The Dalwich Desecration (12 page)

“Tell me about Edward Honeycutt,” Colin prodded as he refilled Doyle's shot glass.

“A cur.”

“Yet he seemed very fond of your sister. He told me himself he planned to marry her.”

“That weren't with me blessin', that's fer sure,” he snapped as he downed another shot.

“Why is that?”

“Because 'e weren't good enough for 'er,” he said, his tone growing harsh again.

Colin gave a nod, but I could see he was wholly unsatisfied with the answer and knew he would return to the question at some point. “And do you really believe Edward Honeycutt capable of murder?”

“ 'Ell ya,” he answered at once. “ 'E thinks 'e's better 'an 'is whole family. Too good ta be a farmer. Gonna run off ta London and be in business fer 'imself.” He released a hard snort. “Mo was always goin' on about that. 'Ow they was gonna go ta London together.” He scowled and reached for the bottle and poured himself another shot. “ 'E weren't never gonna take 'er ta London. 'E weren't gonna marry 'er. She didn't fit the kinda life he's so feckin' busy chasin' for 'imself.”

“But murder . . . ?” Colin pressed.

Doyle turned a foul eye on Colin and snarled. “She were carryin' 'is baby. Did anyone tell ya that? She tol' me so 'erself two weeks ago. I said she 'ad ta tell 'im—see wot that'd do ta 'is 'igh-flyin' plans. Find out whether 'e were gonna do right by 'er or not.” He snorted as he reached for his shot glass again. “Well, I'm bettin' she got 'er answer.”

Colin opened his mouth to say something, though I could not begin to imagine what it was going to be, but before he could so much as launch a single sound from his throat Edward Honeycutt stepped out of the kitchen with a rag in each hand, both wrapped around its own fist-sized chunk of ice. He was looking toward the bar, either checking to be sure Doyle wasn't around or to find Annabelle White to give her the compresses, when Doyle O'Dowd abruptly leapt from the table with the ferocity and resolve of an attacking predator. Before I could make any attempt to get out of the way I was knocked over backward, my head thudding against the floor. There was an immediate upwelling of shouts as I quickly struggled to push myself back to my feet, my head throbbing from its cruel impact. But before I could steady myself enough to start heading toward the bedlam so suddenly unfolding near the kitchen door, the unmistakable crack of a gunshot roared through the pub.

CHAPTER 12

T
he trajectory of a bullet is often a capricious and astonishing journey that can follow the laws of physics with regrettable accuracy, but then also appear to defy them as well. An unintended object, say a bit of metal on a suspender or a piece of jewelry, or perhaps the clavicle, humerus, or any of the numerous ribs in a chest, or even an unlucky bystander or animal who happens along the way, can all deflect the intended path of a fired bullet. Certainly the elements, such as wind and hail, can cause a bullet to go astray. It is beyond fundamental to make the argument that poor eyesight, an unsteady hand, or nerves themselves can detract a bullet from whence it was meant to lodge. But above all else, I believe it is the ephemeral brush of fate that most controls events:
Le fortune del destino—
“the fortunes of destiny.” As it is, so it is. How else can it be possible to endure the gossamer-thin line between success and ruin? Well-being and frailty? Survival and death?

I was sitting by myself in the main hall of the Dalwich police station, such as it was. Really little more than one large room with worn plank-board flooring and a tall, sorrowful counter that looked well maligned and stretched half the width of the space, which was only about twenty-five feet across. There was a tight, narrow staircase tucked in a back corner that led to a loft that served as an open office for Constable Brendle, and right beside the staircase was a single barred cell. It seemed curiously placed given that it stood just inside the front doors, but it looked large enough to hold five men at one time, though I doubted it had ever seen more than one or two. In a town of five thousand it simply didn't seem possible.

I had been left here for two reasons. First, because I had been outside the fray when the gun was discharged, and second, because my head had persisted in pounding to the point that I had thought for an instant that maybe, just maybe, that lone bullet had found its way into the back of my skull. It had not, of course. Thankfully.

“This
weren't
me fault,” the low, castigated voice rumbled from behind the nearby bars.

Not only did my head still feel like it had recently been cleaved, but the bench I was sitting on only added to my discomfort. I could verify that it had never been intended for any length of repose. “Shut up,” I growled back.

“I'm jest sayin' . . .”

“I heard you,” I snapped. “Not . . . another . . . word . . .”

Doyle O'Dowd held his tongue as he shifted on the floor of the cell where he was seated. He did, however, let loose a sigh that scrabbled up my spine as though it had razor claws at the ends of its feet. In truth, I could not honestly say whether I was suffering more from the crack to my skull or the shearing of my nerves. Whichever the case, I was profoundly relieved when the front door finally swung open and Colin entered with a breezy look upon his face and a clear vial in one hand containing a small amount of white powder.

