The Connicle Curse (10 page)

T
he Connicle household was in a state of near hysteria by the time I arrived there just after ten. It was all the more overwhelming in that I had slept little the night before, my brain unrelenting in its determination to painstakingly relive my mother's own devastating snap from reality. I could not recall a time when she had ever been truly right with the world around her. Even when I was a child I could remember my confusion when she would swing from great heights of joy to near-total catatonia within the matter of a day. It was painful to see, even as a boy. How well I still remembered the morning she and I had gone to Green Park. I couldn't have been more than five or six. We had romped in the too seldom seen sunshine, my mum chasing me about with peals of laughter, tickling me every time she caught up with me until my sides ached with pleasure.

We had turned to hide-and-seek at some point and I was sure I was well hidden in a nearby bush, so when she did not find me I was entirely proud of myself. I fled my hiding place and went to look for her and found her on a nearby park bench, her gaze fixed far into the distance in front of her, her posture as rigid as though she had been staked there. I had crawled up next to her and laid my head on her lap. She did not touch me or respond, but I had not expected her to. And that was where my father found us that night, well after darkness had fallen.

My mother had gone to Needham Hills for a while after that. Though it was the first time that place entered my life, it would not be the last. I thought she seemed better when she returned—more lively, more beautiful, more at peace. That's how I remember it. And sometimes she was. Sometimes she would read to me at night until I fell asleep, or she would walk me to and from school peppering me with questions about my day. But those things eventually gave way to more incendiary moods. She would not speak for days, oftentimes never leaving her room, or accusing me of watching her, or stealing from her, or trying to cause her harm, when I had done nothing of the kind and given her no reason to believe so.

All of which left me wondering how I had failed to conceive of the possibility that Mrs. Connicle might also lose the fragile bond that seemed to connect her to the world. Was she capable of murder? I had never conceived of the possibility in my own mother.

I had arrived at the Connicle estate with my thoughts in such dogged turmoil that I missed the significance of their carriage idling by the front door with no one around. A beautiful golden-maned horse was tethered to the coach, its breath coming hard and fast and its coat slick with perspiration. I saw it, but it made no impact on me. Instead I remained mired between my own disquieting memories and wondering how I would ever coerce Randolph to confide in me, so I was quite startled when Randolph himself opened the door. For an instant I even thought perhaps he knew I was there to speak with him. But my better senses quickly rallied, alerting me to the fact that something was dreadfully wrong.

By the time I stepped in, Miss Porter had come up behind Randolph and hastily bade me to follow her. When I didn't seem to be moving quickly enough, she seized my arm and hurried me along the hallway to the library. The moment I crossed the threshold I spotted Mrs. Connicle balled up on the couch. She was whimpering like an injured animal and had a damp cloth spread across her forehead. Her face was so pale that her lips looked bluish and I could see at once that she was shaking ever so slightly. Mrs. Hollings was kneeling at Mrs. Connicle's side, dabbing at her cheeks with yet another wet cloth, and Letty hovered just behind, looking nearly as pale as Mrs. Connicle herself.

“Your mistress needs to be covered with a blanket at once,” I said to young Letty as I dashed across the room. “And give her some air, ladies.” They both moved back at once, allowing me to reach her side and get a proper look at her. I was pleased to note that while she was still weeping, her breathing was neither labored nor irregular, and as I knelt at her side and saw that her pupils were full and round I knew she had not succumbed to shock.

“Get back over to Dr. Renholme's, Letty,” Miss Porter spoke up. “Find out what's keeping him.”

“Right away,” the girl answered, dipping her head and running out, all the while looking very much relieved to be doing so.

Miss Porter finally snatched a chenille throw off the back of a nearby chair and draped it gently over Mrs. Connicle. She stepped back and glanced at me, a well of pity evident in her gaze, before moving over to the fireplace, where she began to restoke the flames.

“Whatever has happened?” I asked as I came up beside her.

“She thinks she has seen a ghost,” she mumbled under her breath.

“Do you betray me too?” Mrs. Connicle's frail voice drifted accusingly between choked sobs as her eyes pleaded with Miss Porter. “How can you?”

“Hush now, mum,” Mrs. Hollings said as she crept forward, adjusting the compress still pressed to her mistress's forehead.

“It was no ghost,” Mrs. Connicle managed in a voice faintly stronger. “I saw him, Mr. Pruitt. In Covington near the marketplace. It was he.” Her face began to collapse as she started to whimper again. “I know it was he.”

“Ssshhh, mum. Ya mustn't fret,” Mrs. Hollings persisted.

“Who . . . ?” I asked foolishly.

Mrs. Connicle stared over at me, her face so drawn and swollen she appeared to be succumbing to some disease. “Edmond!” she sobbed.

“You mustn't, Mrs. Connicle . . .” Miss Porter started to say as she began to move back to her mistress's side.

