The Connicle Curse

Book 3: Colin Pendragon Mystery

by Gregory Harris

Genres: Historical Mysteries; Private Investigators; Cozy Mystery

Synopsis

From the author of The Bellingham Bloodbath, a Victorian London private detective investigates a potentially Voodoo-related murder.

When wealthy Edmond Connicle suddenly disappears, his distraught wife enlists the services of master sleuth Colin Pendragon and his loyal partner, Ethan Pruitt. Already on the case, however, is Scotland Yard’s Inspector Varcoe. He suspects the Connicles’ West African scullery maid of doing in her employer, especially when a badly burned body is discovered on the estate grounds with a sack of Voodoo fetishes buried beneath it.

But all is not as it seems, and as more bodies are found, the pressure mounts on Varcoe, forcing him to forge an uneasy alliance with his nemesis, Pendragon. At the same time, Mrs. Connicle’s fragile mental state appears increasingly more precarious. Could madness, not black magic, be at the root of these murders? To untangle the twisted truth, Pendragon and Pruitt must penetrate the hidden lives of the elite and expose the malevolent machinations of a ruthless killer . . .

“I found the book an interesting blend of mystery and English history. . . . The action is solidly paced throughout, providing for an exciting and satisfying climax. This is a fine mystery series, and I definitely recommend this book to those who enjoy a good mystery.” —Historical Novel Society

Release date: February 24, 2015

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

Annabelle Connicle was right; the blood was everywhere.

We had accompanied her back to her home in West Hampton, Colin as eager to see the scene of what sounded like a ghastly attack as I was to make certain she reached her home safely. The poor woman had already fainted once in our study and remained as pallid as milk glass, her lips tinged blue and her eyes so drawn and red that she looked not to have slept in days.

Several Scotland Yard carriages were on-site by the time we arrived at the Connicle estate. Mrs. Connicle had sent for them even as she herself had rushed to our Kensington flat to implore Colin’s help. While it was the right thing to do, it was bound to prove problematic for Colin given that the Yard’s senior inspector, Emmett Varcoe, was eternally envious of Colin’s flawless record for solving the crimes we were brought in on. The one thing I was happy to note, however, was that the coroner’s wagon was nowhere to be found. A positive sign that not only was there no body to collect but also that the reprehensible coroner, Denton Ross, would not be here. That suited me just fine.

Mrs. Connicle had insisted we come inside despite the fact that I had caught Colin staring with noticeable longing at the gardener’s shed in the side yard, which a gaggle of bobbies were indifferently circling. The house was a hush of shadows and unease as we entered, the shades drawn, presumably to block any view of the work being done by the Yard. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust before I noticed the black-suited, heavyset man with a thinning pate sitting in the drawing room and the girl in maid’s attire pacing the floor behind him. The instant the door swung back with a resounding click, the girl twirled about and bolted toward us.

“Oh, Mrs. Connicle,” she gasped. “Thank heavens you’re back.”

“That’s enough now, Letty,” Mrs. Connicle said heavily as she steered the girl—for she didn’t look older than her middle teens—to the young housekeeper who had presented herself upon our entrance. “Go with Miss Porter now. I simply haven’t the heart to deal with your fretting.” Miss Porter, a pretty, slight, brown-haired woman meticulous in her deportment and dress, stepped up right on cue, ushering the quavering girl out of the room with a finesse that suggested she had done it before. “You must forgive me.” Mrs. Connicle sagged into the nearest chair, her tiny, winsome frame nearly swallowed by its generous dimensions. “I’m afraid I am quite done in.”

“Annabelle . . .” The portly man stood up and moved to us, adjusting a pair of glasses clinging to the bridge of his nose. I could tell at once, by both the suit he wore and the leather satchel he carried, that he was a doctor. “You have suffered a tremendous shock and I am certain these men understand that.” He glanced at me before quickly flicking his eyes to Colin. “I take it Annabelle has retained your services to look into this . . . this business, Mr. Pendragon?”

Colin gave him a stiff smile. “And you would be . . . ?”

“Dr. Benjamin Renholme.” He stuck out his hand but did not belabor a smile. “I’ve seen to Annabelle for years. Edmond less so. He could be quite dismissive of the medical arts.”