“
Mr. Pendragon!
” Doyle O'Dowd sprang to his feet before I could even attempt to offer Colin any semblance of a smile. “ 'Ow's 'e doin'? It weren't me fault, ya know. I didn't touch that ruddy gun.”

“If you
please,
Mr. O'Dowd . . .” I heard myself whimper.

“Hush up, Doyle,” Colin answered simply, and I knew right then that everyone must be fine. “I'll attend to you in a minute.” Without another word he grabbed my arm and pulled me up, ushering me behind the tall counter where he sat me down again on a small wooden crate. “How are you doing?” he whispered as he knelt beside me.

“My head is pounding . . .” I muttered, rubbing at my brow.

“I've brought you something from the doctor,” he announced with a pleased expression, holding up the small vial with the white powder.

I blanched, fearing it to be laudanum with its ten percent component of opium. “You know I can't . . .”

Colin's brow folded down as a pout creased his lips. “Don't you trust me? Haven't I always looked out for you?”

“Of course . . .” I answered quickly, wishing I were not having this conversation while my head throbbed with such tenacity.

He leaned forward and pecked my forehead, and even through the agony I still had the wherewithal to note that Doyle O'Dowd could not see us. “I'll always take care of you . . .” he mumbled as he pulled a scrap of paper out of his vest pocket, unfolding it and carefully reading the notes he'd scratched on it in his blocky handwriting. “It's salicylic acid. It's made from the bark of some willow tree. No opium. I made certain of it.” He gave me a tender smile. “You see? The doctor says it'll relieve your headache posthaste.” He stood up and emptied the powder into a glass sitting atop the counter before filling it half full with water from a nearby carafe.

“I could use somethin' ta drink . . .” I heard Doyle O'Dowd call from the other side of the room.

“It's not your turn yet,” Colin responded without malice as he started swishing the solution around in the glass. I could tell he was quite pleased with himself as he stooped down beside me again. “Now drink it all,” he instructed. “I don't care how it tastes.” I took it from him and tipped it down my throat, surprised to find that it had little flavor at all beyond a benign sort of chalkiness. “There you go,” he beamed. He twisted around and grabbed a blanket and pillow tucked into the back of the counter, no doubt intended for an offender locked in the cell overnight, and sniffed at both of them. “These'll do,” he decided as he spread the blanket out onto the floor near my feet and set the pillow at one end. “Now, lie down.”

“What?!” I stared at him and my head did not thank me for the effort. “I'm not going to . . .” But I couldn't even finish my protest before he hustled me off the small crate and down onto the blanket.

“I know it's not the most comfortable, but the doctor says you need to lie down for a bit after taking that tree bark.”

“I don't want to . . .” I started to object, the thought of reclining on this floor curdling my higher sensibilities, never mind that I had sought respite in far worse places in my youth, but Colin was not having it.

“Be a good patient or I shall send for Mrs. Behmoth. You'll do her bidding or pay the consequences,” he chuckled.

I did not laugh as I allowed him to coax me onto my back. “What about everyone else? How are the constable and his men? And Mr. Chesterton?” I felt sickly and invalid and was wildly dismayed that he was making me do this.

“Everyone will be fine.” He leaned over and planted another silent kiss on my forehead. “Now rest,” he ordered. “I mean it.”

I shut my eyes to suit him but knew I would never fall asleep. It was impossible given how offended I felt about the very thought of reclining on this floor. So I listened to the sound of him rustling about as he got up, followed by the forlorn chatter of Doyle O'Dowd as Colin clearly crossed out from behind the counter. I would concentrate on their conversation, I told myself, until I could not bear it anymore and then I would get up and pronounce myself better whether it was true or not, which seemed entirely unlikely. And yet, inconceivably, the next thing I became aware of was Colin tugging at my sleeve and whispering into my ear.

“Ethan . . .” His voice sounded a lifetime away. “Wake up, love.”

I opened my eyes and found him hovering just above me, his handsome face and sparkling blue eyes filling my field of vision. It made me feel profoundly happy, though for an instant I wondered where the hell I was and how the bed I was in could be so bloody uncomfortable . . . before it all came rushing back at me in a hairsbreadth. “Did I fall asleep?” I heard myself mutter, my voice thick with slumber as he helped me up to a sitting position.

“You did.” He brushed my hair back with his fingers. “How are you feeling?”

I blinked and yawned, and as I looked back at him I realized that my headache had receded to little more than a distant scratch. “Better,” I answered. “Much better. What was it you gave me?”

Colin fumbled for the scrap of paper in one pocket after another but came up empty-handed. “Something acid, I think.”