“No!”
Mrs. Connicle howled, listing up and sending Mrs. Hollings tumbling backwards. “It was he.
It was Edmond!
Am I so broken that you find it easier to doubt me than believe me?” Neither of the women said a word nor so much as moved as Mrs. Connicle shifted her gaze back to me. “I tried to run after him, but there were too many people and he was so very far away. . . .” She sagged back against the couch, tears streaking down her cheeks as though driven by their own resolve. “And then he was gone. . . .”

“Now, now,” Miss Porter muttered as she fussed the blanket back over Mrs. Connicle. “Sometimes we wish a thing so deeply that we can convince ourselves—” But she got no further, as Mrs. Connicle suddenly lunged at her, lashing out at her head and face with balled fists in a rain of fury.

“You horrible woman,”
Annabelle Connicle shrieked.
“You horrible, hateful woman!”

And then I was in motion, racing forward and pulling Miss Porter out of range. The poor young woman was shaking as I held her a moment, her eyes filled with shock and horror. “You mustn't think anything,” I whispered to her. “These are extraordinary days.” I glanced up to find Mrs. Hollings staring at us and gestured her over. “Take Miss Porter and get her some tea,” I said to the older woman. “I shall stay here and tend to Mrs. Connicle.” She nodded and dutifully led Miss Porter out of the room.

As the kitchen door swung closed behind the two women I quietly settled into a chair across from the couch Mrs. Connicle was huddled upon. She had curled back up beneath the blanket, her tiny form taking up no more than a small slice of a single cushion. She was still sobbing and I could tell by the movements of the blanket that she was shivering with either cold, grief, or both.

“I believe you, Mrs. Connicle,” I said after a moment, holding my voice low and calm. “You know your husband better than anyone. How far away from him were you?” I knew it would be foolish to try to convince her of other than what she believed. All I could do was try to guide her to consider the improbability. How many times I had watched my father do the very same thing with my mother.

“I know what you mean to do, Mr. Pruitt,” she answered at once. “I appreciate it. I do. But I know what I saw and it was neither an apparition nor an illusion. Believe what you will. I shall not be dissuaded otherwise.”

“I wish to dissuade you of nothing,” I said. “You are our client, Mrs. Connicle, and if you wish us to search the whole of Britain for your husband, then we shall do so.”

She looked over at me, her eyes as hollow as her voice. “You told me once that you knew madness in your own family. So tell me . . . do you think me mad?”

R
andolph steered the Connicle carriage toward Holland Park with the assurance of a man who has been doing so for the whole of his life. He seemed relieved when I had asked him to ferry me back to the city, obviously as uncomfortable in the house as I felt. He also had no idea that I really just wanted an opportunity to ask him about Mr. Connicle's connubial wanderings, even after I shunned the interior of the carriage and climbed up beside him as though we were great old chums. The city's crystal-blue sky and warm, indifferent breeze did give me a compelling argument for my actions, but I was still glad to have him off his ease. I hoped it might give me an advantage in our discussion.

As the scenery slowly began to alter, large landed estates gradually giving way to abbreviated properties that in turn let on to homes of barely more than the land beneath them, I considered my words carefully. It was only as the Guitnu home drew closer that I decided to lead with the banal. “Do I remember correctly that you've been working with the Connicles since they married ?”

My sterling conversation starter earned me a silent nod.

“It speaks well of them to have such loyalty from a man like you.”

He tossed me a curious glance and I suspected he was wondering how I could possibly have any idea what kind of man he was. “I s'pose.” He shrugged.

“It's such a shame how poor Mrs. Connicle suffers so. That must have been difficult for Mr. Connicle.”

Randolph slid his eyes back to me for the whole of an instant but otherwise offered nothing else. I was clearly having no impact on him and all the while Holland Park was drawing inevitably closer.

“My mother suffered bouts of hysteria when I was a boy. Voices . . . Hallucinations . . . They caused my father an infinite sorrow.”

“I'm sorry,” he muttered.

“It was a long time ago,” I said too glibly, and was rewarded with a fleeting stab of shame that I quickly tamped down. “My father would sometimes seek solace in the company of a diffident widow who lived near us. I believe she helped afford him the fortitude to remain by my mother's side during the worst times.” The lie caught in my throat and I was forced to look away from Randolph to ensure my composure. “No one could fault Mr. Connicle”—I plunged ahead after sucking in a quick breath—“for having done the same.”

Randolph kept his eyes focused straight ahead as he steered us down the Guitnus' street. I knew he had no reason to answer me and even less to betray the confidence of his employer. Even so, as he pulled the carriage to a smooth stop he spoke up. “I wouldn't know about that,” he said.

I noticed my young accomplice down the path, half-hidden in a cluster of bushes, watching my arrival with a grand smile. “Thank you for bringing me.” I looked back at Randolph, fighting to keep the disappointment from my face.

