The Dalwich Desecration (11 page)

“What in heaven's name was that?” I asked.

Colin chuckled. “Well said. It was a quote from the Bible.”

“I gathered that. But what does he mean by it?”

This time Constable Brendle spoke up before Colin could. “I believe it's from the book of Romans, but I wouldn't swear to it.” His pale cheeks flushed pink as a small grin tugged at his lips. “I suppose I shouldn't be swearing to anything in a monastery.”

I allowed myself a grin both at the constable's words and at his embarrassment of them, but when I turned to Colin I found no such similar smirk on his face and decided my question was not so easily answered.

“I am less concerned about that lad's scriptural ramblings,” Colin said concisely, “than I am about speaking with that monk who was missing the morning of the murder. Wright, you said?” He glanced at me, but I could tell he had the man's name well learned now that he was intrigued by him.

Before I could respond, a deep voice rumbled from the doorway behind the three of us. “I see you have come back.” Brother Morrison stood just inside the refectory, his craggy, round face as cheerless as ever.

“Now, don't make a fuss . . .” Colin said as the three of us rose. “You will only embarrass us.” He gave a fleeting smile that the monk did not return.

“I must profess,” he said dourly, “that I am disappointed in your persistent need to badger Brother Hollings. He is a fragile young spirit who has suffered greatly these past few days. I should think that might earn him a modicum of grace on your part. If you can be so inclined to be thusly moved.”

“Mr. Pendragon has been the very model of compassion with Brother Hollings.” I spoke up at once, bristling at the elder monk's censure of Colin. “I am sure you realize that we could not conduct a successful investigation without speaking to all of the parties concerned. And I know you wish us to be thorough and expeditious,” I added, even though I suspected he only truly wanted us gone.

Brother Morrison studied me for a moment before shifting his eyes back to Colin and asking, “And it is Brother Wright you wish to speak with now?” And in that instant I felt utterly dismissed.

“You have sound hearing,” Colin answered with a tight nod.

“My innumerable years on this earth have not yet dulled me completely,” he remarked with what I took to be a trace of mirth. “Come then. Brother Wright is tending to the gardens. I will show you where he is.”

The three of us followed Brother Morrison through a door between the abbot's office and the library that let out onto the side of the monastery's main building. There was a good-sized vegetable garden planted just beyond, stretching a dozen rows deep and looking to cover some twenty yards across. It held a proliferation of lettuces, beans, pea pods, broccoli, carrots, and several different ground-creeping vines that I decided were either squashes or potatoes, though I didn't know which. Four monks were working in the abundant plot, their black cowls abolished on this sunny day, leaving them toiling solely in their full-length black tunics, which I decided could only be marginally cooler. None of them paid us even a moment's heed until Brother Morrison called out to Brother Wright, recognizable with his thinning brown hair and the neatly trimmed beard outlining his jawline. Only as Brother Wright began to make his way toward us did the other monks bother to slow their tending and give us a glance. They certainly had to know why we were here, especially as we were accompanied by Constable Brendle, yet there appeared to be little curiosity on their faces, which, as with so much about Whitmore Abbey, I could only find peculiar.

“Good day, Brother Morrison . . . gentlemen . . .” Brother Wright said as he joined us.

“These men tell me it is necessary to question you again,” Brother Morrison grumbled, “though we have already made it clear that you were in your cell the morning our abbot was struck down.”

Brother Wright gave the senior cleric a patient nod. “I have no issue with their desire to do so. If I can be of any help—”

“Then I shall leave you to it,” Brother Morrison clipped him off, not bothering to let him finish his sentiment. He gave a stiff nod back to Brother Wright before turning and heading back the way we had come.

“Please come and sit over here,” Brother Wright said, not giving the least indication that he was perturbed by Brother Morrison's manner. He led us to a row of well-worn wooden chairs on one side of the porch that abutted the back garden. “Make yourselves comfortable . . .” he said as he sat down and bade us do the same. “These old seats may not be much to look at, but they do offer some comfort at the end of a long day.”