“Past tense?” Colin fished idly.

A disapproving frown settled onto the doctor’s face. “I take it you have yet to see the shed?”

Mrs. Connicle groaned and Colin gave her a gentle smile before turning back to the doctor. “Sometimes people say things they do not mean and other times they spill what they did not intend. It can be a razor’s edge.”

The doctor took a moment before he gave a stiff nod. “No doubt. I’ll take no umbrage. All that matters is that you discern what has become of Edmond.” His words elicited another moan from Mrs. Connicle that finally stole his full attentions as he swooped over to her. “Come now, Annabelle. I have prepared a tincture of laudanum to help you relax. There is nothing more for you to do but let these men have a look about. I must insist you go upstairs and get some rest.”

“I cannot rest until I know what has happened,” she mewled in the most pitiful voice.

“We will let you know the moment there is anything to report,” Colin said. “The doctor is right; you must attend to yourself just now.”

She gazed at Colin, her thin, drawn face a mask of pain. “All right,” she muttered. “All right . . .”

Dr. Renholme shoved his glasses up onto his forehead as he bent forward to help her to her feet. She leaned against him and he guided her from the room with the gentle assurance of a man of his profession. Even so, the moment they disappeared Colin turned to me with a frown. “It seems to me that man is awfully full of himself.”

I couldn’t help chuckling. “You know . . .” I said as we were finally able to head out of the house for the side yard, “. . . there are those who would say the same about you.”

He shot me an unamused scowl. “Little, pesky, small-minded people, I should think.” And this time I did not try to suppress my laughter.

The moment we cleared the corner of the house the phalanx of bobbies milling about became instantly apparent, so many that the little gardener’s shed was almost inconspicuous amongst the quantity of navy-blue uniforms. Oddly, it appeared that nothing more was happening than idle conversation and the general passage of time. If a crime had been committed, it seemed lost on this leisurely band.

“Do you see Varcoe?” Colin asked.

“No. But you know he’s here somewhere.”

Colin pursed his lips. “Pity,” he bothered to say as we reached the nearest cluster of men. “Excuse me . . .”

The young officer we were nearest to turned from his companions with a frown. “Excuse yourself!” he snapped. “You can’t be here. This is official Scotland Yard business.”

His companions broke into laughter. “Don’t you know who you’re talking to, Lanchester?” clucked one of the older men.

Lanchester glared at Colin. “Should I?”

“You’re a tosser.” The older man snickered. “You’re telling me you’ve never seen a picture of the renowned private detective Colin Pendragon?”

Young Constable Lanchester screwed up his face and gave a listless shrug. “I thought he was younger.”

The men all brayed with laughter before one of them managed to halfheartedly say, “These young buggers don’t have a lick of class. Don’t let him bruise your ego. Not that he could.”

“Pithy,” Colin answered with a spectacularly forced smile. “But tell me, have you good men of the Yard managed to determine anything at all about Mrs. Connicle’s missing husband thus far? Any explanation for all of the blood in the shed?”

Unfortunately, young Constable Lanchester found his tongue first. “I don’t think that’s any concern of yours, Mr. Pendragon,” he shot back, punching Colin’s name as though it tasted bitter on his tongue.

“Oh, lighten up,” another of the more seasoned men cajoled, a sergeant I recognized by the name of Maurice Evans. “There’s nothing much to see beyond about a pail of blood splashed across the walls. We can’t even be sure whose blood it is.”

Colin’s eyebrows arched. “You mean to tell me you’re discounting the obvious? How positively nouveau.”

Sergeant Evans laughed. “You’re a pip, Pendragon.”

Colin managed another brief smile. “Mind if I take a look?”

“Suit yourself.”

“You sure about that, Sergeant?” Constable Lanchester could not seem to keep from piping up.

“Keep an eye on him,” Evans allowed, waving the young man off.

Colin nodded to the sergeant as we headed around the small building, Lanchester and one of his mates in our wake. No one paid us much heed now that we had our escort, either presuming we must belong or not caring so long as someone else was responsible.

Colin pulled up short as we reached the entrance to the shed, but his face revealed nothing.

