The Dalwich Desecration
PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF GREGORY HARRIS!
THE BELLINGHAM BLOODBATH
“A terrific story . . . both storylines come together in perfect symmetry, making for an incredibly pleasing mystery. The author nails it yet again!”
—Suspense Magazine
THE ARNIFOUR AFFAIR
“Colin has Holmes’ arrogance but is dimpled and charming, while Ethan is a darker Watson . . . the relationship between the leads is discreetly intriguing.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Pendragon matches Sherlock Holmes in his arrogance . . . he is redeemed, in part, by his brains and his gentle treatment of Pruitt.”
—Publishers Weekly
“The mystery is extremely well done, the characters carefully drawn and the story moves quickly to a satisfying conclusion.”
—Washington Independent Review of Books
Books by Gregory Harris
THE ARNIFOUR AFFAIR
THE BELLINGHAM BLOODBATH
THE CONNICLE CURSE
THE DALWICH DESECRATION
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
THE DALWICH DESECRATION
A Colin Pendragon Mystery
GREGORY HARRIS
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF GREGORY HARRIS!
Also by
Title Page
Dedication
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Copyright Page
For Diane Salzberg—for so very much
CHAPTER 1
Even with my head buried deep inside the large armoire in the second bedroom of our flat, I could still manage to hear Colin railing at poor Maurice Evans. The good man had only just received the nod from Scotland Yard that morning informing him that he had been chosen to transitionally replace his former superior, the late Inspector Emmett Varcoe. This meant that, for the time being, Mr. Evans had earned the wholly convoluted title of “Acting Inspector.” It had apparently been determined that, while he might not yet be good enough to actually be the inspector, it was perfectly appropriate to have him carry all the duties and responsibilities therein. Which is what had brought him to our Kensington flat to suffer Colin’s diatribes mere hours after the announcement of his novel sort of non-promotion. I only hoped that his paycheck had been adjusted to properly reflect the newly won hazards he now faced.
“. . . careless misstep . . .” I heard Colin scolding in between the sound of discordantly clanking metal, alerting me to the fact that he was hefting his dumbbells about even as he upbraided poor Mr. Evans. I knew it to be less an attempt to improve his physique than to assuage his own frustrations at having allowed Charlotte Hutton to slip away before he could prove her complicity in our last case. For though she had appeared to remain above reproach throughout our investigation, she had, in the end, proved to be the mastermind behind the murder of five men and her own young son in a cruel plot to appropriate extraordinary sums for herself. And one of those men killed was Maurice Evans’s superior, Inspector Varcoe.
Seizing the pair of boots I had been fumbling for, I stood up and tossed them on the bed next to the nearly filled trunk just in time to hear Acting Inspector Evans say something about cooperation. The word made me cringe as it was our uncharacteristic cooperation with the Yard that had led to the shooting death of Inspector Varcoe. It also levied the first black mark on Colin’s otherwise unblemished record for resolving cases. So I was not the least surprised when I heard Colin rapidly fire back something about “incompetence,” “foolhardy,” and “bloody disgraceful.” What I did not know was whether he was referring to the unfortunate Inspector Varcoe, Maurice Evans himself, or the whole of Scotland Yard.
I eyed the trunk, taunting me from atop the bed, and knew I would have to come back to it. Never mind that we had been summoned without delay to the small Sussex town of Dalwich to investigate the mutilation and murder of the abbot there. I could tell that if I didn’t quickly intervene between Colin and Mr. Evans, we were bound to end up at cross-purposes with the Yard again. Giving the trunk a final guilty look, I headed out to our parlor at the front of the flat.
“. . . utmost respect for you and Inspector Varcoe . . .” Colin was carrying on without a great deal of conviction. “But the two of you, in fact, the whole of your blasted Yard, failed to fulfill the expectations placed upon you by your constituency.”
“My constituency . . . ?!” Acting Inspector Evans sallied back as I came into the room, the poor man appearing as perturbed as I knew Colin to be. “It isn’t as if we are elected officials. We aren’t the Parliament, you know. Most of us are just trying to earn our way to a decent pension before our knees give out.”
“And that,” Colin groused, “is the first honest thing you have said this morning.” He was sitting on my hard-backed desk chair curling his dumbbells as though trying to fan a fire. The poor seat shuddered and groaned as he raised and lowered the metal plates with smooth fluidity, his muscles bulging against his damp undershirt in an obvious attempt to cow Mr. Evans.
“You will forgive our informality,” I muttered even though I was properly clothed. “And if you break my chair,” I said to Colin, “I shall be quite bloody well peeved.” I glanced back at Mr. Evans and was pleased to find him biting back a grin as I sat down across from him. “Has he even offered you any tea?”
“Stop being nice to him when I’m trying to make a point,” Colin protested as he began swinging the dumbbells behind his head in a further display of his irrefutable upper-body strength.