I chuckled. How could I expect
him
to remember such a thing? He helped me to a stool behind the counter and climbed onto the one next to me, allowing me the first opportunity to notice that the sole jail cell was now empty. “Where is Doyle? How long was I asleep?!” My eyes flashed to the windows set in the front door and I was relieved to find sunlight still streaming in through them.

Now it was Colin's turn to chuckle. “You've been asleep for almost an hour.” His face sobered up again. “I released Doyle, so he'll be headed off to the coroner's office in Arundel to view his sister's body and make arrangements for her burial.”

“You released Doyle? What did the constable say about that? How
is
the constable?!” I blurted out, suddenly realizing that I wasn't even sure who had been injured or how badly.

“What do you remember?” Colin prodded, and I wondered if he wasn't testing me at some doctor's behest.

“I remember Edward Honeycutt coming out of the kitchen with the compresses I'd requested in his hands, and then that balmy Doyle O'Dowd launched himself at Edward like a ruddy projectile. I don't even know how I got knocked over. And then I heard a gun go off. Who the hell fired a gun?!”

“Who knocked you over?”

“I don't know. I don't care. It doesn't matter.”

Colin looked uneasy. “It wasn't me, was it? You don't think it was me, do you?”

Colin's crystalline eyes clouded as his brow furrowed with the gravitas of his words. “I'm sure it wasn't you,” I answered, though I wasn't sure at all. “I probably did it to myself trying to hurry after you and Doyle. Now, stop fretting and tell me what happened.”

“Right.” He hopped off the stool and strode around to the front of the counter as though he were addressing a court, digging a crown out of his pocket and twirling it reassuringly between his fingers. “Constable Brendle was the first to reach the fray between Edward Honeycutt and the incorrigible Doyle O'Dowd. His two associates were directly on his heels.” He glanced at me. “What are their names again?”

“Graham Whitsett and Ahmet Masri,” I said without hesitation, and wondered again if he was testing me before deciding that he likely was not.

“Yes,” he nodded, the coin picking up speed. “Well, it seems Mr. Whitsett decided, in his inscrutable naïveté, that someone, or perhaps all of us, was in mortal danger from Doyle's fists, and so made a regrettable grab for the constable's gun. Most unfortunate of all, however, was that he set the gun off before he'd fully yanked it free from its holster at the constable's waist, sending a bullet into the constable's femur. Extraordinarily, while the bullet did fracture his bone, it then ricocheted out the other side of his leg in an upward trajectory where it embedded itself in Mr. Masri's forearm.” He tossed the coin up and seized it out of the air, dropping it back into his pocket in one smooth move. “It's a veritable miracle the bullet took the path it did, causing neither lasting, permanent, nor lethal damage to anyone. Although Mr. Whitsett's days as an associate constable may well be coming to a close.”

I shook my head and knew my face was painted with a look of utter disbelief. “Well, that is indeed a relief. It could have been a catastrophe. How did Doyle end up here in the cell?”

“I shoved him in there to get him out of the way until he could calm himself down, which is exactly what happened.” He leaned against the counter and studied me. “We're to have dinner with him tonight. There is still much to discuss now that he'll be of clearer mind. Thankfully, the one truly lasting effect of that bullet.” He eyed me closely. “Do you feel well enough to go back to the monastery? We achieved little there this morning and I should like to get back to our investigation if you're up to it.”

“Of course.” I pushed myself to my feet and gave him the brightest smile I could forage. “I'll not be the cause of slowing you down.”

“You never are.” He suddenly leaned across the counter and kissed me, my eyes flying to the door where, of course, no one was.

“You mustn't do that,” I could not help myself from saying.

“I know.” He turned and started for the door. “Let's be off then. There is something I have not shared with you about the abbot that I am hoping could lead us to the very heart of his murder.”

“You've been keeping secrets from me?”

“I wanted to be sure,” he answered as we started back toward the Pig and Pint. “When we examined his body yesterday morning I noticed a series of long, thin cuts on his right hand. But there wasn't a spot of blood on any of them.”

“Perhaps they didn't go deep enough?”

“There are only three layers of skin,” he reminded me, “they were well deep enough.”

“So what does it mean?”

“I have sent a telegram to Acting Inspector Evans asking him to enquire amongst his Yard experts about the flow of blood after the heart stops since we have no access to reference materials out here. I also reminded our good acting inspector he owes me updates on that blasted Charlotte Hutton and whether they've had any movement from the Swiss authorities. It sets me off every time I think of that vile woman. And there hasn't been a word from my father yet. I was hoping perhaps he might have had some luck with those damned pretentious bloody Swiss by now. . . .”

“Colin,” I interrupted, “you cannot attend to everything at once. You have to remain focused on the murders of Abbot Tufton and Miss O'Dowd just now.”