“. . . And while Scotland Yard does not expressly condone the type of investigative dabbling your sort practices, it does appreciate when men like you and Mr. Pruitt are able to pass along some occasional information that can prove useful to an investigation. After all, it is impossible for our good men to be everywhere.” Superintendent Tottenshire gave a broad smile as he finished his diatribe, forcing his steely-gray pork-chop sideburns to flare out from the sides of his cheeks like great furry rodents. He was wearing a gray suit that had once been quite nice but now looked rumpled and over-worn, and stood leaning against a bank of filing cabinets that lined the wall of the office behind where Colin and I were sitting. This was clearly a man who had risen to the highest level he would achieve and was, therefore, content to ride the last miles to retirement with what he had already earned.
“I have just been made to feel ever so quaint,” Colin said as he fished a crown out of his pocket and set it into motion tumbling between his fingers.
Superintendent Tottenshire laughed, as did Maurice Evans, who seemed not to know what else to do. There was nary a single framed photograph or personal item arrayed in front of him, further attesting to the potential transience of his current position. He had even tried to scramble out of his seat when the superintendent had first arrived, but Superintendent Tottenshire had only waved him back down before planting himself against the row of cabinets. I kept trying to decide whether he had done so in order to force Colin and me to have to crane around to look at him or if he simply wanted to tower over us from where we sat in front of Mr. Evans. I suspected it was a bit of both.
“I have heard you referred to in many ways over the years, Mr. Pendragon,” the superintendent quipped, “but never has the word quaint been used.”
“And for that I am grateful,” Colin responded and meant it in spite of the fact that Superintendent Tottenshire looked pleased with his jibe. “But do tell me, what exactly is it that you are imagining two such dabblers as Mr. Pruitt and myself might be able to do for you? Might it have something to do with the fact that your revered force allowed Charlotte Hutton to disappear onto the Continent at the very moment I was solving the Connicle case?” He looked up at the superintendent with a foul expression, the silver crown still swishing between his fingers. “Such an embarrassment for you and your men that has also left an unholy blemish on my record.”
Superintendent Tottenshire gave a perturbed frown as he crossed his arms over his chest. “While your concern for the regard of Scotland Yard is ever appreciated, I suspected you might be interested in working with us on the Hutton case, since it is clearly unfinished business for you as well. After all, I believe Inspector Varcoe was deferring to you during much of that case, and had you notified him, or any of us, about your suspicions regarding Mrs. Hutton’s complicity, then I can state quite emphatically that she would never have been allowed to evaporate into France or Switzerland or wherever the hell she’s gone.” He stood fully upright and looked at us with the same prickly sort of mock innocence that Colin had just displayed. “Mr. Evans’s report asserts that you were caught as unawares as we were.”
The coin that had been so effortlessly tumbling between Colin’s fingers came to a halt. Not a moment after that, a razor-sharp smile slowly twitched at one corner of his lips. “I will admit that I did not recognize the depths to which Mrs. Hutton’s connivance fueled the very core of the Connicle case, but given that two of the victims were her husband and young son, neither did I ever imagine that your Yard would neglect to keep a watchful eye upon her, if only because she was a critical part of the case.” He quickly started the crown twirling again. “It was a careless presumption on my part that I shall be sure never to repeat.”
“Then we have all learned something,” Superintendent Tottenshire noted harshly. “And because of your father’s artful diplomacy we now seem to have the opportunity to set it right. You must be sure to give Sir Atherton my regards when you speak with him next.”
Colin’s face puckered ever so slightly. “I’m sure that will be top of mind,” he mumbled as he flipped his crown straight up and swept it out of the air, slipping it into his vest pocket in one smooth movement. “Unfortunately . . .” he started to say, and I found myself wondering just what unfortunate thing he could possibly be about to pronounce, since I knew nothing mattered more to him than bringing Charlotte Hutton to justice, “. . . Mr. Pruitt and I have just accepted a most intriguing case that we will need to commit our fullest attentions to.”
