The Dalwich Desecration (17 page)

“We are looking at everyone,” Colin reassured with noticeable impatience. “If you should remember anything your sister might have told you recently, I would ask that you let me know. I will not disappoint you, Doyle, but I will caution you to work
with
me, not against me.”

Doyle finished his ale and wiped his lips with a sleeve as he shoved his chair back. “I won't even be near ya. I've gotta get back ta Mountfield or I'll lose me job.” He stood up and leaned over us, his lithe body more menacing than it had any right to be. “But I'll be back at yer week's end and you'd best be a man a yer word.” He snatched up his cap and faded into the crowd before either of us could devise a reply.

“Week's end?!” I said to Colin with my own scowl. “How the hell did you come up with that?”

“Things are beginning to take form,” he responded quickly, his eyes flashing with enthusiasm. “It is a small town where everyone seems very much to have been about one another's business. I feel quite confident that Miss O'Dowd's killer will not be able to evade us for long.”

“Can I get you gentlemen anythin' more?”

I looked up to find Annabelle White standing over our table rather than Molly, her mood still somber, yet far better controlled than it had been the night before. “I think we have had enough for one night,” I answered with a faint smile, pleased to see that she could rummage the same in return.

“Might I pester you with a quick question or two?” Colin spoke up.

She glanced around herself and it was plain to see that she was checking for Mr. Chesterton's whereabouts. “I s'pose I've got a minute. . . .”

“What do you make of Doyle O'Dowd?”

A sideways grin blossomed across her face. “ 'E's a good man. Loved 'is sister. Ya can't let 'is bite turn yer 'ead. 'E don't mean nothin' by it. 'E's jest scrappy. That's the way things 'ave been for 'im and Mo.”

“Do you think he disapproved of his sister's behavior around the men in here?”

“ 'E 'ad no room ta talk,” she snapped, making me suspect that she'd fallen prey to Doyle's attentions herself at some point.

A thin smile flickered across Colin's lips and I knew he'd seen it too. “I see. And was there anyone in particular here, besides Edward Honeycutt of course, who was paying particular interest to Miss O'Dowd?”

“Nah”—she shrugged easily and quickly looked around again—“ 'alf the men in 'ere were droolin' on Mo, married or not. Plenty a good men too. Forrest James, the son a the dressmaker, was always tryin' ta 'ave at 'er, and Mr. Whitsett 'ad been pesterin' me lately 'bout why she wouldn't spend some time with 'im.” She suddenly leaned forward and dropped her voice. “I shouldn't be sayin' this, but even our good constable kept comp'ny with Mo awhile back.”

“Yes”—Colin gave her an amused smile—“he did mention that to us.”

She straightened up and gave a little shrug. “Well, it weren't no matter 'cause it was Edward finally stole 'er 'eart.”

“
Git yer arse back ta work, Annabelle!
” Raleigh Chesterton hollered from across the pub, his voice managing to carry above the din.

“ 'Scuse me,” she said, her expression instantly mortified as she tipped us an awkward nod before scurrying off.

“No wonder Constable Brendle so readily admitted his liaison with Miss O'Dowd,” I remarked as I watched Miss White disappear into the crowd. “It would seem to be one of the town's poorest kept secrets.”

“Indeed it would,” Colin agreed, a note of curiosity edging into his voice.

I looked back at him, aware of some consideration percolating behind his eyes, and was suddenly reminded of his assurance to Doyle. “I don't see how you expect to solve Maureen O'Dowd's murder by week's end. . . .” I said. “And what of Abbot Tufton? It feels like we've learned almost nothing. Those monks live in such a tight community I don't see how we'll ever get them to confide in us. And I'm quite certain that not one of them has, for one moment, conceived of the possibility that one of
them
might actually have killed their abbot. And now that you've said it to them”—I shook my head—“I'm afraid you've only made them trust you less.”

