The Dalwich Desecration (30 page)

“No sir,” Mr. Whitsett said just as he'd done the first time Colin had asked him that question. “I was very fond of Miss O'Dowd, but she wasn't suited to me.”

“And what about you, Mr. Masri?” Colin slid his gaze to the olive-complected man.

“I am a married man,” he answered simply, his eyes as black as the thick hair that covered the top of his head. “I have two children. Why would I do such a thing?”

Colin chuckled. It was low and brief, but none of us missed it, and I felt embarrassed for Mr. Masri for either being so naïve or for imagining Colin to be so. “If I must tell you
why
you would do such a thing, then I fear your children must be of an immaculate nature,” he teased. “But let us leave that improbability for a moment and turn our attentions to what we
know
rather than what we do
not
know. For it is there that we shall finally be able to uncover the facts of this case.”

Colin straightened up and moved away from the chair, taking a slight step sideways so that he was standing right behind me. It was not something he did often, drawing me to the center of attention, and for the first time I had an inkling of what it must feel like to have him tightening the noose around someone's neck. As an uneasy chill abruptly careened down my spine I found that I did not like it.

“I must start by requesting your indulgence,” Colin was saying. “Most especially from you, Miss White, for I know some of this will be distressing for you to hear. Please know I do not undertake it lightly. Be assured that you are here for a reason.”

As I stared across the small room at her I thought she looked close to apoplectic, her ashen face giving her the appearance of being faint, and I feared she might topple over at any moment. She did not respond to Colin, but her eyes slowly drifted to the floor as her angular shoulders sank inward.

“We know that Miss O'Dowd was last seen working at the Pig and Pint on Thursday last, finishing her shift at . . .” Colin turned his gaze on Raleigh Chesterton. “What time
did
she complete her duties on Thursday, Mr. Chesterton?”

The cantankerous old man flicked his gaze over to Colin for an instant, immediately sliding it back to the constable before deigning to answer. “'Bout midnight, I suppose,” he grumbled. “Same as usual.”

“Were you still there, Mr. Honeycutt?” Colin shifted his focus quickly.

“No, I'd gone home a couple hours earlier. I usually help my father on Friday mornings with his deliveries.”

“But you didn't this past Friday. Your brother David did. Why was that?”

“I wasn't feeling well.”

“A fortuitous illness,” Colin remarked pointedly as he wandered over to the window beside the constable's bed. “How much worse it would have been had you been there when her body was discovered.”

Edward Honeycutt closed his eyes and I presumed he was either trying to keep that vision from invading his mind or to still it from having already done so. In either case, he did not otherwise move, which made me aware of the steely rigidity that had gripped Mr. Chesterton from his place next to young Edward.

“Did you see Miss O'Dowd leave with anyone, Miss White?” Colin continued.

“No, sir.” She shook her head and I could sense her jumpiness as though it had a texture of its own.

“And you, Mr. Chesterton . . . ? Did you notice Miss O'Dowd with anyone at the end of her shift?”

“I'd already gone up ta bed,” he answered dismissively. “I don't watch over all a them tossers what works for me . . .” But I could see his sentiment suddenly stick in his throat, and for the first time he looked ashamed for what he had said.

“Well, we certainly know that
someone
saw her after her shift ended that night, because at some point she was accosted and murdered.” Colin turned to Constable Brendle with a frown. “What time did you receive word from David Honeycutt that he and his father had discovered the body?”

“Five thirty that morning. I had only just gotten up and hadn't even gotten my tea on yet. The poor boy was pounding on my door like a madman. I knew something was wrong before I even answered it.”

“And did you head right back with David Honeycutt?”

“No . . .” The constable shook his head, a slight crease marring his youthful forehead. “We stopped on the way to collect Mr. Whitsett. I knew I would need his assistance.”

“Why Mr. Whitsett and not Mr. Masri?”