“We are sorry to be troubling you in the midst of your daily labors,” Colin began as we rearranged the chairs into a loose circle, “but I do believe it imperative that we not dawdle so we can bring your abbot's killer to the swiftest possible justice.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.” The monk shook his head gravely. “You may count on any of the brothers here to give you whatever time you require to assist in the resolution of this heinous tragedy.”

“Thank you,” Colin said, fidgeting slightly as he spoke and making me suspect that he was sorely missing the feeling of a coin spinning between his fingers just now. “May I ask how long you have suffered from your vexing headaches?”

Brother Wright gave a tight sort of grimace as he stared back at Colin. “They have tormented me from the time of my middle teens.” He scowled and shook his head just once. “That would be some thirty years now. I have always believed them to be my penance from God”—a soft smile fluttered across his lips—“though I cannot claim to know for sure, but when they strike me I am of little use to anyone, especially myself. Brother Silsbury will give me a draught of laudanum, but I can do little more than retreat back to my cell and attempt to seek a bit of solace in sleep. That is where I was the whole of Tuesday morning. I did not even hear about”—he hesitated an instant—“Abbot Tufton's murder until later that afternoon.”

“Do you have any idea what time you were awoken by the pain that morning? Or what time you went to see Brother Silsbury to fetch the laudanum?”

The monk tilted his head back and stared up at the patches of cerulean blue poking out from between the frilly white tufts of clouds dotting the sky. “I wear no timepiece and the night is as dark at midnight as it is at four in the morning, so I'm afraid I really could not say. All I know is that it was silent and I did not see anyone else about.” He gave the thinnest chuckle. “But then I suppose there is no surprise in that.”

“Was Brother Silsbury awake when you arrived at his cell?”

“Oh no. I could tell that I had awoken him just as I ever do. He keeps the laudanum on his bed stand for the nights I have need of it. I cannot imagine how trying it would be if the two of us had to stumble all the way out to the infirmary.”

“Do you pass the abbot's cell on your way to Brother Silsbury?”

“No, Abbot Tufton is two doors farther down the hall, and when I am in such a state I do not take one more step than is absolutely necessary.”

“I can only imagine,” Colin replied with a fleeting grin. “I . . .” But he got no further when a horse came careening around from the front of the monastery with Constable Brendle's man, Mr. Masri, astride.

“
Constable!
” The swarthy man huffed as though he had been the one doing the running. “Doyle O'Dowd arrived not thirty minutes ago and is tearing up one place after another looking for you. Mr. Whitsett and I have both tried to calm him down, but he's not having any of it. You'd better come at once.”

“Bloody hell . . .” The constable cursed before catching himself and looking back at Brother Wright with mortification. “Forgive me. . . .”

Brother Wright returned a sympathetic smile as he stood up. “You get on with your other business, Constable. We shall be here when you need us.”

Colin practically leapt to his feet before Constable Brendle could utter a response. “We shall go back with you as well, Constable,” he announced. “I should very much like to meet this rebellious young man. He just might be able to provide the key to his sister's murder, and there is seldom a better time to question a man than when he is at his most unfavorable.” He struck off toward Mr. Masri with unbridled enthusiasm, leaving Constable Brendle and me to hurry after him even as I tried to imagine where he had ever come up with that philosophy.

CHAPTER 11

C
olin and I rode back to town with Constable Brendle, the three of us once again sitting as quietly as we had been on our journey out to the monastery, with Mr. Masri riding up ahead. This time, however, I noticed the constable's mounting discomfort as we drew closer to Dalwich. Somewhere along the way a thin film of dampness had sprung up on his upper lip, and his hands had begun fidgeting with the reins as though the straps of leather had suddenly become inexplicably hot. It was clear to me that for whatever reason, Constable Brendle was unsettled by this Doyle O'Dowd.

The instant we swung onto Dalwich's cobbled main street a great barrage of shouting could be heard, though I could not yet decipher any specific words. “Sounds like he's over at the Pig and Pint,” Mr. Masri called back to us.