“A case . . . ?” The superintendent shot a quick glance at Maurice Evans, who looked equally surprised, before turning back to Colin and me. “What case might that be?”
“Eugenia Endicott has hired us to investigate the recent death of her elder sister, Adelaide,” Colin responded casually with a marked facetiousness in his tone, confirming what I already suspected, that he was rather enjoying taunting the superintendent. “Very mysterious business. Perhaps you’ve heard about it?”
“Heard about it . . . ?!” Superintendent Tottenshire repeatedly shifted his gaze between the two of us as though trying to gauge whether Colin was having a jest at his expense. “There’s no mystery to Adelaide Endicott’s death. That old bird either tossed herself from the window or else tottered and fell from it. There’s no more to it than that.” He let out a wary laugh. “Miss Eugenia has been hounding our hallways insisting we arrest her sister’s male attendant.” He swung his gaze to Mr. Evans. “What was that man’s name?”
“Freddie Nettle,” I supplied.
“That’s right.” The superintendent stared at me, a mixture of confusion, wariness, and disbelief on his face. “We spoke to the man. There’s no motive. He’s out of a bloody job now. Hardly the stuff to arouse suspicions. Really, Mr. Pendragon, do you mean to spend your time exploiting an old spinster? Have your funds become so tight . . . ?” He chuckled as he looked at our stoic faces before turning to Mr. Evans in search of a comrade who would share his incredulity.
I cannot say exactly why, but Maurice Evans did not allow a smile any more than Colin or I did. Instead, I thought Mr. Evans looked noticeably startled, aware that he was expected to support the conjecture of his superior officer and yet clearly caught by his better understanding of the reasons why Colin would accept a case.
“Really, Mr. Pendragon . . .” the superintendent said again, and this time I could see something uncertain rustling behind his eyes.
“I’m afraid I do not believe Adelaide Endicott’s death so easily accounted for,” Colin replied quite simply.
For the second time in as many minutes, Superintendent Tottenshire flicked his eyes between the two of us as though certain Colin was having a jest at his expense. “Really . . .” he repeated yet again, releasing a most ill-conceived sort of snicker. “I must admit I find that entirely perplexing. We looked into the matter when Miss Eugenia first brought her accusations to our attention, but after a conversation with Mr. Nettle and a brief examination of the room from which Miss Adelaide fell . . .” He shook his head with an expression of persistent disbelief. “There was an autopsy performed, you know. No marks were found on her body consistent with having been pushed, and there was no matter whatsoever found beneath any of her fingernails nor were there any scratch marks of any kind on Mr. Nettle’s face or arms.” He caught a breath and noticeably appeared to relax. “Now don’t you suppose we would have found tiny chips of paint or slivers of wood from where she would have tried to grip the sill to keep from being thrown to her death three floors below? Or at the very least a bit of skin from where she had scratched Mr. Nettle while fighting for her life?!”
“I never said she did not throw herself from that window,” Colin answered plainly. “I mean only to suggest that she may well have been coerced to do so.”
“Coerced?! Whatever would make you think such a thing? Honestly . . . I’m truly starting to think that you are trying to make me the butt of some preposterous joke. Is that it? Is this your retribution for the
errors Scotland Yard made in allowing Mrs. Hutton to slip away during the Connicle investigation?”
Colin’s eyebrows bolted skyward. “While I will admit to some vindication with your acknowledgment of the Yard’s fouling up that case, be assured I am not playing with you in the least.” He gave an easy smile that only seemed to belie his words, just as I knew he meant it to. “So why are we quibbling about the Endicott sisters, a trifle in your opinion, when we have the matter of Mrs. Hutton to discuss. If we were to make ourselves available at some point, what is it you would wish from us?”
