“No thanks are necessary,” Colin said as he stared at his tea. “I only regret that it took us so long to resolve. . . .”
Mrs. Connicle shook her head with a wearied sigh. “I’m just grateful that you resolved it at all. That is enough.” A small smile gently blossomed across her face. “I’m sure you know I will be selling this drafty old house. It’s far too much for me to care for and I haven’t the means to do so anyway. I shall be well rid of it,” she said in a tone void of self-pity. “I will find a suitable flat in the city and Miss Porter and Mrs. Hollings have both agreed to remain with me. There is simply nothing more I could want for. Isn’t it marvelous?” She gave the first truly heartfelt smile I had ever seen her offer.
“Indeed.” Colin beamed back, but I could tell his own look was tinged with remorse. “And what is to become of Randolph . . . and Alexa?”
“Randolph has decided to retire as soon as I’m situated and is going to live with his sister in Cornwall. I only regret that I cannot give him a stipend to take with him,” she sighed, “but he has asked nothing further of me.”
“He is a fine man,” I added, remembering his having cautioned me to heed his mistress’s words when she had insisted she’d seen her husband near Covington Market.
“As to Alexa . . .” Mrs. Connicle gave a wistful smile. “She is anxious to leave the city, so I gave her an exemplary recommendation to a family in Cardiff, where she will begin working within a fortnight. It will be a fresh start for her.” She sipped at her tea and leveled her gaze on Colin. “You saved an innocent, Mr. Pendragon.”
“I did what I could.” He glanced away as he said it and I knew he was thinking about the innocent lives he had not been able to save. From the unknown homeless bloke whose charred body had briefly stood in for that of Edmond Connicle to little William Hutton, who had committed no crime but being born to a woman who did not want him.
“I try to understand it all. . . .” Mrs. Connicle started to speak, her voice thick with anguish, “but I cannot seem to assemble it in my mind. Will you tell me once more, Mr. Pendragon? Will you do me that final kindness?”
Colin’s face paled and his shoulders stiffened, but before he could say anything Miss Porter spoke up. “You mustn’t, madam,” she said as she hopped out of her seat and came right up beside her employer. “You mustn’t do that to yourself again. There is no value in it. It isn’t healthy.”
Mrs. Connicle reached out and patted the back of Miss Porter’s hand. “You are right, of course. But if I don’t hear it, I won’t understand it and I shall never be able to let it rest.” She turned back and settled her eyes on Colin. “Please, Mr. Pendragon.”
Colin brushed a hand through his hair and flicked his eyes to me, and I could see how loath he was to be having this discussion again. He had not wanted to come here in the first place. I had insisted. I felt we owed her something more, but as we sat there I began to wonder if it hadn’t been to assuage a ghost of my own.
“Well . . .” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Your husband—”
“No . . .” she interrupted him at once, “I know about Edmond. I don’t need to hear about him. Tell me about Albert. Why did he have to die?”
“The morning your husband disappeared Albert had been out checking the fence at the edge of your property. He told us he’d seen someone, a man on horseback who had tried to chase him down. I’m quite sure that man was the Prussian felon who’d been hired to perpetrate your husband’s disappearance. Once he had been spotted by Albert, I’m afraid Albert became a liability.”
“That poor man,” she groaned.
“It is my belief,” Colin spoke slowly and carefully, as though picking his way through a patch of brambles, “that this whole business began and ended with Charlotte Hutton. Locked in a marriage she could not abide to a reckless man who had squandered their money, she began to plot a way out for herself. Her escape comprised two crucial elements: the need for a vast sum of money to afford the existence she desired, and the necessity to rid herself of a husband she hated and a son who represented nothing more than a lifetime’s encumbrance.”
Miss Porter sucked in a startled breath even as tears began to roll down Mrs. Connicle’s cheeks. “What I would have given to have a child,” she muttered, dabbing at her eyes. “Please go on. . . .”
