey House, a group home for boys who were either indigent or troubled, though I was neither. I spent almost three years there before being transferred to the Easling and Temple Senior Academy for a proper education. I never saw my grandparents again. They did not write to me, nor I to them. When they died I did not attend their funerals. In fact, I have never attended the funeral of anyone since that day in the churchyard staring at those three rectangular boxes, two adult sized, the third unmistakably smaller. I saw no point in such attendance. For whom would I be attending? Not for the deceased, as they could not possibly care. Certainly not for me.
Which was why I felt so completely overcome standing in my white shirt and crisp black suit, head bowed against the ornate casket I did not want to see. I would have done most anything not to have come here, but there had been no choice. And just as I had feared, I felt like that nine-year-old boy all over again: terrified, tortured, and afraid to breathe. I waited for the pinch on my shoulder to staunch the flow of tears brimming in my eyes but instead felt Colin’s hand snake into my own and squeeze it, firmly and discreetly, before pulling away.
It did not matter that Emmett Varcoe could drive Colin to distraction. That Varcoe was almost always more an impediment than an aid. In the final moments, when it had mattered the most, he had acted with unaccountable bravery and it had cost him his life.
Of the four shots fired in that small map room on the ferry, the one Inspector Varcoe had managed to squeeze off had embedded itself in the wall directly behind where Wynn Tessler had been standing. Two shots struck Inspector Varcoe, one in the chest and one in the shoulder. The fourth had come from a derringer Colin had hidden up one of his pants legs. It had entered Wynn Tessler’s neck at an upward trajectory, passing through and exiting out his opposite cheek. It was not a fatal shot, but it had been enough to render him unconscious.
Five days later we were here in this cemetery, the formal service behind us. The ornate casket had been moved to this site to the melancholy dirge of a single bagpipe. We were surrounded by what looked like half the contingent of Scotland Yard as the coffin was carried into place. Emmett was a widower. I had known that. But it turned out he had grown children, two sons and three daughters, and all of them were there. I had never thought of him as a father, but then I don’t recall ever asking. That realization made me profoundly sad.
There was a final cacophony of rifle fire from a dozen Yarders standing a short distance away and then it was over. I struggled to temper my grief and was grateful when Colin was drawn into conversation with Emmett’s children. Memories were shared. I participated as best I could, but my mind remained fixated on that day, twenty-seven years before, when my life had come utterly apart at the sound of four gunshots.
It was only after Colin and I were on our way home that I could finally fold and stow those thoughts away again. It was almost a relief to have the case to focus on. “There is one thing I still don’t understand,” I said with perhaps too much bravado. “How did you figure out that Edmond Connicle had become so enthralled with Mrs. Hutton to participate in a plan to fake his own death?”
“Ah.” Colin nodded, and I decided he was as grateful as I was to have something of substance to discuss. “It was that account Edmond Connicle had
been moving steady sums of money into for the better part of a year. A week before his faked death the sums funneling into that account suddenly exploded. Do you remember how I said the number looked oddly familiar?”
“I remember.”
He dug a scrap of paper out of his pocket and wrote the number down and handed it over to me. “Do you see a pattern there?”
I stared at it a minute. 47-381936225. As hard as I searched for some reason amongst the arbitrary grouping I could find none. “No.”
“It’s a cipher. And a simple one at that. It’s nothing more than a monoalphabetic substitution.”
“A what?!”
One corner of his mouth curled up as he quickly wrote out the alphabet. Next, he placed a number beneath each letter from one to twenty-six. “It’s child’s play, really,” he said, sounding exasperated with himself. “Look at the numbers after the dash. C is the third letter of the alphabet. H is the eighth. A is the first. R is the eighteenth. Eighteen is a one plus an eight, which equals nine.”
And suddenly I could see the pattern he was referring to begin to emerge. “L is the twelfth,” I piped up, “one plus two, which is three. O is the fifteenth, one plus five, equaling six. T is the twentieth, a two. There are two of those. And E is the fifth. Charlotte.” I looked at the first two digits. “And the forty-seven at the front?”