The constable quickly steered the carriage onto the macadam path alongside the inn, and he and Colin hopped out at once, with me close on their heels. The noise grew exponentially as we rushed along the side of the building toward the front. As we drew up to the main door I recognized Raleigh Chesterton's bellowing voice, though I could not say the same about the harsh, infuriated growls of the second man, who I presumed to be Maureen O'Dowd's brother.

Constable Brendle shoved the double doors open and barreled inside, his gait strong and steady even though I knew him to be well unnerved, with Colin following closely behind, his curiosity and fearlessness fully on display. “
Doyle!
” the constable shouted, his voice cracking the thinnest notch.

A skinny young man with shaggy black hair and the face of a boy turned around and glared at us. His eyes were dark and full of fury, and his skin was oddly smudged with light gray patches across his face and neck as though someone had tried to whitewash him. I suspected these were the remnants of too many years spent deep within the earth. The constable's other assistant, rail-thin, towering Mr. Whitsett, had planted himself in front of the youthful Mr. O'Dowd, looking as anxious as he was physically awkward.

“
Ya feckin' shite!
” Doyle O'Dowd hollered as he rounded on Constable Brendle. “You been hidin' like a ruddy fay.” He advanced toward us, the sneer on his lips almost feral. “Wot have ya ta say about me sister, huh?!” He continued pounding his way forward and I suddenly feared that he might actually try to do the constable some real harm. “ 'Ave ya caught the poxy bastard wot killed 'er yet? 'Cause if you don't, I will. I'll find 'im and skin 'im alive and feed his guts to the ruddy pigs.”

“Doyle . . .”

But that was as far as Constable Brendle got before Mr. O'Dowd seized him by the collar and leered directly into his face. “Listen 'ere, ya sorry sot,” he seethed, showering the poor constable with spit. “ 'Ow dare ya let somethin' like this 'appen ta me sister. You was sweet on 'er once.
'Ow bloody dare ya!
”

“Mr. O'Dowd . . . ?” It took a moment for me to realize that Colin had spoken up, his voice calm, soothing, and patient. “I must ask you to release the constable at once and settle yourself or I shall be forced to do it for you.”

Doyle O'Dowd barely moved his head as his eyes shifted over to Colin in the span of an instant. His rage seemed to neither cease nor waver, yet as he studied the fixed expression on Colin's face and the solidity of his frame, he seemed to come to an appropriate decision. Letting loose an infuriated howl, he abruptly shoved the constable aside and spun on Colin, although I noticed he did not come any closer.

“And who the mighty 'ell are
you?
” he sneered.

“He is Colin Pendragon,” Constable Brendle answered first, yanking his shirtfront back into proper alignment and smoothing his ruffled jacket lapels. “He has come from London to help solve your sister's murder,” he added with remarkable tolerance.

A wary frown crowded onto Doyle O'Dowd's forehead. “Why do you give a fig about me sister?”

Colin maintained his even stare, which, for some reason, began to make me feel uneasy. “I had the pleasure of making your sister's acquaintance just the other night . . .” he started to say, but before he could get another word out Doyle O'Dowd rounded off and sent a fist blasting toward Colin's jaw. I was so startled by the abruptness of the swing that I couldn't even draw a breath before Colin's left hand shot out and seized that arcing wrist, his right hand curling up and barreling forward like a careening locomotive. In the span of an instant Colin's fist collided with Mr. O'Dowd's chin, sending the scrappy young man to the floor in the blink of an eye.

“Oh, for shite sake!” Raleigh Chesterton roared as he hurried over. “What the bloody hell is wrong with you, Doyle?” He turned, and called over toward the bar, “Somebody get me a wet towel.”

As I looked in the direction Mr. Chesterton had shouted, I noticed for the first time that Edward Honeycutt was standing just inside the doorway to the kitchen. It was hard to see him clearly through the scores of people, but I'd have sworn he had something of a satisfied grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. The moment auburn-haired Annabelle White came scurrying over with a rag, I saw Edward take a half step backward and disappear into the kitchen, leaving only the swinging door in his wake.