Colin drew a labored breath and continued. “About a year and a half ago Mrs. Hutton began her dalliance with your husband. At some point she was able to manipulate him into setting up a personal account in her name. Most likely with the pretense of proving his intentions toward her. But what your husband did not know is that Mrs. Hutton had also begun a liaison with Wynn Tessler. They not only conspired to have her husband and son murdered but also your husband once they managed to gain the access they wanted to his fortune. That moment came when your husband’s financier, Noah Tolliver, suffered a debilitating riding accident. No accident, I can assure you.
“Control of your assets reverted to Mr. Tessler, who added Mrs. Hutton as a silent partner to all of his accounts, just as your husband had done, to prove his fealty to her. An egregious mistake.
“That’s when Mr. Tessler enlisted that scourge from Prussia to do their bidding. First he took the life of the homeless man whose body stood in for your husband’s. The use of the voodoo fetishes was intended to deceive the Yard, and it was a clever ploy, given our country’s lamentable distrust of those foreign born. But it was all pointed and sloppy,” he scoffed. “An imbecile could see it was so. Even the ruddy Yard came to realize it.”
I cringed at his words, for both Inspector Varcoe’s memory and for those at the Yard, like Sergeant Evans, who had helped us. But Mrs. Connicle seemed not to have noticed.
“We will never know for certain, but I don’t believe your husband had knowledge of the killings Mrs. Hutton and Mr. Tessler had planned. Given his unfortunate end, I think he believed he could steal Mrs. Hutton away from her husband with minimal effort. The death of a nameless sot, and Alexa framed for the murder, must have seemed a worthy price to pay.”
“Then he was the fool!” Miss Porter snapped, her lips little more than thin, white slits.
“Indeed.” Colin nodded. “But his plan to drive you, Mrs. Connicle, to madness was incalculably cruel. He was already armed with his faked receipts when we discovered him in that East End alley. They’d confounded us when we found them on his body, but with those in hand, and his insistence that you had known of his trip all along, it would have permanently sealed your fissure from reality. He would have been free to woo Mrs. Hutton once she divorced her husband.”
Mrs. Connicle swiped at her eyes with her handkerchief again as Miss Porter sat down next to her, clutching her arm like a protective sister. I was desperate for Colin to stop, but when Mrs. Connicle nodded at him again I knew she meant to hear it all.
“The moment your husband put his plan into motion, allowing you to spy him at Covington Market, Mr. Tessler had him dispatched. Enough damage had already been done for him to confine you to Needham Hills. And with you and your husband summarily dispatched, he was free to have at your fortune for him and Mrs. Hutton. But he was blind to the fact that Mrs. Hutton had already begun savaging your accounts. And his as well. For she had a plan of her own. One in which Mr. Tessler was played the biggest fool of all once he had seen to the murders of her husband and son.” He sighed and rubbed his forehead. “The slaughter of the Aston dogs served no greater purpose than to mystify the Yard”—he rubbed his forehead again—“and me.”
Mrs. Connicle’s face was pale and drawn, but her eyes had gone hard as her voice came out flat and determined. “I shall never comprehend the mind of that woman.”
“And that is what proves the soundness of your mind and the rupture of hers,” Colin answered.
“And what of Mr. Tessler?”
“He shall pay for his complicity with his life. He not only murdered his Prussian conspirator but a distinguished inspector of Scotland Yard as well. The noose is
already tied for him.”
“Then there will be some justice,” she said, and I saw Colin flinch at her remark.
“Scotland Yard is already working with the Federal Ministry of Justice in Berlin to locate Mrs. Hutton. She will be marked by a substantial trail of blood money. It won’t be easily hidden. She will be brought to justice,” he said, but I was unsure whether he was trying to convince Mrs. Connicle or himself.
“Justice can be a fragile mistress,” Mrs. Connicle stated, “but Mrs. Hutton will face the consequences of her actions in the end.”
Colin gritted his teeth and I knew that answer did not suit him. Not at all.
CHAPTER 43
A week passed with Colin fretting about the flat, alternately lifting a variety of weights as though fearful his muscles might suddenly atrophy and cleaning every gun, knife, and sword in his considerable collection. In an effort to ease his restlessness I arranged for us to take a trip out to the countryside so he could teach me how to shoot—again. While I do not confess to being enamored by the thought of wielding a gun, I was so grateful that Colin had brought one the day we’d confronted Wynn Tessler that I thought it time I learned to respect the device rather than just fear it.