He dismissed my concern with a blunt wave of a hand. “It doesn't matter. We are on the precipice of discovering the abbot's killer,” he insisted. “We just need to get access to the abbot's cell again tomorrow and that disorganized monk in the library. . . . What's his name?”

“Brother Bursnell.”

He nodded as though it sounded familiar, which I rather doubted. “Yes . . . him . . . he needs to find the abbot's journals from Egypt.” He abruptly leaned toward me, his eyes aflame once again. “As I told you before, the
Codex Sinaiticus
was discovered some fifty years ago at Saint Catherine's Monastery, and it stunned the world's religions. Most specifically the Christian faith these monks practice. The documents, the oldest
ever
found, revealed that over thirty thousand errors, deletions, and changes had been made to the original biblical texts since the time of their initial writing. Profound changes!” He stood up and stared back at me. “Imagine how it would feel to have devoted your entire life to the study and contemplation of writings that turned out to have been manipulated
tens of thousands of times
to meet whatever requirements suited the scribe at the time.” He gave a shrug and shook his head once, one of his eyebrows slowly drifting skyward. “Now, don't you find it just a touch curious that the abbot from Whitmore Abbey should have traveled to that very place just a few years ago with two emissaries of the Pope?”

“But it
was
a few years ago,” I reminded. “Why might that make a difference now?”

Colin smiled and I knew he had a ready answer. “Because of Margaret and Agnes Smith,” he said, and their names did clatter about my head with some familiarity. “The two sisters who have just returned from that very same monastery with yet another set of astonishing documents. The
Codex Syriacus,
they're calling it.”

“Oh . . . !” I was struck at once by the familiarity of the name. “I have read something about that. But I don't recall what those writings signify?”

“They threaten to convulse the very foundations of Christianity itself,” he said. “So, how do you suppose those monks feel now?”

CHAPTER 16

T
he scream pierced my dream with the suddenness of an alpine avalanche. I do not recollect to where my subconscious had ranged at the point in my slumber when I was thusly struck. For wherever I had roamed I was returned to my body—to the bed in that miniscule room in Dalwich, Colin curled at my side, his upper arm draped haphazardly across my waist—with the speed of a North Atlantic squall. And when the second scream instantly followed, every bit as tormented and distraught as the first, my eyes flew open and I felt Colin burst from the bed. That was when I heard the unmistakable sound of a body collapsing to the floor. It took another moment before I became aware of footsteps pounding up the stairs to undoubtedly head our way.

I bolted up to a sitting position and found Colin coiled beside the bed panting like a feral dog, not so much as a thread covering him. My eyes swung to the left, seemingly of their own volition, and it was then that the full turn of events finally became obvious to me. For there, sprawled across the threshold to the room, was the young chambermaid, Dora.

“Cover yourself,” I hissed at Colin, though what difference it made now I could not have explained.

With one motion he reached over, seized the blanket from the bed, and wrapped it around his waist, leaving only the thin muslin sheet to maintain my own bit of decency.

“What the bloody
hell!
” Raleigh Chesterton gasped as he steadied himself with a hand on the doorjamb even as his gaze ranged between Dora, already beginning to awaken from her collapse, Colin, and me. His eyes narrowed as he knelt down and assisted the young woman back to her feet, allowing her to lean against him as though she were gravely injured. “What's this then?” he growled with menace.

“I knocked . . .” Dora was the first of us to speak up, her voice weak and tremulous. “. . . but no one answered. I thought the room was empty, so I opened the door. . . .” Her gaze dropped to the floor as if she herself had been violated and I was certain that was precisely how she felt.

“Mr. Pruitt was not well last night,” Colin explained sharply. “You will remember that he hurt his head during the mêlée yesterday when the constable and Mr. Masri were shot. I did not want to leave him alone lest his condition should worsen.”

Mr. Chesterton's glare hardened. “Is that so?” He flicked his eyes between his chambermaid and me, clearly trying to measure Colin's words. “And how you feelin' this mornin'?”