“Don’t touch a thing,” Lanchester piped up from behind us.

To my amazement, Colin held his tongue.

I stood beside him and gazed inside, finding myself staring at an inexplicable scene of carnage. It was just as Annabelle Connicle had said; the blood was everywhere. Great ropes of it were suspended from the ceiling like viscous stalactites, and swaths were splattered in huge arcing sweeps across the walls and assemblage of tools and yard implements hanging thereon. The floor also contained its own multitude of coagulated puddles, making it look as though a veritable battle had been fought and lost here. The most curious thing of all, however, was the simple fact that there was no body. How anyone could have walked away from such a scene was unthinkable.

“It’s quite a sight, isn’t it?” Sergeant Evans said as he approached.

“Are you sure it’s blood?” Colin asked.

The sergeant chuckled and shook his head. “You really are a pip, Pendragon.”

“May I?” Colin bothered to ask even as he stepped forward.

“If you must. But I’ll ask you not to touch anything. And you, Mr. Pruitt, may remain outside.”

“Of course,” I said as I took a step back. Colin caught my eye as he cleared the doorway and I knew what he meant for me to do. I shifted sideways as though ducking from the sun’s intensity and stared out toward a copse of trees near the edge of the property where a great deal more bobbies were loitering about. “You’ve got quite a contingent of men down there,” I noted pointedly, and was pleased when Sergeant Evans and his two constables swung their gazes around, allowing Colin to quickly dab at one of the puddles. “Have they turned up anything?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Evans said. “This shed is my concern. I don’t really give a shite what they’re doing over there.”

“Have they found something?” I pressed.

He turned back to me with a sharp look. “I didn’t say that.” His eyes shifted to Colin, who was now innocently glancing about. “That’s enough, Mr. Pendragon. Come out of there now. Nothing but a rash of blood, same as you can see from the doorway.”

Colin complied at once. “Is that the official consensus?” he asked, continuing to stare inside.

“What’s that supposed to mean? You see something else?”

“I’m sure I see exactly what you do, but what I perceive could very well be different.”

“Listen to him.” Evans wagged a finger at Colin and snorted at his two companions. “No wonder you pique poor Varcoe’s nerves. Who dragged you out here anyway?”

“The mistress of the house.”

“Well, that may be,” Evans said as he beamed at his companions, “but she sent for us first.” They all nodded smugly.

“Sending for the Yard is a formality,” Colin responded blithely. “I’m here because she means to learn what’s happened.” He gave a rogue’s leer and began walking around the periphery of the shed as Evans and his men laughed, assuming, it would seem, that Colin had meant it as a joke. As Colin was about to make a second pass around the small building a familiar voice blasted out from the trees on our left.

“What in the devil’s tortured ass are they doing here?!”

Colin looked over, his smile drooping. “A pleasure to see you as well, Inspector.”

Inspector Varcoe stormed toward us with four officers at his heels, his tall, slender frame accentuated by his endlessly disheveled white hair with his face its usual shade of plum. Whatever foraging he had been up to seemed to have stirred him quite thoroughly. “You’re not needed here, Pendragon. Take your toady and go back to your hole.”

“How you flatter me,” Colin replied with a lopsided smile that lit his dimples.

“This is official Yard business.” Varcoe planted himself between Colin and the shed, his arms folded across his chest even as the color of his face deepened. “We most certainly do not need the assistance of amateurs trying to sully the good name of Scotland Yard.”

“Now, Emmett. I’ve only ever tried to be helpful whenever I’ve solved your cases for you.”

“You’re not funny, Pendragon!” he snapped back. “Just what the hell are you doing here anyway?”

“Mrs. Connicle fetched us,” Colin answered with a note of relish. “Though I’m sure she meant no affront to you and your fine horde of merry men,” he added with a decided lack of subtlety. “But tell me, what has led you and your men to prowl about the trees?”

Varcoe gave a sly smile. “Seeing as how this is a Yard investigation, I’m afraid you’ll just have to piss off.”

Colin’s grin froze as his jaw tightened and his eyes degraded to slits. I seized his momentary silence to interject the obvious. “You will remember that we can get a magistrate to formally assign us to this case before day’s end.”