Colin was ecstatic at my renewed interest, and I discovered that I was fairly adept with his little derringer as well as those guns that shot twenty-two-caliber rounds. Those of a higher count, however, intimidated me with both the level of their decibels and the severity of their recoil. More than once my forearm kicked up with such ferocity that a spent shell casing, metallic and hot, came flying out the top of the empty chamber to bounce off my forehead, leaving a pale pink scorch in its wake. Nevertheless, I vowed I would continue to practice.
Mostly we waited for news of Charlotte Hutton from Scotland Yard. Sergeant Evans appeared to be in line to replace Inspector Varcoe, which was a relief given that he had always been civil to us. He was also proving generous with the first bits of information beginning to come out of Berlin about Mrs. Hutton. They were still struggling to trace precisely how and where she had moved the siphoned funds from Deutsche Bank. Her trail was proving to be shrewd and circuitous, making it evident that she had learned much from Wynn Tessler.
“Maybe it’s time for us to take a holiday,” Colin announced one afternoon as he stoked the fire against the chilled drizzle outside. “What would you think of that?”
“A bit of heaven. What do you have in mind?” I asked, turning away from my notes on the Connicle case. I was certain I knew what he had in mind. He would want to go to Berlin. He wouldn’t be able to stand the thought that Charlotte Hutton had outwitted him.
“Spain . . . France . . .” He shrugged as he picked up one of his large revolvers and began to disassemble it yet again. “Maybe Switzerland. It might be nice to get some of that Alpine air. . . .”
“Alpine air?!” I repeated, my brow curling as I stared at the side of his face, certain he was being facetious. “Since when do you give a whit about Alpine air?”
He glanced over at me as he pulled a telegram from his pocket and handed it over. “Since this came from Sergeant Evans while you were out earlier.”
I unfolded and scanned it quickly:
NEWS OF CHARLOTTE HUTTON. BULK OF
FUNDS WIRED TO CREDIT SUISSE ON
WEDNESDAY NEARLY A FORTNIGHT AGO.
BANK ACKNOWLEDGES RECEIPT. NO
FURTHER INFORMATION FORTHCOMING.
WOULD TAKE AN ACT OF GOD. DOES YOUR
FATHER KNOW HIM? CHEERS, SERGEANT
EVANS.
I looked back at Colin. “You think she and Anna are headed for Geneva then?”
“There’s a fair chance of it. She can drop the girl at a private school and be done with her. From there . . .” He let his voice trail off as he concentrated on boring out the barrel of the revolver with his little oiled brush.
“It’s all so ghastly.”
“And that’s precisely why we should go.” He looked up at me with a crooked smile. “You know, on holiday.”
“Holiday.” I laughed as a knock came to the door below. “Perhaps we have more information arriving even now,” I said as Mrs. Behmoth’s heavy footfalls crossed beneath us. Not a moment later Mrs. Behmoth gave a delighted squeal and I knew it could only mean one thing. She pounded up the stairs with unaccustomed speed, Sir Atherton Pendragon in tow.
“Look ’oo’s come ta visit,” she enthused as he glided into the room and gave me a hug and then dispensed one to Colin. “You’ll stay fer supper or I’ll throw yer arse out the winda right now.”
“How could I possibly refuse such an offer as that?” He chuckled. “You will remember my delicate digestion—”
She waved him off. “It was me what ’elped give ya that. I know jest wot ta make fer ya.” And with that she was gone.
“I’m not so sure we’ll get any tea in the meantime.” Colin stared after her.
“It’s no matter.” He sat down in Colin’s usual chair by the fireplace. “I’m here to speak with you both and would just as soon do it while she is otherwise engaged.”
Colin set the pieces of the revolver he’d been cleaning onto the table and took a seat on the settee as though he were suddenly the client.