“Mr. Pruitt?” he said after I climbed down. “Ya ought not discount Mrs. Connicle too quick. I saw the man near Covington Market that got 'er all roused up. It did look like 'im. I'm just sayin' . . .” He stared off down the street. “Ya ought not discount 'er too quick.”

E
ntrepreneurial Paul was clearly not pleased that I was almost an hour late in meeting him at the Guitnu home, or that I had ceased listening to him prattle on while I endeavored to procure us a cab. To be fair, I was still very much caught up on Randolph's parting words as I tried to determine precisely what it was he had wanted me to understand.

“Mr. Pruitt!”
The exasperation in the lad's voice finally sliced through my preoccupation as I turned to find myself staring at a boyish scowl.

“What?” I barked back with a woeful lack of patience.

“Ya 'aven't been listenin' to a bloody word I been sayin'. Yer moonin' all over the place.”

“I am
not
mooning,” I corrected brusquely, further angering myself for treating this well-meaning boy thusly. “All right . . .” I took a breath and forced what I could of a smile to my face. “What were you saying?”

“The girl you was wantin' ta follow . . . ? She came out at eleven jest like yesterday, only you wasn't 'ere. So I tailed 'er back to 'er school like before, but this time she weren't picked up by no cab. I left me mate there and told 'im not ta lose 'er.” He shook his head gravely. “But that were near an 'our ago. Where the 'ell were you?”

“I was
working
and got unavoidably delayed!” I groused sharply, and then made it worse by adding, “And may I remind you who is working for whom.”

His eyebrows shot up and he dissolved into laughter. “I ain't workin' fer you. I'm workin' fer Mr. Pendelwagon. You can bugger off.”

“It's Pendragon,” I said with a scowl. “And must you talk like a guttersnipe?”

“Well, I weren't born with a silver spoon up me arse.”

I shook my head. “Fine,” I muttered, scolding myself for behaving so badly. “Do you suppose your chap has been able to keep an eye on the girl?”

He shrugged noncommittally and I decided I deserved that.

“You said she went back to her school?”

“Yup.” He finally slid his gaze back to me and I could already see enthusiasm coloring his face again. “She went right to the library and that's where I left 'er. Tol' me chum not ta lose 'er. Maybe they'll still be there.” He shrugged again. “We'll 'ave ta see.”

A cab carried us the short distance to the school, where, upon our arrival at the grand library, Paul nearly dragged me to an end stack at the rear of the huge main floor where he had already spotted his mate. It was astonishing that I hadn't noticed the boy myself, given that he was as conspicuous as a fly in ointment. He was shorter than Paul, with black, wiry hair tucked haphazardly beneath a well-worn cap, and was wearing rumpled, ill-fitting clothing that looked old enough to have belonged to his grandfather. It seemed a veritable miracle that the Guitnu girl hadn't caught sight of this ragamuffin tailing her. I took it as an indication of her state of mind.

“You lads have done a fine job,” I whispered as Paul and I sidled up to his friend. “But you'd best let me take it from here.”

“You can take it anywhere ya want, but I'll have me crown first,” Paul responded with an upturned palm.

“I thought ya said it were a farthing. . . .” His pal scowled.

“Hush up,” Paul warned as he shook his empty hand at me.

I dug into my pocket and gave the boys a crown each, but not before asking Paul to wait for me outside. “There'll be a half crown in it for you,” I added, and of course he agreed.

With the boys dispatched I turned my attentions to the person I had come here to see. I crept down the parallel aisle from where I knew the Guitnu girl to be, and as soon as I caught the sound of her sibilant whispering I stopped. Carefully tugging a book from the shelf, I peeked over the tops of several disparate volumes on the other side and spotted the Guitnus' middle daughter, Sunny. She was deep in conversation with a tall, skinny, red-haired young man with a complexion like parchment and a cabbie's coat and hat clutched in one hand. Her voice kept cracking and I could tell that she was choking back tears, but I could not decipher exactly what either of them was saying.

I was about to try moving closer when I saw Sunny suddenly reach out and drop something glittering into one of the young man's hands. He closed his fingers around it so quickly that I couldn't see exactly what it was, but I had no doubt that it was certainly some piece of jewelry. Then, just as suddenly, Sunny turned and raced away from the young man, her muffled sobs echoing through the otherwise silent space. Extortion, I realized. This pasty young pissant was up to some manner of extortion against poor Sunny, though what she could have done to elicit such a thing bewildered me. Before I could give it the faintest consideration, however, he abruptly turned and charged up the aisle after her. Without a second thought I launched after him, managing to collide with him as he came barreling out of his aisle and sending him sprawling to the floor.

“Pardon . . .” I sniffed as Sunny made good her getaway.