Emmett Varcoe fixed his eyes on me with a loathing I found absurd. He was well aware that Colin’s father wielded enormous power in both Parliament and Victoria’s court. Yet when Varcoe’s harsh smile slowly snaked into something more righteous, I knew exactly what he was going to say.

“Then you go right ahead. Go visit your lackey and get your scrap of paper. By the time you get back here we’ll be long gone.” His smile widened. “You’re always welcome to our castoffs,” he sneered.

“I could solve the riddles of the universe with what I’ve seen you and yours leave behind!” Colin snarled.

I feared we were on the verge of being forcibly removed when one of the inspector’s men suddenly came bounding out of the trees. “You’d better come, sir,” he called with noticeable agitation. “You’ll want to see this.”

Varcoe’s eyes narrowed, but before he turned away he set his glare on Sergeant Evans and said, “Get these two out of here. I’ll not have them around while we’re conducting an investigation. You had best remember that, Evans.” And with that pronouncement Varcoe bolted back to the woods with the man who had summoned him—quickly, frustratingly, disappearing from view.

While I am quite certain that there is no one of import who does not recognize Sir Atherton Rentcliff Pendragon as a force to be reckoned with given his lifetime of service to the Crown, it is still virtually impossible to get any bureaucracy to move at much more than a glacial pace. So it was with great relief that by dusk Colin and I had been granted a release from one of Sir Atherton’s magisterial colleagues to conduct a concurrent investigation into the disappearance of Edmond Connicle. The moment we had that writ in hand we raced back to the Connicle estate just in time to catch the sun melting below the horizon as it gathered the last vestiges of its colorful skirts. Innumerable lanterns wagged in and out of the woods like so many lightning bugs, trundled to and fro by the bobbies still patrolling the area in spite of Varcoe’s insistence that they would be long gone by the time we returned. It was unforgivable that he had cost us the daylight, but then Colin had hardly helped matters.

“You know,” I spoke up as we picked our way down to the tree line behind the shed, “if you could be just a bit more tolerant of Varcoe once in a while, perhaps we wouldn’t have to go through such machinations.”

“I think I display the patience of a saint whenever I’m forced to deal with him,” Colin scoffed. “After all, have you ever heard me enlighten him on what a bloody lout he is?”

“How that must burden you,” I drolled.

He snickered as we reached the edge of the woods but got no farther before a small cadre of Yarders came hurtling toward us. Sergeant Evans, looking thoroughly wearied, was at their front. A look of surprise lit his eyes as he pulled up abreast of us, but before he could say a word Colin shoved the court’s paperwork under his nose.

“Well, Mr. Pendragon.” The sergeant heaved a sigh as he raised his lantern to read the hastily prepared document. “This didn’t take you long at all. The inspector has only just left himself.”

“Pity,” Colin sniffed.

“Get on with your duties!” Evans snapped at his men. “You too, Lanchester,” he added to the same young constable who had harassed Colin and me earlier. “I shall see to Mr. Pendragon and Mr. Pruitt.” His men immediately struck off for the house with the exception of Lanchester, who paused long enough to furl his brow at Sergeant Evans before following the others. “He’s a shite, that one. Forever trying to crawl up the inspector’s bum. He’d better come around.”

“God help you if he doesn’t,” Colin said.

The sergeant tsked as he turned and headed back toward the trees, his lantern held high out in front for us. “I take it you’ve come to see what we discovered down here.”

“I’d wager it’s the body of Edmond Connicle.”

A crooked smile crept across Sergeant Evans’s face. “So it is, Mr. Pendragon. And you’ll be glad to see the body just as we found it, as I can assure you, you have never seen anything like this before.”

Neither of us pressed him for additional details as we plunged into the stand of trees running along the periphery of the Connicle property. We would wait and see what there was to see ourselves. Beyond that, I doubted this body could be much worse off than the remains of Captain Trevor Bellingham on our most recent case.