“Sit him up,” the constable ordered Mr. Masri and Mr. Whitsett. The two men obediently yanked poor, dazed Mr. O'Dowd onto his backside, leaning him against the legs of a chair. “There'll be no more of this, Doyle, or you'll be placed behind bars until you can calm yourself.”

The young bloke looked dazed as he reached up and tenderly tugged his jaw back and forth, making sure that all was still where it belonged, which most certainly it was. I well knew that if Colin had intended to remove some of Mr. O'Dowd's teeth, he would have done so. “Bloody 'ell . . .” Doyle O'Dowd groused after a moment, fixing his gaze on Colin. “Yer a right wanker.”

Colin's eyebrows lifted and then he quite unexpectedly let out a laugh. “I shall remind you that you swung on me first.”

“I was jest gonna nick ya,” he grumbled as he pulled himself back to his feet with the help of Mr. Masri and Mr. Whitsett. “You were bein' cheeky about me sister and I think ya 'ad that comin'.”

“I gave her a compliment,” Colin corrected. “I found your sister to be charming and witty, which is why I remain pleased to be able to help Constable Brendle set this tragedy straight.”

“Well . . .” Doyle O'Dowd shook his head gently. “. . . all I 'eard was somethin' about pleasure and the other night . . .” He did not bother finishing his statement.

“ 'Ere, Doyle,” Annabelle White said as she held out the damp cloth for him.

“I'm fine.” Young Mr. O'Dowd waved her off, sliding onto a barstool and holding his head in one hand. “Why don't ya jest get me a snort. That'll stop the achin' that's settlin' into me 'ead.”

“I would suggest you not swing on men you do not know, Mr. O'Dowd,” Colin advised as he took the barstool next to him.

“If you're gonna slug me ya might as well call me Doyle,” he said with a grimace. “ 'Oo the 'ell are you again?”

“Colin Pendragon,” he answered, offering his hand. But Doyle did not shake it, instead reaching past him to pick up the shot of whiskey Mr. Chesterton had laid out for him and downing it in a single gulp. A trace of appreciation drifted across Colin's face. “I am a private investigator from London,” he continued. “I have been sent to solve the murder of the abbot out at Whitmore Abbey. While staying here at the Pig and Pint with my partner, Mr. Pruitt, I had the distinct pleasure of making your sister's acquaintance. So when she was found yesterday morning, Constable Brendle did not have to ask twice for our assistance.”

“Me sister was a good girl,” Doyle snarled as he banged the shot glass on the bar top to get Mr. Chesterton's attention.

“You'll get no argument from me,” Colin nodded with a fleeting smile, and I suspected his patience was beginning to fracture.

Doyle O'Dowd pounded down his second shot before returning his glare on Colin. “Mo and I never 'ad an easy go a things,” he mumbled as he shoved the little glass toward Mr. Chesterton again. “People was always talkin' shite about our family and I'm ruddy well sick of it.” He wiped a sleeve across his forehead and stared at the shot glass as though it were the devil, and that's when I finally realized just how torn up this young man was, his anger an armor against a flood of emotions he was ill prepared to express.

“Doyle . . .” I spoke up, earning me a foul glare from him. “We only just met your sister two days ago. We had nothing but good will and admiration for her, which is what has made her loss all the more compelling for us. It is an unthinkable tragedy. But you can be sure that Mr. Pendragon will bring your sister's killer to justice. That is a comfort you may count on.”

Doyle O'Dowd stared at me a moment, seeming to gauge the words I'd just spoken before glancing back around and pounding his shot glass on the bar again. “Ya suspect anybody yet?” he asked in a voice that was still every bit as tight as it had been upon our arrival.

“No one is beyond suspicion,” Colin answered as he always did. “I should very much like to speak with you about
your
thoughts. To see if there is anyone who gives
you
pause.”