The merest suggestion of a scowl wafted across the superintendent’s face before he gave his answer. “We already have a man en route to Zurich for a meeting with a senior official at Credit Suisse where, as I am sure you remember, the bulk of Mrs. Hutton’s extorted funds wound up under the assumed name of Mary Ellen Witten, the name we learned she had been using when we lost her.” He gruffly cleared his throat and paced around behind Mr. Evans’s desk, trying to feign superiority by having that bulky piece of furniture between us. “Sir Atherton has achieved the impossible with the Swiss authorities, and we mean to make the most of it since those men at the bank will not freeze her accounts forever. Which is why we are moving with all due haste.” He leaned forward, planting his hands on the desk, and stared at Colin. “We would like you to head right over there, Mr. Pendragon, and join that meeting.”
“When is the meeting?”
“Thursday. We sent our man this morning so he can have a couple of days to work with the Zurich police. Sort things out with them . . . let them know what we’re up to . . . a bit of international diplomacy, I suppose you could say.”
Colin shook his head with a mock scowl. “I should fear for the whole of Victoria’s empire if the Yard is tasked with our diplomacy.”
Curiously, Superintendent Tottenshire seemed to take no offense as he continued to glare at Colin. “Will you go then? Can I get you to go to Zurich tomorrow?”
Colin stared straight ahead, his eyes locked on the thin manila folder Maurice Evans had shoved at us when we’d first entered: Charlotte Hutton’s file. I knew Colin would never let this opportunity go. It did not matter that Eugenia Endicott was paying us an obscene sum to concentrate our efforts on the death . . . murder? . . . of her sister. Charlotte Hutton was a scourge to Colin’s reputation and he would abide no such thing.
“I’ll go,” he answered just as I knew he would. “But I will only stay for the meeting on Thursday. I’ll not dally to deal with your counterparts at the Zurich police. And as Mr. Pruitt will be left here to begin our investigation for Miss Eugenia, I would ask that you allow him access to Miss Adelaide’s autopsy report.” He fidgeted slightly and I wondered if he was concerned about my ability to adequately pursue the Endicott case in his absence.
“I shall do you one better.” The superintendent stood up with a satisfied grin. “Not only will I allow Mr. Pruitt access to the autopsy report, but I will also give him a chance to review the notes we took at our meeting with that Nettle fellow.” He gestured to Maurice Evans, who obediently got up and exited the office. “This is capital, Mr. Pendragon, simply capital!”
“Yes . . .” Colin answered with far less conviction as he slid his eyes toward me. “It will have to do.”
I returned a smile and the faintest of nods. “You mustn’t concern yourself with me,” I blustered. “I shall try not to resolve the case before your return.”
Colin arched an eyebrow. “I’ll only be gone a single night.”
“Actually”—Superintendent Tottenshire cleared his throat—“we should like to send you tomorrow afternoon and have you spend the whole of Thursday there. The meeting at the bank is midday, and I was hoping you might have a look about thereafter. We can get you on the first train back Friday morning.”
“Don’t hurry on my account,” I said rather more glibly than I felt.
“I see. . . .” Colin muttered, his lips pulled thin even as amusement tumbled behind his eyes. “Apparently, I have been holding you back all this time.”
“Well, there it is then.” I shrugged.
Superintendent Tottenshire glanced at me. “Scotland Yard will be at your service while Mr. Pendragon is away, Mr. Pruitt. Should you require any assistance whatsoever with that Endicott business, you can see me personally.”
“Your offer is very generous,” I said as I glanced over to Colin and found him once again focused on Charlotte Hutton’s file sitting at the center of Maurice Evans’s desk. If he had heard the superintendent’s offer he gave no sign of it.
“You are welcome to have a look,” Superintendent Tottenshire said to Colin, having obviously noticed the same fixated look on his face that I had.
Colin rubbed a hand across the top of the folder a moment as though petting a lover before finally snatching it up and clasping it between his hands as if he could ascertain some sense of it by touch alone. “It’s so thin,” he said after a moment.
“It is. Which should give you some notion as to the level of interest Scotland Yard has in procuring your assistance on the case.”
