Free The Connicle Curse by Gregory Harris

floor, but I could still see the tears beginning to form in the corners of her eyes. “He tol’ me he saw a man real early yesterday when he was headin’ out ta fix da fence. A man on a horse ridin’ up past da trees where Mr. Connicle was found. He said da man chased after him, but Albert was dark as night and hid away easy. Least dat’s what he thought.” The tears began to leach down her cheeks. “Dat man knew who Albert was. He knew. And now Albert’s gone. . . .”

CHAPTER 6
    T he sound of rain spattering against the windows of our flat could be heard over the popping of embers in the fireplace. The clouds had waited for the completion of our journey home before beginning to let loose in earnest, saving us from having to huddle within the hansom cab with little more than a quarter-round top to cover the best of us. Though we were soon to be voyaging out again, I knew the carriage Prakhasa Guitnu was sending had a proper roof.
    I was attempting to jot some notes in my journal even though Colin was prattling on about the case while simultaneously pressing a set of dumbbells across his chest as though they were fashioned of cardboard. “Varcoe hasn’t the kernel of a notion about what’s going on out there,” Colin grumbled as the weights continued to fly across their effortless arc. “But it did seem even he was finally starting to realize how ridiculous it is to believe Albert fell from that tree.” He flung the dumbbells onto the floor and stood up, quickly rolling down his sleeves. “Get yourself ready. There’s a carriage just pulled up downstairs.”
    â€œSo I heard,” I answered with some satisfaction.
    And not thirty minutes later we were delivered to a large brick home in Holland Park with an emerald lawn that sloped down from the face of the house to the street. Crisp lines accentuated the clean, Federalist design that nevertheless hinted at a greater wealth than was initially perceived from its tidy size. There was clearly money here, and it made me begin to wonder how extensive Mr. Guitnu’s loss might truly be.
    The rain had once again subsided to little more than a sputtering annoyance, so Colin asked that we be dropped at the curb. We made our way up to the house along a curved stone path that ascended the gentle angle of the lawn, and as we climbed the porch I could not take my eyes from the metal door knockers shaped like elephants, lacquered in brilliant jewel-toned colors where the headdress and mantle fell below their sides. Tiny gems were fitted for the eyes, though whether they were diamonds or crystals I could not say.
    Colin smiled. “Spectacular. These certainly remind me of a simpler time.” He grabbed the nearest one and gave it a resounding thwack!
    â€œI think your memory is playing tricks on you,” I said.
    He chuckled. “Leave me my delusions.”
    Before I could say anything further a tall, striking Indian man with a burst of white hair, dressed in an impeccable black suit and white gloves, pulled the doors open and bade us enter. “Mr. Pendragon . . . Mr. Pruitt . . . the family is expecting you.” He led us through an exquisite foyer paneled in what looked to be a deep mahogany or red oak that soared two stories above our heads. It was clearly meant to impress and so it did. A staircase of the same wood sprawled along the right side of the space, further accentuating the unexpected grandeur of the home.
    We were ushered into a large sitting room that was surprising in that its furnishings were British, with nary an Indian artifact to be seen. Deep burgundy brocade covered the traditional couches and wing-backed chairs, and there were two hutches and a long wooden bar that looked like they had come straight from one of the shops near Leicester. Mr. Guitnu was seated in the chair nearest an ornate fireplace of geometric design, while Mrs. Guitnu and three young women, presumably their