“Oh, there is,” he answered at once, his eyes holding steady on some finite point behind the bar. “Edward feckin' 'Oneycutt.” He growled the name.

“Ah, come on, Doyle . . .” Mr. Chesterton started to say before Colin shot a hand out to silence him.

“I should very much like to speak with you about Edward Honeycutt then,” Colin said, “as yours is an opinion that matters to me.”

Doyle slid a scowl at Colin and I feared he had pushed too hard, but not a minute later the young man downed his third shot and swung around on his seat, heading for a back table. “A'right then, let's talk.”

The look of surprise on Colin's face nearly made me laugh. Even so, he had the foresight to snatch the bottle of whiskey from the bar before he started for the table. “Put this on my tab,” he called back to Mr. Chesterton. Constable Brendle and I trailed along after he told his two associates, Mr. Whitsett and Mr. Masri, to stay where they were by the bar.

“Not 'im.” Doyle gestured toward Constable Brendle with his chin as we arrived at the table. He sat slumped in his chair with his legs stretched out as though he were there to enjoy a drink with some friends.

“I am the constable in Dalwich. You do not get to exclude me.”

Doyle O'Dowd grabbed the bottle from Colin and poured himself a shot before sneering up at the officer. “I do when ya got a personal interest in all this. We both know you 'ad a go with me sister. She tol' me all about it. So piss off.”

The constable's face beneath his dark ginger hair had gone ghostly pale and his lips were tugged back in a line so thin they appeared almost blue. “It's been over a year since I went with your sister.”

“Why?” Doyle's face went rigid. “Weren't she good enough fer ya?”

“Perhaps you wouldn't mind waiting by the bar?” Colin cut in with an easygoing manner that he suddenly seemed so able to produce.

I could sense the constable's displeasure and humiliation as he held himself rigidly beside me. And I thought I could feel something more, something simmering just beneath the surface, yet what it was I could not begin to say. He finally gave a single nod and stepped back from the table, turning on his heels and stalking away.

“Arse,” Doyle mumbled as he downed another shot.

“Do you believe Constable Brendle a likely suspect in your sister's murder?” Colin asked as we both sat down.

“I think me jaw still bloody well 'urts,” he snarled.

Colin rubbed his right hand and gave a sympathetic sort of shrug. “My hand doesn't feel very well either.”

“How about I see if I can get a bit of ice for the two of you,” I said as I pushed myself up and approached the tall, slim Annabelle White, who was wiping down a nearby table. She flushed when I asked her for the cloths and ice, and it struck me that she was still very much a girl in spite of the fact that she had a strong build and was taller than most of the men in the pub. What amused me the most, however, was the fact that she curtsied before running off to the kitchen as though I were a personage of nobility. I decided I would have to set her mind at ease on that point.

By the time I returned to the table Colin already had Doyle deeply engaged, though
not
in the topic I had been expecting. “I was skinny . . .” Colin was saying, “. . . and I didn't fit in with the other diplomats' boys. My fair coloring and blond hair also made me most unappreciated by the Indian children, so I learned to fend for myself.” A rogue's grin slowly spread across his face as I slid back into my chair. “I began wrestling in school and managed to get fairly adept at it.” He shrugged. “But the more weight I put on, the more muscle I built”—he shrugged again—“eventually I was ostracized anyway.” His smile went stiff and a slight stitch marred his brow for a single instant before he suddenly struck the table with a fist, startling both me and Doyle O'Dowd. “And what about you?” he asked with renewed exuberance. “You are clearly not intimidated by any man.”

“I 'ad ta learn ta take care a meself,” he nodded. “I 'ad me mum and little sister ta look after and me mum wasn't good fer nothin' once she started drinkin'. I got the shite kicked outta me a lot, but eventually I got better.” He laughed as he pushed his empty shot glass toward Colin. “I tried ta teach Mo ta take care a 'erself, but she weren't that kinda girl. She 'ad 'er own way a workin' around a snipe. Weren't many people could get one up on 'er. She were a good girl. She wouldn't 'urt no one.”