“Fine,” I blurted through my mortification. “Better,” I corrected, and I could feel my face burning with shame.

“Uh-huh. So you jest let this one climb inta bed next ta you 'cause you weren't feelin' good? That's what yer tellin' me?”

I was all set to agree, to make him believe the sense in our having done exactly that, when Dora managed to find her voice one last time.

“That one ain't wearin' nothin',” she burbled, pointing a finger toward Colin as though she suddenly needed to defend the commotion she had caused. “He jumped up and—” She clasped a hand to her mouth and wriggled free of Mr. Chesterton's grip, taking off down the hallway with only the sound of her wailing voice drifting back.

“Well, that's just bloody ripe,” Mr. Chesterton seethed. “Not under my roof ya don't. Pack yer things and get the hell out. And be glad I don't report ya to the constable, ya buggery poofs.”

“We are here at your constable's request to solve the murder of Miss O'Dowd,” Colin fired back brusquely.

“Not anymore you ain't. The constable can take care of it himself. We've no need for people like you. Ya got twenty minutes,” he added, withdrawing from the room with a snarl but leaving the door conspicuously open.

A thousand thoughts rampaged through my head in an instant. We had been so foolish. What had we been thinking to tempt fate in such a way? I feared that Mr. Chesterton or Dora would spread word of what they had seen and wondered what would happen to us as a result. Even if they did not tell the constable, we could be forced to flee the whole of Dalwich without explanation, leaving both murders unresolved. However would Colin explain that to his father or Bishop Fencourt?

I swallowed back all of this as Colin kicked the door shut and roundly cursed. I very much wanted to do the same, but my stomach had leapt into my throat and it felt like all I could do to continue breathing.

“So bloody
stupid . . .
!” he howled as he tore off the blanket and began pulling on his clothes. I had no idea whether he was referring to himself, me, the two of us, or the chambermaid Dora, and did not really wish to know.

I crawled out of the bed and began to dress, noticing for the first time that the day was gray and drizzling. That, I realized, was why we had not awoken at an appropriate hour. There had been no sun to poke at our eyelids or bird arias to prick our ears, and so we had slept far too comfortably, as though in our own home, and it had undone us completely.

CHAPTER 17

C
onstable Lachlan Brendle managed to summon a smile for us even though he was obviously in considerable discomfort. His injured leg was now swathed in a thick, clumsy metal brace and remained elevated atop a handful of pillows. But it was his sodden hairline, the beads of perspiration on his upper lip, and the glaze in his eyes that fully revealed the current state of his well-being. Whatever opiates he'd been prescribed were clearly not having the impact they should. Nevertheless, I admit to a bit of gratitude for his altered state as I knew it would be unlikely that he would discern the bleak mood that trailed Colin and me as we entered his room.

“Gentlemen . . .” he managed through the midst of his haze. “I am pleased that you've not forgotten me.” He gave a lethargic sort of chuckle as we sat down next to his bed, and Graham Whitsett, once again in attendance to assuage his unnecessary guilt, folded his towering form into a chair near the bedroom's door. It was apparent that Mr. Whitsett meant to tend to the constable until he achieved a full recovery. And given the constable's current state of total incapacitation I knew he had to be grateful. “Tell me . . .” His voice was reedy and ever so slightly slurred. “Have you solved all of my cases yet?”

“You flatter us,” Colin responded glibly, though there was not a trace of lightheartedness in his tone. Even now our trunk and two valises stood in the entryway of the constable's apartment, though Mr. Whitsett had not bothered to ask why we had brought them. Our options were few and the decision we'd been forced to make had left us both utterly glum. “I am afraid there is much work yet to be done,” he added, but said nothing more.

“I insist you tell how you know Miss O'Dowd's murderer to be different from the man who killed the abbot at Whitmore Abbey. You played coy with me yesterday.”

“How could you be sure of such a thing?” Mr. Whitsett piped up from the door.