“I’m certain your point is already well made. I heard most of it myself from the back room. Besides, I don’t know why you think he deserves your grief, it’s not like he was in charge of the Connicle investigation. Even now he’s only managed to boost himself into some transitory sort of hinterland. Acting Inspector, isn’t it . . . ?” I ribbed.
“Well, I’ll not take the blame for Charlotte Hutton’s disappearance.” Colin continued to carry on as he dropped his dumbbells onto the floor and popped out of the chair. “Can we please get some fresh tea up here, Mrs. Behmoth?” he called down the stairs as he toweled his face and arms and stalked over to the fireplace. “Your Yard lost track of her, which allowed her to siphon those funds into Swiss accounts that we can’t get a bloody read on. And that has left a stain on my reputation.” Just saying those words caused his brow to cave in, his annoyance as fresh as if the event had just happened a moment before. “So, now I am left to set this Hutton business to rights when Ethan and I must leave in two hours’ time to investigate this ghastly slaying of an abbot. A case, I might add, that my father has personally asked me to undertake.” He turned away and stared into the fire, shaking his head from side to side.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Pendragon. I only came because I thought we could
work together against Mrs. Hutton. To set that case to rights. Perhaps I was being foolish.”
I was stunned by Maurice Evans’s smoothness as he stared at Colin’s back with grave earnestness, and wondered where he had learned to be so polished. “Work together . . . ?” Colin scoffed as he turned back around and glared at Mr. Evans, though I could see that he was enticed by the man’s diffident words. “Your Yard has already dragged me into its mire, and given that we have to leave town I don’t see as I have much choice.” He swept one of his pistols off the mantel and began quickly disassembling it. “So, tell me, what in the ruddy hell is your Yard doing to locate Mrs. Hutton?”
“Well, ain’t that a fine way a speakin’ ta comp’ny,” Mrs. Behmoth blurted as she reached the landing with a fresh pot of hot water and a plate of biscuits. “’E sure as shite ain’t got the silver tongue of ’is father,” she added as she moved to the table and refilled the teapot with the water from her tray before setting the plate of biscuits down.
Mr. Evans snickered and I found I could barely stop myself from doing the same. “I like to think that every man has his own good qualities,” he managed to say after a moment.
“The only good qualities they got is the ones the women who bring ’em up give ’em.” She turned and headed back to the stairs.
“Such insight,” Colin snapped at her, the pieces of the pistol he’d been working on spread out on the mantel beside him. “Thank you so much.”
Mrs. Behmoth stared back from the landing, the tea tray hanging from one hand and the empty water pot in her other, her eyes fixed on Colin. “Yer welcome,” she fired back before trundling off down the stairs.
Colin’s expression soured as he quickly reassembled the pistol and came over to his chair to sit down. “I feel like she just took credit for the whole of my upbringing. Not that there isn’t a fair amount of truth to it,” he grumbled as he shoved the pistol beneath his seat cushion and leaned forward to pour us all more tea, fixing his gaze on Mr. Evans. “Ethan and I will indeed help you solve the disappearance of Mrs. Hutton and bring that ghastly woman to justice, but we will expect your lot to do your part.”
A lopsided smile swept across Mr. Evans’s face. “It will be an honor to have your aid,” he answered at once, and I knew he meant it. “I shall propose the arrangement to my superiors at once. I am certain they will be as grateful as I am.”
“And just how do you propose that we begin to hunt for this woman?”
Mr. Evans appeared to ponder the question a moment, but as he did so I caught the glimpse of a thought already well formed and knew he had come here with a specific idea in mind. “Well . . . ,” he started to say, his tone a touch too solemn, “we are going to need someone to speak with the Swiss authorities. The only way I can conceive of flushing Mrs. Hutton out is to allow the Yard some latitude in accessing her accounts at Credit Suisse, which is the last place her financial maneuverings led us.”
“But that will require a trip to Geneva,” I spoke up. “We can’t possibly do that now.”
“Zurich, actually,” Mr. Evans corrected, tossing me a pointed look that momentarily confused me. “Credit Suisse is headquartered in Zurich. It is easier to get to than Geneva, but perhaps a visit would not be required at all. . . .” He let his voice trail off and that was when I realized what he was up to. It wasn’t Colin’s help he was seeking, it was that of his father.
“I haven’t the time to go to Zurich now,” Colin reiterated with a frown, and I rather pitied Mr. Evans in that moment because I knew Colin would never arrive at the conclusion he was seeking. “Really, Mr. Evans, isn’t that a task better handled by the Yard?”
“I’m afraid you give the Yard too much credit, Mr. Pendragon.”
“Oh . . . I hardly think you can accuse me of that,” Colin shot back.
“What you are really looking for,” I cut in, anxious to lead Colin to the heart of the request, “is something of a more . . . diplomatic assist. Isn’t that it?”
“Precisely.” Mr. Evans practically crowed his relief. “A point of entrée with the Swiss authorities to get us started. And after that”—he smiled with an eagerness that I found disconcerting—“the two of you would be like a part of the Scotland Yard team itself.”