The tiniest furrow rippled across Colin’s brow as he swept the folder open and quickly pawed through the few pages. “Is this truly it?” he muttered with a mixture of astonishment and gratification.
“The Swiss are rather prickly.” Superintendent Tottenshire gave a shrug. “Were they not, there would be little need for us to seek your aid.”
“And in that we shall forever have a parting of the ways.” Colin sniffed, tossing the meager file at me just as Maurice Evans returned with another slim folder.
“These are the preliminary results on Adelaide Endicott’s autopsy,” he said, handing the file to Colin. “Mr. Ross is running additional tests on tissue samples he took . . . blood . . . stomach contents . . . I don’t know what else. And I’m having one of the constables dig out the notes that were taken during Mr. Nettle’s interview, but there wasn’t much.”
“I believe I made that clear,” Superintendent Tottenshire reiterated with self-assurance, as though that would make any difference to Colin.
While Colin leafed through the autopsy details, I glanced down at the two and a half pages that comprised the totality of Charlotte Hutton’s file. They consisted of a series of bank account numbers along with a litany of bank names and addresses that traced the movement of her embezzled funds from the Bank of England to Banque de Candolle Mallet & Cie, then Deutsche Bank, and finally Credit Suisse. She had been masterful in her planning, which allowed for nothing further in the file but a few scribbled notes interspersed here and there. It seemed doubtful that any of it was going to be of the slightest use.
“I must say . . .” Colin muttered as he handed Adelaide Endicott’s autopsy to me, “. . . that if this is the assistance your Yard is offering, I do not hold out much hope for our partnership.” He stood up and paced in a quick circle behind our chairs.
I opened the second folder and several photographs dropped into my lap. Each of the grainy pictures showed the twisted remains of an elderly woman facedown on a cobbled walkway. Her death had clearly been sudden and brutal, and I could not imagine how the coroner, Denton Ross, could have been able to surmise anything beyond the obvious signs of trauma she had suffered when she struck that path.
I shuffled the pictures to the bottom of the file and quickly read through the descriptions of the contusions, lacerations, fractures, and defacement she bore, and noted at once the type of damage the report did not contain. Just as Superintendent Tottenshire had said, there were no abrasions around her wrists or ankles, no marks around her neck to suggest that she might have been dead before being cast from the window, and not a speck of detritus beneath her fingernails. If she had been shoved to her death, it appeared she had made no effort whatsoever to keep herself from falling. From the looks of this report it seemed that Mr. Nettle’s story of Miss Adelaide having abruptly leapt to her death was almost irrefutable.
“I shall go to Z
urich tomorrow,” Colin was saying with a decided lack of enthusiasm, “but I’ll not leave until late. I will travel overnight from Calais, so be sure to get me a berth. I am not wrong about Adelaide Endicott’s death, and I intend to spend the morning at Layton Manor with Mr. Pruitt interrogating their staff.”
“Yes, of course.” The superintendent nodded with an unimpressed sniff. “We can get you to Zurich by dawn Thursday morning and you can meet the gentlemen for breakfast.”
“Early breakfast,” Colin corrected him. “I need to be on my way back by late morning.”
Superintendent Tottenshire looked sideways at Mr. Evans before nodding his head. “Of course. Just as you desire it. Maurice will make the arrangements and get the tickets to your flat tonight. You won’t mind attending to that, will you, Maurice?” He tossed a smile at his subordinate, but did not bother to wait for a response. “We shall have Mrs. Hutton paying for her atrocities in no time,” he announced proudly, his great triangular sideburns bookending his grin like a furry ellipse.
“Indeed . . .” Colin agreed with far less vigor as he moved for the door. “So we shall.” I heard the inference he was making, though I suspected that neither the superintendent nor Mr. Evans did.
I bid the two men good day and followed Colin out the door, but just before I was swallowed up by the hallway I overheard Superintendent Tottenshire order Maurice Evans back out to the Endicott house tomorrow afternoon to have another look around. He was not, it seemed, a foolish man.
The Endicott Evil Page 3