Constable Brendle seemed to color slightly as his eyes shifted to his men. “Well, Mr. Masri is married and has children. I didn't relish waking the whole of his household with such distressing news. Graham . . . Mr. Whitsett . . . has no such ties, so I decided I would collect Mr. Masri after Mr. Whitsett and I had a chance to take a look at the scene.”

“Would you call that standard protocol then?” Colin asked with the assurance of someone who already knows the answer.

“Standard . . . ?” The constable faltered momentarily, blinking his eyes as though unsure exactly how to respond. “I can hardly say there is such a thing as standard protocol in the occurrence of a murder in Dalwich. Other than these two cases there has only ever been one other killing during my tenure here, and given that it was a crime of passion, the perpetrator never even left the scene of his undoing.”

“I see.” Colin nodded as he started to meander toward Mr. Whitsett and Mr. Masri. “Tell me, Mr. Whitsett, what did you find when you arrived at the place David Honeycutt brought you to?” He paused in the vacant space between the two junior constables.

The tall, lanky man swung his eyes down and seemed to fold into himself. “I would really rather not,” he murmured in the ghost of a voice.

“But you must,” Colin pressed him. “You were the first to arrive at the scene with the constable, and when he left to fetch Mr. Masri, you alone were left to protect the integrity of the site. Which means you spent more time viewing it than any of us. Surely it has left an indelible impression on you that the rest of us cannot possibly attest to.”

Mr. Whitsett, in spite of his towering height and thin, bony shoulders, looked nearly as diminutive in that moment as Constable Brendle reclining in his bed. “She was lying in the grass just off the north side of the road,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper and his tone as reluctant as his demeanor. “She looked like she was staring into the woods as if she were searching for something . . . or someone . . . but her face was a terrible color. Not natural . . .” He let his voice trail off.

“Did you surmise that she had been strangled?” Colin asked, and I heard Annabelle White try to stifle a sudden intake of breath, which made Colin turn toward her. “I'm sorry, Miss White,” he said, and I knew he meant it. “You must be strong and bear with us.” He glanced back to Mr. Whitsett. “If you please . . .” he prodded.

Graham Whitsett tilted his head the tiniest bit and appeared to give something of a shrug. “I don't know what I thought.”

“Did Constable Brendle make any supposition?”

Again he appeared to hesitate. “I don't know. I don't remember. I suppose he might have.”

“Is it your intention to maintain your position as a junior constable, Mr. Whitsett?” And the incongruity of Colin's question struck me as much as it did Mr. Whitsett, who finally looked up and met his gaze.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I would suggest you pay closer attention to such things.” Colin flashed the whisper of a hollow grin at him before plunging immediately ahead. “What else
did
you notice?”

“Her bodice was open,” he mumbled.

“Yes . . .” Colin shook his head as he crossed back around behind Raleigh Chesterton. “Was it open like she had been readying herself for bed perhaps?” And I had to stop myself from scowling as we all knew the answer to that question.

“No, sir,” came Mr. Whitsett's hushed reply. “It was ripped.”

“Ripped,” Colin repeated, and it sounded almost cruel. “Is that what you found upon your arrival, Mr. Masri?”

The Middle Eastern man seemed to start under Colin's question, appearing to be inconceivably miserable at having been singled out. “Yes . . . No . . . Yes . . .” he sputtered all at once. “Constable Brendle told me it had been ripped open to her waist, but by the time I got there Mr. Whitsett had already placed his coat over the poor girl, so I did not see it myself.”

“Yes . . .” Colin flinched at the remembrance of the scene having been thusly sullied. “Tell me again why you did that, Mr. Whitsett?”

“It was improper,” he answered at once. “Miss O'Dowd deserved better than that. You wouldn't leave your sister to lie like that . . .”

“If I had a sister,” Colin shot back at once, “I would leave her exactly as her killer had left her so I could conduct a proper investigation, which would allow me to hunt the bastard down and cut his bits off with all due haste.” He flicked his gaze to Annabelle White. “My apologies, Miss White.” The room remained silent as he slowly moved the few steps needed until he was standing just behind Edward Honeycutt. “How about you, Constable Brendle? Did you take note of anything in particular when you first saw the body?”