We came out into a small clearing that sloped down toward a gravel road overgrown with scrub and brush, attesting to how long it had been since its last use. Thistles sprouted randomly within the deep ruts left by carriage wheels and the grass covering the center berm had risen to several feet. These details were easily viewable as a result of the multiple stands of electric lighting being run off a portable engine bellowing from the back of a nearby wagon. Buckingham Palace had only been electrified eight years before and yet Scotland Yard was already finding the wherewithal to make use of this expensive new technology. Its value was undeniable considering how the evening sky was lit up like the sunniest day where the lights were focused.

“We really must look into electric lighting.” Colin voiced my very thought as we made our way down the sloping field. “How extraordinary to banish the night so completely.”

“We’ll have to save our extra farthings,” I answered as a large black swath midway along the road gradually came into view. It looked like a charcoal-blackened crater left behind after an explosion had torn it asunder. But as we drew closer we spotted charred remains lying at the center of the earthen wound, curled in a fetal position and recognizable only as being human, nothing more.

“That would be Edmond Connicle,” Sergeant Evans announced as we stopped at the edge of the gouge. “There’s a blackened ring on his finger that matches what his wife described. We haven’t told her yet,” he admitted. “We hear she’s fragile. . . .” he added with a wince. Colin kept silent as he knelt down for a closer look at the remains.

“Is the coroner here?” I asked with feigned disinterest, though I was loath to run into Denton Ross.

“Mr. Ross and his assistant have gone back to their wagon to fetch a stretcher. The Yard’s photographer just finished taking pictures, so they’re ready to move the body to the morgue.”

“May I steal a closer look?” Colin asked as he went ahead and stepped into the blackened depression. Sergeant Evans did not bother to respond.

“We’re quite a way from the house,” I said to the sergeant. “What made your men come down this far?”

He grinned as he answered. “The dogs.” He took his hat off and scratched the top of his thinning pate. “The inspector had us fanning out in every direction from that gardener’s shed, but it took the dogs to finally drag us all the way out here. God only knows why he didn’t head for the house.”

Colin harrumphed. “Did anyone bother to look for signs of a trail while the dogs were mucking about?” He squatted down by the front of the body. “You know . . . drops of blood, bent grasses, broken twigs, the usual sort of tedium?”

Sergeant Evans laughed. “You really think remarkably little of us, don’t you, Mr. Pendragon?” Colin didn’t bother to answer as he poked at the cadaver’s face with the handle of a small folding knife he’d extracted from his pocket. “I suppose there are times we deserve it, but not today. There’s not a drop of blood outside that shed. No such trail to follow.”

Colin stood up and moved to the far side of the depression, sweeping his eyes along the nearby ground. “Were there any other signs?”

“One of our men did finally notice a meandering sort of trail that leads down here. One man’s footprints. As if he had hemorrhaged inside that shed and then wandered all the way down here to be a human bonfire.” His face curled grimly. “None of it makes a bit of sense.”

“Meandering?” Colin asked as he continued to scan the ground on the opposite side of the body, his every move amplified by the harsh electric lighting.

“He didn’t come straight down here. It was like he was searching for something.”

“I see,” Colin said, but it was clear from his tone that he did not. Nor, most certainly, did I. Given the level of trauma evident in the gardener’s shed, it was indeed impossible to believe that the victim of such an attack would go wandering through the woods with his house so near.

“Hey!” The cold, harsh voice tore up my spine like a streak of lightning. “Get the bloody hell away from there!” It was Denton Ross.

“It’s all right.” Sergeant Evans waved him off. “They’ve got approval from the courts on behalf of Mrs. Connicle.”

“I don’t care if the ruddy Queen has given her blessing!” he snarled back as he and his aide reached us. “I’ll not have these prigs fouling my remains.”

“Watch yourself, Mr. Ross,” Colin replied tightly before stepping out of the ditch. “I’ll not stand here while you slander Mr. Pruitt and me.”

“Then sod off,” Denton sniped. He and his cohort stumbled down into the trough and set the stretcher they’d brought next to the scorched remains. “And you’d better keep that one on a short leash,” he added, squinting at me with a dour expression. “If he so much as breathes on me I’ll have him back in prison before the moon finishes rising.”

I rolled my eyes even as I heard Colin chuckle.

“Just do your job,” Sergeant Evans cut in, “and be on your way. Some of us have been here all day and would like to go home.” He turned back to Colin and me with a wink and dropped his tone. “My, but the two of you can get on the wrong side of people, can’t you?”