Colin’s crooked grin went rigid. “My.”
I cringed. “It was Edmond Connicle’s pledge to her. The only sort of commitment he could make, given that they were both married.”
“Which is why Mrs. Hutton undoubtedly helped him hatch a plan against his wife to have her committed. Most assuredly with the promise that she would also get rid of her husband one way or another so they could then be together. And that was what Edmond Connicle intended. He meant to convince his wife to think him dead, even going so far as to put his ring on that poor murdered soul’s finger, which would have taken some clever explaining when he finally showed up again. But in the meantime he was going to make sure his pitiable wife spied him here and there until her grip on sanity eventually became so tenuous that he could return from his supposed business abroad to seal her fate.”
“Only he didn’t know that Mrs. Hutton and Wynn Tessler were plotting against him.”
“Precisely. Edmond Connicle had no idea that he was standing in the way of their far grimmer plot.” Colin shook his head. “And all the while Wynn Tessler himself was but a pawn for Mrs. Hutton.” He heaved a wearied sigh. “It wasn’t until after we spoke to Sundha Guitnu’s Irish boy—”
“Cillian . . . ?”
“Yes. He reminded me of the incredible depths some men are willing to go to for a woman. For better and for worse. And I as foolish as the rest of them. She led us like dullards, every one of us, just as she meant to.”
I squeezed his hand but could think of nothing further to say as we rode along in silence for a while. We reached our neighborhood just as the sun poked out of a cloud bank, and I finally felt my spirits beginning to ease. “Wouldn’t Emmett have loved the pomp at his funeral?” I said with a laugh.
“A lifetime of mediocrity crowned by a moment’s glory in the line of duty.” Colin gave a small chuckle. “He had the final laugh on us all.”
“You’re being disrespectful.”
“I’m telling the truth. If Emmett were here he would agree.”
I was about to say something, to defend the poor man, but then it occurred to me that perhaps, just perhaps, Colin was right.
“How unexpected . . .” he muttered as our carriage turned into Gloucester Road.
“What?”
“It appears we have a visitor,” he said, craning to get a look at the small, black carriage parked at our curb. “No markings on the coach. Whoever could it be?” As the driver slowed, Colin leapt out and bolted up the steps to our front door, disappearing inside.
As I stepped in after him, I found Mrs. Behmoth planted just inside waiting for me. “Ya got a visitor,” she said needlessly. “She don’t look well. I took tea up and some biscuits, but ya let me know if ya need anythin’ else.”
“I’m sure we will.” I nodded as I hurried up the stairs, my heart sinking at the thought of having to begin a new case so soon. I’d been hoping we might be able to nip out of town for a few days. Get a change of scenery. Clear our heads. I knew I was in need of it.
I heard Colin’s voice before I was halfway up the stairs and recognized the lilting tone of the woman he was speaking with the moment she responded. When I reached the landing and came through the doorway it was to find Mrs. Guitnu perched on the settee across from where Colin was pouring tea for all of us. She was dressed in black and wore a small black hat with a half veil covering the upper part of her face. She was, I instantly feared, in mourning.
We exchanged greetings, though her manner remained stiff and formal, which seemed lost on Colin, who was as warm and friendly as if she were a lifelong friend. Only after we had all been served did Mrs. Guitnu finally turn to the purpose of her business. “You must forgive the impropriety of my visit,” she said, her tone soft and melodious. “Unannounced and unescorted.”
“Please.” Colin waved her off with a smile. “You are in a house filled with impropriety.” He flashed a smile, but I could see she had no idea what to make of his words.
