The Dalwich Desecration Page 16

  “Ya see ’ow it is with ’er?” Doyle said with great seriousness as he stared down at the perfectly bronzed swirl of potatoes atop his pie. “She pokes and teases and shakes her arse ta get me eye. And she gets it too. ’Cause ’at’s wot she wants. Someone ta pay ’er a bit a mind. Make ’er feel like she’s worth somethin’ once in a while. And ’at’s ’ow it was with Mo. Our mum didn’t give two figs about us, so I went down inta the mines and Mo got ’erself inta trouble with some a the young blokes.” He dug into his dish, scooping out a massive forkful and stabbing it into his mouth with enough vigor to ensure we understood that he wouldn’t be fielding any more questions at the moment.

  “She started doin’ some drinkin’ of ’er own,” he continued when he was ready. “And why wouldn’t she when our mum made such a sport of it?!” he grumbled. “But Mo got it wrong. She thought all them sods she was flirtin’ with really cared about ’er. Ya know?” He took another bite of the dense mixture of beef, vegetables, and potato while we waited for him to start up again. I was certain I knew where this story was leading and found I could only poke at my fish and chips, though Colin didn’t seem the least disturbed as he splashed on another layer of vinegar and tackled what remained on his plate.

  “You know wot them arses cared about,” Doyle said after another minute. “It weren’t long before she were carryin’ a baby and couldn’t even be sure who the wretched thing belonged to.”

  “Your sister has a child?” Colin sputtered.

  “She lost it!” he snapped back. “Thank the Lord,” he muttered as he quickly crossed himself, his fork bobbing through the air as he did so. “Our mum never knew, but Mo told me ’cause she ’ad ta tell someone.” He shook his head and slid the rest of his meal away, sinking back into his ale. “I tried ta tell ’er these guttersnipes didn’t give two bloody shites about ’er, but she wouldn’t listen ta me. She said they made ’er feel special.” He snorted derisively as he shoved his mug toward the end of the table next to his plate. “Molly!” he hollered to little effect across the din of the bar.

  Colin poured the whole of his nearly untouched beer into Doyle’s glass and slid it over to him. “I’m not much in the mood tonight,” he explained.

  “Not in the mood?” Doyle laughed. “I ain’t never ’eard a such a thing.” He snatched up the mug and took a slug with a cat’s smile. “I do hate waste,” he said with a snort.

  “I should think,” Colin spoke carefully as he pushed his plate away, “that given everything you’ve told us there must have been at least a few people in Dalwich who didn’t approve of your sister’s activities.”

  Doyle’s mouth curled acidly. “Who are any a them ta think the less a ’er? She were a good girl. She were—”

  “I don’t need to be convinced,” Colin interrupted. “I’ve already told you that I found her charming. What I’m trying to discover is who may not have thought her equally so? A spurned lover . . . ?” He eyed Doyle cautiously. “The wife of a spurned lover . . . ?”

  “I don’t know about any a that,” Doyle snarled.

  “Then let me ask you something you do know about.” Colin continued to watch Doyle closely. “Edward Honeycutt tells us he was ready to make your sister his wife. Indeed, he appears quite distressed by her death. So why exactly is it that you find him so loathsome?”

  Doyle’s spine stiffened. “Ya think me sister couldn’t a done better than the pissant son a some dairy farmer wot looks down on ’er? ’E thought ’e could ’ave ’er around whenever ’e wanted and when ’e got tired ’e’d jest push ’er away like an empty plate. I’d come back ’ere ta visit and she’d be all long faced and moonin’ over the sod. Made me bloody brassed off. But every time ’e’d glance ’er way again, she’d go runnin’.” His face screwed up with displeasure. “She always went back.” His eyes appeared to almost blacken as he added, “And I know wot ’is da thought of ’er. I know wot ’e said about ’er.”

  “So what?! She wasn’t going to marry his father. She was betrothed to Edward.”

  “Wot’s a difference?” he sneered.

  “Are you saying you’re the same man your father was?” Colin pressed. “Because I can tell you that I am certainly very different from the man my father sought to raise.”

  Doyle glared at Colin as though he thought himself on the verge of being tricked. “I don’t remember me da’,” he answered sourly, “so I really couldn’t say. But if that old shite farmer ’ad anythin’ ta do with Mo’s death, I’ll kill ’is whole bleedin’ family.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Colin scowled, “should any of them turn up dead.”

  Doyle’s frown deepened. “I told ya what ya wanted ta know, so you had best get the bastard responsible right quick. I ain’t sittin’ around waitin’ while you lot pussy around like a bunch a slags.”

  Colin’s expression fouled as he sat back and folded his arms across his chest, making me dread what he might be about to say. “We will ensure . . .” I quickly started talking before Colin could, “. . . that your sister’s murderer faces the full wrath and judgment of the law. And if that doesn’t suit you, then I would suggest you beware lest you end up facing the same fate yourself.”

  “Pish,” Doyle waved me off. “Let ’em come down inta the mines and find me.”

  “If I don’t solve this case by week’s end, you are free to do as you please,” Colin put in from out of nowhere, his demeanor clipped and impatient.

  “Week’s end? Today’s Saturday,” Doyle said, his manner utterly wary. “Wot’s week’s end?”

  “Friday,” Colin responded coolly. “The end of the week is Friday. By next Saturday Mr. Pruitt and I shall be on a train back to London. So tell me, was there anyone your sister complained to you about recently? Anyone she professed to being bothered by?”

  “Nah.” He waved us off and slugged back more of his beer. “Mo didn’t tell me shite like that. She knew I’d a torn anyone apart wot badgered ’er. Includin’ that ’Oneycutt boy.” He leaned forward and stabbed a finger at Colin. “You be sure an’ look at ’im real close. I bet ’e weren’t so ’appy about Mo ’avin’ ’is baby wot with ’is plans ta start some new life in London and all. I still ain’t convinced ’e were really gonna take ’er anyhow. It’s easy ta say now that she’s gone. And ’is ruddy da’ ain’t one whit better.”

  “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

  The 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 her
e 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

  Constable 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.