“I don’t fancy being an actual part of your team.” Colin dismissed the idea as he went back to sipping his tea.
“It’s just a turn of phrase,” Mr. Evans delicately backtracked, waving a hand through the air, his gray eyes alive with equal parts desperation and determination. “I meant more like an adjunct of the Yard. A critical one. Like the head. You’d be like the head of Scotland Yard with access to all of the Yard’s resources and information, but you wouldn’t actually be part of the Yard. You’d be above it. Like . . . the head . . .” Poor Mr. Evans finally ran out of steam with a look that bordered on embarrassment.
“Do you hear yourself?” Colin asked, one eyebrow arcing skyward.
Mr. Evans shook his head and rubbed his brow before looking back at us. “I don’t need to. I’ve been practicing this folly for two days.”
It was enough to get Colin to crack a smile. “You are a cheeky one, Maurice Evans,” he muttered. “Better that you should just come right out and say what you mean. That works best for me.”
“Oh . . .” I cut in with a chuckle, “I’m afraid there is an endless parade of victims of your unabashed forthrightness who would disagree.” I turned back to Mr. Evans. “Better you should continue your folly.”
Colin slid a look of mock offense to me as he set his teacup down before settling his gaze on the acting inspector. “I suppose Mr. Pruitt is not wrong. I am hardly the man to convince a government, a corporate institution, or even a canine to alter its ways. I simply haven’t the patience for it. As Mrs. Behmoth so willingly pointed out, I may be a diplomat’s son, but I am not a diplomat. Which leads us to the true purpose of your visit here this morning. . . .”
“I was trying so hard to be discreet,” Maurice Evans lamented.
“A sorry waste,” Colin repeated. “Mr. Pruitt and I will stop by my father’s estate on our way to Victoria Station. He is bound to know at least one or two of the Swiss Federal Council members. I shall ask him to lend us a hand in getting some information about Mrs. Hutton’s accounts at the bank. If anyone can do it . . .” He did not need to finish the sentiment as he polished off his tea. “But as I said before, I will insist that you and your Yard do your own diligence while we are away. I find it impossible to believe that there are not some channels of diplomacy already open between your lot and the Swiss Department of Justice and Police. I shall expect you to needle the appropriate conduits to get whatever you can. Don’t expect me to settle this Hutton affair and share the accolades with you Yarders unless they are well earned.”
“I would not accept it any other way,” Maurice Evans answered at once. “You have my word that I will be doing whatever I can to help prod the Swiss authorities while the two of you are gone. It is the least of what I owe Inspector Varcoe.”
Colin flinched slightly, but I don’t believe Mr. Evans caught sight of it. “Of course,” was all he said.
“And just what is this case you’re off to investigate?” Mr. Evans asked.
“The abbot of a small monastery was found stabbed to death in his room two mornings ago. An extraordinarily blood-soaked scene from what little we have heard. But most disturbingly we are told that his tongue was cut right out of his head. It has never been found.”
“How awful,” Mr. Evans gasped. “That’s a hell of a way to silence a man.”
“Indeed.”
“But who the bloody hell would kill a monk?” He looked from Colin to me, the very thought of the repugnant deed wholly evident on his face.
“Who,” Colin repeated, “and why . . . ?” He yanked out his pocket watch and gave it a quick glance. “I’m afraid we haven’t the time to deliberate it as we really must be going if we are to stop by my father’s on our way to the station.”
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“I just need a minute. . . .” I bolted up, abruptly reminded of the yawing trunk still waiting for me to finish with it. I did not miss Colin’s cocked eyebrow as I hurried past him, nor his last directions to Mr. Evans as he led him downstairs.
“You will send me a telegram if you should learn or hear anything while we are away,” he was instructing Mr. Evans, “and you will not make a move on Mrs. Hutton unless I am right beside you. I shall have your word on both things.”
I did not hear Maurice Evans’s reply. But then I didn’t need to.
CHAPTER 2
The cell—for that was how the priest had referred to it—was small, sparse, windowless, and scrupulously clean. The very sight of it was both astonishing and disheartening. I could not believe how austere a place it was—though I could not now recollect what else I had expected to find in a monastery—and as I scanned my eyes around the pristine little space I appreciated Colin’s distress at discovering that the monks had taken it upon themselves to obliterate all signs of the horrendous murder that had taken place here only sixty hours before. The harsh tang of lemon and lye was the sole remnant of something gone awry, though for all I knew this was the standard by which this monastery maintained itself, assuming the brotherhood believed the old adage of cleanliness and godliness.
“The only crime that I can see,” Colin said, his voice taut with displeasure as the three of us stared into the cell, “is that you have allowed the scene of this assassination to be so completely eradicated. And this when you say you have kept the room locked since the morning of the murder. I am . . .” He shook his head and did not bother to finish his thought, which seemed the best course of action given that we were speaking to a cleric.