“How have you lads been?” his father asked incongruously as he reached out and snatched up the sundry parts of the revolver and quickly reassembled it. He studied it closely a moment before setting it down and looking at the two of us.
Colin’s brow furrowed. “What kind of question is that?”
“I’m just trying to be cordial. You will remember I spent a lifetime as a diplomat.” Neither of us said a word. “Well, all right then. I have received a telegram.”
“A telegram . . . ?” Colin parroted.
His father stared across at him. “Yes. What are you on about? You’re coiled up like an asp.”
“It’s nothing,” he answered too quickly.
“It’s a case,” I corrected. “He solved it save for the fact that the woman at the very heart of it has managed to slip away. He’s been treating himself unforgivably ever since.”
“Ah.” His father smiled. “I’m afraid that’s a character flaw.”
“Will you please just tell me about the bloody telegram?” Colin snapped.
His father looked back at him reproachfully. “And that is why you are not a diplomat, boy.” He sat back in the chair as his eyes slid over to the fireplace. “I’m afraid it’s bad business. News from a bishop who was working in Bombay when we were living there. Ambrose Fencourt. Do you remember him?”
Colin pursed his lips and seemed to ponder it a moment before shaking his head, which came as no surprise to me. He was far more likely to remember the man’s face than his name.
“No matter. He’s the bishop for East Sussex County now. He’s a good man. A pious man. And he sent me a telegram today and asked if you would be able to help him.”
“Help him with what?” Colin asked, and I could hear the wariness in his voice.
“There’s a monastery in the small town of Dalwich called Whitmore Abbey. A group of monks living obedient lives of poverty reside there. They have almost no interaction with the outside world.” He cleared his throat and shifted in the chair, his discomfort at the topic evident. “Early yesterday morning the abbot was discovered murdered in his chamber. He’d been stabbed dozens of times and his tongue was cut out. It’s missing. They cannot find it.”
Colin’s posture stiffened as his eyes slid away from his father. “It sounds extraordinary, but I should think men like Ethan and me would be most unwelcome at a monastery.”
“Well, you needn’t post a notice on your forehead. Besides, I’ve already written him that you’ll go. Tomorrow.”
“I’ll not be anyone but who I am.”
“God help us”—Sir Atherton rolled his eyes—“if my son should deign to compromise.”
Colin pursed his lips as his eyes pinched together. “All right,” he said as he turned to me, the s
cowl darkening his eyes to cobalt by the light of the fire. “Then we shall start our holiday in Dalwich.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
If you enjoyed this read, and I most certainly hope that you did, then you must permit me one more moment of your time to thank and acknowledge the people who were so vital to me in bringing this story to your hands in whatever form it took.
I am incredibly thankful to Kathy Green, whose early support of me cannot be overstated. Her guidance is always appreciated, as are her ever thoughtful notes. She brought my work to Kensington, and it is to the staff there that I must give my next round of appreciation. First and foremost is John Scognamiglio, who is patient and intuitive and provides me with the most amazing support. I know Colin and Ethan are in good hands when I turn a draft over for his review, and I am forever grateful for that. Vida Engstrand is tireless in helping to get these books out to the wider world, and I hope she knows I am forever at her beck and call to do whatever bidding she desires. Kris Mills never ceases to please me with her eye-catching cover designs. I look forward to seeing them as much as anyone. And to freelance copy editor Barbara Wild I give my hearty thanks for her diligence and detail in copyediting the books.
If there are mistakes in the timing, vernacular, or history of these stories, it is NOT the fault of Barbara. I’m afraid those belong to me alone. I will admit to a bit of literary license here and there, though I try to behave within the period at hand. I hope you will permit me my freedoms now and again and not judge too harshly.
I have received unending support from my family and friends. In particular, as with the first two books, Diane Salzberg, Karen Clemens, and Melissa Gelineau provided critical assistance. Their careful notes during early drafts prod me to reach higher, and I cannot thank them enough for that. Likewise, I owe a heartfelt thanks to Carla Navas, who is a far better promoter of me than I am of myself. Ladies, you all honor me extraordinarily.
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