Colin half-turned and offered him the ghost of a smile and I knew he had forgotten the lanky man was even there. “The mutilation of Miss O'Dowd's tongue was sloppy and careless. Clearly done for no greater purpose than to convince us that the murders were linked. If you will recall, the removal of the abbot's tongue was quite purposeful and diligently accomplished, which would seem to speak to the very heart of his murder.”

“Oh . . .” Mr. Whitsett said with notable awkwardness, as though he should have discerned the obviousness of what Colin had seen even though none of the rest of us had.

“So where does that leave us?” Constable Brendle asked.

Colin sighed and brushed a hand through his hair, and I could see the frustration on his face even as he struggled to find a suitable answer. While little had actually changed between Colin's boasting to Doyle O'Dowd last evening that he would have his sister's murder solved by week's end, in truth, everything had changed. For myself, I could not stop wondering what had gone wrong with Colin and me in the creation of our minds and hearts. Why were we cursed to be intolerable?

My eyes drifted from the constable's bed to the table beside it that held a small brown bottle with a tincture of opiate. How I yearned for it. If I were closer to it, if I could have swept it off the tabletop without anyone noticing, I fear I might have done so. How peaceful would its thick obliteration have felt. Its release. From everything.

The intensity of my desire for that brittle escape shook me to my core. So many years had passed since I'd been wooed by such thoughts, yet here I was feeling like I could fall backward in the breadth of a heartbeat. I stabbed a hand into my trouser pocket and pulled out a half crown and slipped it to Colin. “Here,” I said. “We're not at the monastery now.”

He gazed down at the large silver planchet with Victoria's staid profile upon it and an appreciative smile slowly bloomed across his face. “Ah . . .” he murmured. He held the coin a moment, feeling its heft and warmth, before tossing it up slightly and catching it between his thumb and forefinger and quickly tumbling it over the fingers of his right hand. The familiarity of it comforted me at once just as I had known it would. “I was scolded by the monks for my impropriety,” Colin explained to the constable with a silly grin. “It seems they are disapproving of money as a whole, let alone flashing it about. Which is something of a conundrum given the inability of most people to survive well without it.”

“Not to mention that you would be hard-pressed to find an organization with more of it than their own parent church,” the constable smirked.

“Nevertheless,” Colin said, “the brothers at Whitmore seem quite content to make do with as little as possible. A noble effort if somewhat vexing when it comes to my own careless habits.” He chuckled as he continued to sweep the half crown through its circuitous rotations. “But you asked where we stand on these cases,” he remarked thoughtfully, his countenance stiffening even as his right hand continued its easy movements, “and I will indeed share, though I must first ask your kind associate here”—he gestured back toward Mr. Whitsett and I knew he had forgotten his name—“if he will permit us a few moments of privacy with you.”

“Privacy?!” Mr. Whitsett's brow furrowed, surprise and embarrassment fighting for equal attention upon his face. “Have I done something to earn your distrust or disfavor? Surely you know the misfortune against Constable Brendle was an error. I remain mortified . . .”

“Now, Graham . . .” the constable started to say.

“Please . . .” Colin nodded toward the slender giant of a man, and I could tell by the apprehension in his gaze that he intended to confide what had transpired this morning to the constable. And so, for the second time in as many minutes, for a single instant I tried to conceive if there wasn't
some way
I might be able to get my hands on that blessed little bottle of opiate beside the constable's bed. “You have earned no such disapproval on my account,” Colin reassured the man. “There are other items beyond these cases that I must apprise your constable of and I would ask your indulgence in appreciating their sensitivity.”

Poor Mr. Whitsett continued to look startled as his jaw began to twitch before his voice caught up. “I . . . yes . . . yes, of course.” He gave a stiff nod and quickly stepped from the room, pulling the door shut behind him.

“I'm afraid my accident has left him quite on edge,” Constable Brendle said by way of explanation, though none was needed.

