The Dalwich Desecration (34 page)

“There has been some bad business out at their house. I had better let you be.” Mr. Evans popped out of his seat and headed for the stairs.

“We shall come and see you later today,” Colin promised, following him as far as the landing. “
Hello!
” Colin called downstairs. “Do send that chap up, Mrs. Behmoth.”

“Thanks,” she shot back. “I was wonderin' wot I was gonna do with 'im.”

Maurice Evans chuckled as he started down the stairs, only to be replaced almost at once by a black-haired man with a broad, open face, high cheekbones, and a close-cropped beard and moustache who looked to be no more than thirty. He was a handsome man save for the look that was, even now, haunting his dark brown eyes.

“Colin Pendragon at your service.” Colin shook the man's hand and led him into the room. “And this is my associate, Mr. Pruitt.”

I stood up to greet the man and found myself staring directly into his eyes. Unlike me, however, this man was broadly built and well-muscled, attesting to the fact that he obviously did some sort of physical labor. He gave me a curt, tight-lipped smile as he shook my hand, displaying neither a hint of pleasure nor conviviality to it. The man's obsidian eyes did nothing more than rake my face in the most rudimentary way.

Colin settled our guest onto the settee while I poured him a fresh cup of tea, but he appeared decidedly uninterested in any of our niceties. It was only after I was able to steal a keener look at him that I realized his complexion was sallow and his eyes ringed with fatigue. He looked to be suffering from some notable strain or unease, and I suspected he had not slept properly for several days.

“What brings you to see us so early this day?” Colin asked with his usual enthusiasm whenever a potential client first presented themselves.

The man seemed startled by Colin's question and blinked several times before he answered. “I apologize if I have arrived at an improper time . . .” he started to say.

“Time is not improper,” Colin explained blithely as he poured himself some more tea, “it is the things we humans do with it that constitutes its waste or relevance.” The man's face remained somber and unyielding. If he found any solace in Colin's contrived assertion he did not show it. “Right,” Colin muttered after a moment. “You were saying . . . ?”

The young man blinked again, casting a glance between Colin and me as though trying to remember exactly
what
he had been saying, before finally clearing his throat and beginning. “I have come from Layton Manor. I work for the Endicott sisters, Miss Adelaide and Miss Eugenia.” He shifted on the settee with evident discomfort before drawing a quick hand across his forehead, though he was not perspiring in the least. “My name is Freddie Nettle. I assist with Miss Adelaide's care. She is infirm and has been so for the better part of a year now. I attend to her every need except those most private, which are taken care of by several nurses who rotate their shifts. But I am
always
there. I even sleep in the antechamber to her bedroom should she require my aid during the night. She relies on me and I have never let her down. . . .”

Colin flashed a brief smile as Mr. Nettle let his voice drift off into silence. “Well . . .” he spoke up when Mr. Nettle's stillness began to stretch oddly long, “Miss Endicott must be a very fortunate woman to have so devoted a man at her behest. I believe she is quite aged, is she not?”

He nodded, the first suggestion of engagement apparent behind his eyes since his arrival. “Just past her eighty-third year. But that is where it ends . . .” he continued, once again allowing his voice to simply trail off.

Colin set his teacup onto the side table between us and leaned forward, his eyebrows knitting with unmistakable curiosity. “Where
what
ends?”

Mr. Nettle dropped his gaze and wiped a hand across his forehead again, and this time I could see a glistening of film just along his hairline. “Three nights ago Miss Adelaide was unusually agitated, so Miss Eugenia had me take her up to bed early. I carried her up the three flights of stairs to her room, same as I do every night, and settled her in without issue. She kept making little mewling noises, but sometimes Miss Adelaide would do that. She did not otherwise speak very much anymore,” he added with a shake of his head. “But I could always tell what she wanted. After more than a year with her . . .” He ticked off the slimmest shrug before falling silent again.

“Three nights ago . . . ?” Colin prodded with a conspicuous lack of patience.

“Yes . . .” He nodded, running the same hand across his forehead. “Once I had her settled in for the night I retired myself. I always stay to her schedule so that I'm available whenever she needs me. I wouldn't serve much purpose otherwise.” He sucked in a breath and I could see what a labor this story was for him. “That night . . .” He halted again and this time his hand went up to his brow and stayed there, rubbing it for a moment in what I felt certain was an attempt to dislodge whatever memory was slinking about his mind. “It was late. The house was quiet. I know I had dozed off because I was awoken by the sound of Miss Adelaide screaming. She sounded loud and shrill and horrified. It wasn't like confusion or alarm, I tell you it was the sound of terror! I leapt up and ran into her room so quickly that I didn't even stop to grab a proper robe.” Because his hand remained across his brow I did not immediately realize that he had begun to weep.