She let a moment pass before she reached over and picked up a plain, cloth sack from the floor by her feet, setting it onto the table in front of us. “I need you to find my Sunny and deliver this to her. She had a terrible row with her father and is no longer part of our family. I cannot go to her, you understand. I cannot dishonor my husband.” She looked up and I could see tears glittering in her eyes in spite of the mesh veil. “He is a good man. A kind man. He has always provided for his family with great generosity and care. It was his idea to move to England so our girls would have the opportunities they could never have in India. He has done well by all of us.”
She took a deep breath and fell silent, taking a sip of her tea with the delicacy of one who might come tumbling apart at any moment. And, indeed, I thought she must truly feel that way. For while I might have been incorrect about her mourning, I had not been wrong.
“Sunny has disgraced our family with that boy,” she went on. “And now she has disappeared with him. My husband had her room emptied the same day, furnishings, clothing; even the walls have been repainted. It is as if no one has ever lived there. It is how it must be.” She set her tea down and removed a small lace handkerchief from her purse and dabbed at her eyes. “You must forgive me, but I am a foolish woman sometimes.”
“You are no such thing,” Colin said. “You are caught on a precipice from which there is no easy passage. And yet”—he leaned forward and opened up the sack—“it would seem you are doing what you can to bridge that chasm.”
Mrs. Guitnu gave a laden smile. “She remains the flesh of my heart and I will not see her end in misery.”
Colin nodded as he pawed through the sack. “Aren’t these the very jewels your husband paid me to find?”
She stood up suddenly, her posture ramrod straight. “You mustn’t concern yourself with my husband, Mr. Pendragon. I will attend to him. You must do this thing for me and give me your word that it will be done.”
“I give it without hesitation,” Colin answered as he walked her to the landing. “We know where the boy lives. Be assured your daughter will receive your parcel within a day.”
She looked at us with a well of sorrow. “You are most kind.”
“No.” Colin shook his head. “It is you who are the bearer of extraordinary kindness. And of love. We are but messengers grateful to do your bidding.”
A hint of relief flickered momentarily behind her eyes before she turned and fled down the stairs.
CHAPTER 42
Annabelle Connicle was ghostly pale and paper thin, but her eyes had the fire of life in them. It was enough to steal my breath and sting my eyes as I got my first look at her standing in
the doorway of her sitting room, resplendent in a pale blue dress that hung far too loosely at the shoulders and waist. There was no denying the toll her stay at Needham Hills had cost her, yet this petite, frail woman had persevered beyond what I had imagined possible. It reminded me how those seemingly most fragile can oftentimes be the most resolute.
Miss Porter was at her mistress’s arm offering support, wearing her own smile as rich as our surroundings. As Colin and I stood to greet the two of them I found myself diverting my gaze and pulling in a deep breath so that the lump swelling in my throat would not suddenly leap from my eyes. When I managed to steal a glance at Colin I was fortified by the great smile on his lips, his blue eyes alight with joy as he grasped Mrs. Connicle’s hands as though she had just rescued him.
“It does my heart wonders to see you back at home,” he enthused, plucking her arm from Miss Porter and helping her to a nearby chair.
“I have you to thank for that, Mr. Pendragon.” She grinned. “For without you and Mr. Pruitt I am certain I would never have left that regrettable place.”
“ ’Ere, ’ere . . .” Mrs. Hollings cheered as she came bustling into the room with a tray filled with tea and biscuits. “These are me butter biscuits fresh from the oven and me ’omemade jams. Fit fer the Queen, they is, but jest right fer all a you,” she announced as she set the tray in front of Miss Porter.
“You make me blush.” Colin chuckled, though I doubted such a thing was even possible.
Mrs. Hollings snorted a laugh as she left the room and Miss Porter served the tea. She handed us each a cup and our own plate of biscuits before taking a portion for herself and discreetly retreating to a seat against the wall behind Mrs. Connicle. Whether it was a mandate of Mrs. Connicle’s release or a consequence of her unease at her sudden freedom I could not say.
“I’m afraid you’ve missed Alexa,” Mrs. Connicle said. “She’s already been sent to market. I know she would want me to thank you.”
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