“It is understandable,” Colin muttered idly, his mind clearly elsewhere as he seized the coin he'd been rolling between his fingers and dropped it into his vest pocket. “But I'm afraid we have something of a far more personal nature to discuss with you just now.”

“Personal?”

“Something happened this morning that may be brought to your attention in your official capacity, and I need to know your feelings on the matter before Mr. Pruitt and I can continue to assist you.”

Constable Brendle's brow folded down and his eyes looked more lucid than they had since our arrival. “Whatever are you referring to?”

Colin cleared his throat and scowled back, his nerves well contained within the frown he adopted. “While Mr. Pruitt and I took two rooms at Mr. Chesterton's dubious inn, when his potty little chambermaid burst into one of them this morning it was to find the two of us quite asleep in its bed. You remember that Mr. Pruitt hurt his head yesterday. I stayed with him last night merely to ensure the soundness of his recuperation. All innocence and propriety, mind you . . .” He sniffed defiantly, though I noticed that his gaze had drifted from the constable's face. “Nevertheless, she set up a row and fainted in the doorway as though she had walked in on the doings of the ruddy Marquis de Sade himself. Scurrilous assumptions were made and Mr. Chesterton demanded we quit his establishment at once. Which we have most assuredly done. Even now our things are at your door waiting for transport out to the monastery where we shall be forced to stay for the rest of our time here,” he added with poorly concealed distaste.

“I'm not sure I understand. . . .” The constable flipped his gaze from Colin to me, and when his eyes fell on mine I found I could not help but look away. If the medicines he was floating upon were diminishing his ability to sort out the implications, I had no intention of enlightening him further nor, I knew, would Colin.

“You understand perfectly,” Colin insisted. “If Mr. Chesterton or his chambermaid seeks to file a complaint against us, I need to know what you're going to do.”

“Do?!” Constable Brendle managed to summon up something of a chuckle. “I'm afraid I am quite incapacitated at the moment, and what with Mr. Whitsett on temporary leave and Mr. Masri nursing his own injury from the same blasted bullet, unless another murder is committed, the constabulary of this town is unable to
do
much of anything.” His eyes clouded for a moment. “Besides, all innocence and propriety, you said. Whyever would something need to be done?” He let out a huff and then hastily focused on Colin again. “And should there actually
be
another murder, Mr. Pendragon, I would be very much in your debt for any additional assistance the two of you could offer. Otherwise I would have to send to Arundel for help, and that lot are quite full of themselves. I find it enough that we must share their coroner.”

“We remain at your service then,” Colin answered at once, the whole of his demeanor loosening for the first time since we had been awoken this morning.

I took a last glance back at the little brown bottle beside the constable's bed and hoped there was enough left to keep him thusly inebriated for some time to come lest he should have a sudden change of heart when allowed to drift free of its spell.

“Do you suppose we might trouble you to borrow your nursemaid Mr. Whitsett long enough to have him take us and our belongings out to the monastery?” Colin asked with a fleeting smile.

“I wish you would.” The constable returned a soft laugh. “I think I should like to sleep without him looming over me all the time as though I were about to expire.”

“Then we shall leave you be for today.”

“Good and well,” Constable Brendle managed as he tried to stifle a yawn, “but I would ask that you come back whenever there is an update.”

“And so we shall.” Colin gave a succinct nod as he stood. “This remains your investigation to which we are only assisting.”

“You are too generous, Mr. Pendragon.”

“No more so than is fitting.”

I followed Colin to the door as he flung it open and called out for Mr. Whitsett, who had gone no farther than the far side of the short hallway, his lumbering form leaning against the wall as though he was just waiting to be summoned at any moment.

“Mr. Pendragon . . . ?” Constable Brendle's thin voice beckoned from behind us.

“Constable?”

“I do apologize at your being relegated to the monastery. If there were anything I could do . . .”

“Please.” Colin smiled. “You have already done far more than you can imagine.” And with that said we corralled Mr. Whitsett and our belongings and headed back to Whitmore Abbey—this time to stay.