“Take your time, Mr. Nettle,” I said.

He pulled a handkerchief from a vest pocket and hastily wiped at his eyes before continuing. “I found her standing by the window.
Standing!
” he repeated as though that should have some significance for us. “And it was the window all the way across the room from her bed.”

“Could she not walk?” Colin asked.

“Not since I began working for her. That's why I was brought in. It was my duty to either push her in a wheeled chair or carry her, whichever she preferred. I had never known her to stand or walk on her own and yet, there she was,” he muttered with dismay, clearly still unable to fathom the sight of it himself. “She was wearing such a look of fright. As if the devil himself had crept into her room.” He closed his eyes and rubbed at them again, but I knew this was a vision he would not soon dispel. “I called to her . . . I wanted to rush across the room for fear she might lose her balance and hurt herself, but found I could not move. And then . . . and then . . .” his voice caught pitifully, “. . . she turned from me and cast herself from the window.” As soon as the words left his lips he shrank into himself and wept, covering his face with his hands as if to keep us from seeing his humiliation.

“We are so sorry for your pain,” I said at once.

“I must confess,” Colin glanced over at me, “I had not heard that Miss Adelaide had died. Did you . . . ?” he added under his breath to me.

I scowled at him and gave him a quick shake of my head.

“Yes, of course . . .” Colin sniffed as he turned back to Mr. Nettle. “We are both very sorry for what you have endured, and yet I'm not at all sure what it is you are seeking from us?”

Mr. Nettle blew his nose and stuffed his handkerchief back into his pocket, finally looking back at the two of us, his eyes red and swollen with the tracks of his grief. “It's Miss Eugenia,” he finally admitted. “She does not believe the story I have just told you. She has decided me guilty of murdering her sister and has already been to Scotland Yard to demand my arrest. But I have done nothing. Nothing at all. It has happened just as I have told you. Every word of it. And yet I will be condemned to spend the rest of my life in jail if you do not help me, Mr. Pendragon. They will listen to you.
Please
.”

Colin said nothing for a minute before turning to look at me, one eyebrow cocked toward the ceiling. “I have met Miss Adelaide many times over the years. And Miss Eugenia for that matter. Two very different sorts of women, though there is little question as to the reason for their shared spinsterhood.” He turned back to Mr. Nettle as I cringed at his statement. “We shall come out to Layton this afternoon and speak with Miss Eugenia. And then”—he gave a brief smile—“we shall see.”

But I was not fooled by Colin's ambivalence. I knew he would accept this case as surely as I knew that I believed Freddie Nettle and his unlikely tale.

The discoveries of Constantin von Tischendorf and Agnes and Margaret Smith are all true, as are the
Codex Sinaiticus
and
Codex Syriacus
. Each was responsible for an avalanche of controversy when initially discovered and I find them no less compelling today. Much has been written about these religious scholars and their provocative discoveries, and a search in your local library or a few moments online will reveal a host of material. None of it should startle or frighten as faith is as solid as the heart that carries it.

I owe much thanks to the folks at Kensington Publishing for their tireless efforts and support. In particular I must once again call out Kris Mills for another eye-catching cover and Paula Reedy and her team for keeping me honest. It is John Scognamiglio to whom I owe the deepest thanks, however. He keeps me on point and pushes me to try harder, dig deeper, and I cannot thank him enough for that—and for deciding to take a chance on me nearly four years ago now. I hope I have made him proud.

I must thank, as always, Diane, Karen, and Melissa, who generously read early drafts and give me notes—sometimes harsh but always helpful—for without their three very unique perspectives, I would never have a draft for John.

My thanks to Kathy Green for seeing something early on that made her want to work with me. I would still be shouting into the wind were it not for her.

My parents and family have supported me beyond my imaginings. I am humbled.

My dear friends, how fortunate am I to be loved and encouraged by such special people. And to every reader who has picked up one or more of these books and enjoyed it—I thank you for spending some time with me. These are just words on a page until you bring your imagination and curiosity to bear upon them. I thank you for that.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

 

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Copyright © 2016 by Gregory Harris

 

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ISBN: 978-1-6177-3887-6

First Kensington Electronic Edition: April 2016

 

ISBN-13: 978-1-61773-887-6
ISBN-10: 1-61773-887-5