“I did.” His eyes held Colin's, his face hard, and I realized that he knew, as I now did, exactly where this was heading. “Her skirts had been shoved up in the front and she did not appear to be wearing any undergarments.”

“You must forgive the unseemliness of this question, Miss White, but did you know your friend to be a woman who did not avail herself of bloomers?”

“No, sir,” she said, her eyes darting about the room without settling anywhere before finally landing on the floor by the constable's bed once more. “She were always proper.”

“Do you remember seeing the same thing, Mr. Masri?” Colin continued as though the conversation was almost mundane.

“Well . . .” His eyes fluttered about the room as though he was searching for the right answer. “By the time Constable Brendle got me and took me back to the scene, she was already covered by Mr. Whitsett's coat. I didn't see how she'd been left until after you and Mr. Pruitt arrived.”

“Yes,” Colin grumbled. “Really, Mr. Whitsett, you were most detrimental to the solving of this crime with your puttering about.”

“It just wasn't right,” he defended himself morosely. “It wasn't proper.”

“Miss White . . .” Colin took the last few steps over to Annabelle White, placing himself directly between Edward Honeycutt and the young woman. “Did Miss O'Dowd complain to you about anyone being a nuisance to her over the last month or two?”

Her eyes fluttered briefly, but she did not meet Colin's gaze. “I do remember her mentionin' that someone had been botherin' her for a while, but she weren't really troubled by it and said she could take care of it herself. I think she didn't want ta get Edward upset.” She glanced up at Colin as she heaved a little shrug.

“Did she tell you who it was?”

“No, sir.”

“But you did tell me on Saturday night that someone had been pestering you with questions about Miss O'Dowd lately. Lamenting that she wouldn't spend time with him when she had been known to be rather free with her affections with others before.”

“Yes . . .” she whispered.

“Who was that again?” he asked as if this was a name he would be likely to forget.

Annabelle White sat quietly for a long moment, and I began to wonder if perhaps she had said the name and I'd missed it. But in a tone barely above a whisper I finally heard her murmur, “Mr. Whitsett.”

Colin swept Miss White off her chair and walked her to the door, doing so with such suddenness and force that she wouldn't have been able to keep up with him if his hand hadn't been hovering at the small of her back. “You have been extremely helpful,” he said as he ushered her into the front room, muttering something to her that I did not catch before I heard the door open and shut. A moment later he appeared back in the bedroom doorway, resting up against the doorjamb. “Mr. Whitsett . . . ?”

The man shook his head and heaved a confused shrug. “Maybe I did fancy her some. There's no dishonor in that. But I didn't know she was betrothed to Mr. Honeycutt . . .” Once again he let his voice trail off as though he had said enough.

Now it was Colin's turn to heave a sigh. “That
is
curious, Mr. Whitsett, because you have told me repeatedly that Miss O'Dowd was not the kind of woman who held any interest for you. Did I misunderstand your meaning?”

“I . . .” He scowled and glanced about the room, his demeanor beginning to edge toward something watchful and alert. “I said it to avoid just this sort of ridiculousness. You should be asking Edward here how deep his jealousies ran.” He glared at the young man. “Maybe you didn't like the way she flitted around that pub, all smiles and cheek for any man.” Edward Honeycutt stared back at him blankly, his jaw unhinging as he seemed to be trying to fathom how to answer. “Lachlan . . .” Mr. Whitsett abruptly turned to the constable, who only stared back without the hint of a reaction. “Ahmet . . .
you know me
. . .” His words came out harsh as he turned his gaze on Mr. Masri.

“What
I
know,” Colin interrupted before Mr. Masri could form a response, “is that other than the monks at Whitmore Abbey, on the night Miss O'Dowd was murdered the only people who knew that the abbot's tongue had been cut from his head are the men in this room.” He waved a dismissive hand as he began to walk back over to Edward Honeycutt. “And I think we can all agree that the monks had nothing to do with Miss O'Dowd's murder.” No one made a sound.