The Connicle Curse (18 page)

“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.”

H
ubert 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 can'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.”

T
he 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.”

“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?”

She stared at him a moment, her eyes studying him cautiously, and I suspected she was trying to gauge the validity of a confession I knew Colin had been loath to make. “Den ya know da shorter list is who liked us. Jest da people in dis house. None more den da mister.”

“Mr. Connicle?” Colin asked as he slipped a coin from his pocket and began easing it between his fingers. “And how did you come to work for the Connicles?”

“I was sellin' meat pies on da corner by his office. Tryin' ta keep me and mine fed. After twelve years da couple wot brought us here from Dahomey had died. Dey left us jest enough ta rent a small room fer a couple months. Bless 'em fer dat. Da rest went ta dey dogs. Dey loved dem dogs.” She made the statement without a modicum of resentment, though I had to turn my head to keep her from seeing the shamed flush of my cheeks.

“Mr. Connicle had one a me pies and liked it,” she went on with a grin. “Pretty soon he's eatin' 'em about ever' day. Even gets other men he works wit' ta eat 'em too. I was makin' a livin' offa dem!” She chuckled with the first good humor I had heard from her. “Den one day he asks if I wanna come work for he and his missus. Jest like dat. Wants me ta work in dey kitchen. I tells him me husband hasta work too and the mister says he can work dey prope'ty. Brought us home dat very day.”

“And how were you received here?”

“Had ta prove meself to Mrs. Hollin's before she'd let me in her kitchen. After dat it were me job ta take orders from her and dat's wot I do.” She let out a sigh. “Miss Porter don't have much ta do wit' me. She nice enough. I ain't said a hunnert words ta her. She takes care a da missus. Dey driver . . .” She shrugged. “He were nice enough ta me husband. He don't talk ta me. He don't have ta . . .” Her voice trailed off and she went still.

Colin waited a couple seconds, the coin flipping rapidly between his fingers, before he suddenly burst out with, “And Mrs. Connicle?”

Alexa took her time. “Da missus ain't well. I see it when she look at me. Mostly I stay outta her way.”

“Is she uneasy around you?”

“She uneasy around life. Dat's jest da way God made her. She do what she can. Even when dat Yard bloke was sayin' I done somethin' to her mister she never looked at me bad. After me own husband died . . .” She shook her head and stared across at Colin. “She a good woman. She ain't had it easy.”

“Are you referring to her illness?”

She screwed up her face and waved Colin off. “She ain't ill. She delicate, like a flower wot buds too early. Some a us are animals or bugs, some are trees or grass, and t'anks God some are flowers. We gotta take care a dem dat be flowers.”

“That's all very good and well,” Colin grumbled as he slipped the whirling coin back into his pocket, “but the one who needs taking care of right now is you. Every clue in these murders is pointing in your direction. Somebody is trying to frame you and I really need you to do more than spout trite sayings. I cannot protect you if you will not help me.”

“Protect me?!” Alexa crossed her arms over her chest and glowered at him. “I ain't askin' you ta protect me. I don't need ya. I managed me whole life wit'out da likes a you and I plan on goin' right on about me business jest da same way. You wanna help someone, help da missus. I don't need shite from you.”

“Pride is a fool's game.”

She grinned. “I bet ya know somethin' 'bout dat.” She stood up and adjusted her apron so it was sitting just right. “I get along fine wit' everyone in dis house. It's true. Been so for a while. Da mister . . .” She shook her head and sagged slightly. “I wouldn't be here if it weren't fer him. I ain't never wished him no ill. I'd be a fool ta a done dat.”

“I never said you did.” Colin got up and stabbed his fists onto his waist. “What I want to know is who wishes
you
ill?!”

For the first time she looked as though his words might finally have had an impact. And then she quite simply shrugged her shoulders and said, “Nobody and ever'body.”

Colin pulled in a deep breath and let it out again before asking, “Could you be just a touch more specific?”

“I got vegetables ta cut. We done?”

His face went rigid and his eyes narrowed, yet he did not utter a word. It was quite extraordinary. I don't know whether it was because he truly did understand how she felt, but as they stared at each other for what seemed the longest time I knew something had passed between them.

“Ya know what I t'ink?” Her eyes sparkled as she managed a wistful smile, her gaze riveted on Colin. “I t'ink whoever done dees t'ings done 'em so you an' dem Yarders be followin' dere trail a crumbs jest like dey mean ya to.” She gave a sardonic smile. “Dat's what I t'ink.”

Colin remained resolutely mute as she nodded her chin at the two of us and took her leave.