Nevertheless, the comment was enough to finally focus Denton Ross. He signaled his man and the two of them slid on fouled leather gloves before delicately easing the ruins of Edmond Connicle onto their canvas stretcher. I thought the whole of him might snap in half or crumble to the touch, but they treated him with enough care that he was able to survive this additional violation without further misfortune.

“If you don’t mind!” Denton Ross growled at me as he leaned out of the charred gully to grab a muslin sheet he’d tossed to the ground near my feet. I wanted to chuck some equally caustic reply his direction but knew I would only regret it when the time came to beg his aid again on this or some future case. So I held my tongue and watched as he and his assistant drew the cover over what was left of Edmond Connicle, and hoped I would never have to look upon it again.

“I’ll be anxious to see your report,” Colin said as he hopped back down to check the place where the body had just lain.

“You’ll not get it from me!” Denton snapped.

Colin didn’t even look up as he continued to poke around the nearly unblemished swath of earth. “I’m crushed,” he said amiably.

Sergeant Evans laughed out loud as Denton and his man moved off with their laden stretcher. I could only shake my head, aware that it would be virtually impossible to get any further information from Denton Ross, magistrate’s order or not. This case was already proving to be a challenge. I turned back to Colin just in time to see him withdraw his folding knife, kneel down, and plunge it into the earth at the spot where the body’s sternum had just been. He scrabbled at the dirt with his knife and bare hands a moment, quickly opening a small fissure from which he abruptly extracted a jagged piece of crystal tied to a leather string.

“What the hell is that?” Sergeant Evans scowled.

“Indeed . . .” was all Colin said as he began rooting about in the earth again. A moment later he pulled out a small, white beeswax candle the size of his index finger that had been burned briefly at both of its ends. He handed the two items up to me before squatting back down and attacking the small hole in earnest. Within another minute he had extracted a crude doll made of thatch no larger than his palm, a tiny vial filled with a thick amber liquid, and a small leather pouch from which he poured an assemblage of pebbles, bits of shiny, broken glass, and several teeth.

“What in the hell is all of that?” the sergeant asked again.

“Fetishes,” I answered.

“What?” He swung around and stared at me.

“Voodoo,” Colin mumbled as he quickly pressed the other things on me before attacking the hole once more.

“Voodoo?!” The sergeant’s scowl deepened. “You’re talking about that African nonsense with snakes and witchery?”

“It’s a religion . . .” I started to say.

“It’s bloody superstitious twaddle,” he shot back. “Good god, it’s almost the twentieth century. If Her Majesty’s government hasn’t managed to lead her various peoples past this kind of rubbish, then I’d say we’ve done a ruddy piss-poor job of integrating her colonies.”

“Maybe so,” Colin muttered absently as he stood up and brushed himself off. “But whatever the case, Mr. Pruitt is right. These are voodoo fetishes planted beneath Mr. Connicle.”

“For all you know they’ve been there for months,” Sergeant Evans dismissed him brusquely.

Colin glanced up with a slim smile as he finally stepped out of the burnt hollow. “It was plain to see that the earth at that precise location had been freshly turned. That’s what caught my eye when they removed the body. I’m sure you would have noticed had you been looking.”

The sergeant seemed to approve of Colin’s answer as he nodded his head. “Likely so . . . likely so . . .”

Colin plucked the little thatch doll from me and slowly inspected it inches from his eyes. “The question is, where might Edmond Connicle have come into contact with a practitioner of voodoo?”

Sergeant Evans pursed his face a moment and then lit up. “I know! He’s got a couple of Africans working for him. Live-ins. I saw them lurking about when we got here this morning. Gave me a bad feeling right off.”

Colin flicked a displeased gaze my direction. “Yes . . .” he said flatly as he passed the tiny doll back to me. “Make a note of those things, Ethan,” he said as he began to pace around the area, inspecting the ground every few steps.

I did as he asked, jotting down the items on my pad and making a crude drawing of the doll. It was impossible to tell what, if anything, would have value later, and I couldn’t be sure we would get access to these things again.

“What d. . .