The Dalwich Desecration Page 8

“I saw some newer horse tracks coming from the direction of the woods, but I can’t be certain when they were made, either,” I answered, dissatisfied with my own response.

  “More than one horse?”

  “No.”

  Colin’s face remained bleak as he turned back to Miss O’Dowd’s body. “I shall look then,” he mumbled. “Your other observation, Constable, is well-made. There is indeed a pinkish tone across the bottom of her face.” To my shock, he abruptly leaned forward and pried her mouth open. “If you will look you will see that her tongue has been rather badly removed.”

  I felt the constable recoil beside me even as I felt compelled to lean slightly forward and gaze into the dark cavern of her mouth. A deeper rose color was smeared across her teeth and I could see the ravaged nub of her tongue lolled up against the back of her throat.

  “Just like the abbot . . .” Constable Brendle blanched.

  “Yes,” Colin said as he stood up. “So it would seem.” He glanced at me from over the top of the constable’s head as I straightened up, and I could see that there was something exceedingly troubled within his gaze.

  CHAPTER 8

  Raleigh Chesterton, the portly, ill-tempered owner of the Pig and Pint, quite suddenly became a wholly other man in light of the travesty that had been wrought against his barmaid, Maureen O’Dowd. So profound was the change in the man that he had immediately volunteered to take Colin and me out to the Honeycutt farm to interview George Honeycutt. Since Constable Brendle had already spoken with both George and his son David, Mr. Chesterton’s magnanimity had allowed the two of us to go out and speak to the Honeycutts on our own.

  “She were a pip, that one,” he said as he brushed a thumb across his eyes for the second time since we’d climbed aboard his wagon. “I knew her since she were a toddler. She started workin’ for me at about twelve or thirteen . . . I don’t remember which . . .” He let his voice trail off as he shook his head and stared out across the gently rolling hillside that surrounded us, reminding me of the lush, emerald Ring of Kerry near where Maureen O’Dowd had been born.

  “What about her parents or siblings?” Colin asked.

  “Her pop died in a mining accident when she were jest a little shite. She didn’t even remember him. That’s when her mum brought the two kids here ta Dalwich. Her mum worked for me fer a while, but that woman could be a holy pain in the arse, so I had ta let ’er go.”

  “You severed her mother’s employment because she had a bad attitude?!” I fired back with disbelief. It was, after all, less than twenty-four hours since Mr. Chesterton had accorded us an appalling greeting upon our arrival at his lackluster establishment.

  Raleigh Chesterton tossed a sour frown my direction. “Her attitude came from too much time spent in a bottle,” he shot back defensively. “What of it?”

  “Nothing at all . . .” Colin said as he waved a dismissive hand at the same time he clapped my ankle bone with his nearest boot. “Mr. Pruitt didn’t mean anything. We all know a man has to protect his livelihood.”

  “ ’At’s right.” Mr. Chesterton bothered to send a satisfied scowl my direction. “So while Maureen’s mum drank herself ta death, I gave Mo a job. ’At’s a kind a man I am.”

  “And this was when she was about twelve?” I repeated, determined to keep the sarcasm from my voice.

  “Near about. Her mum died when Mo was fourteen, so she mighta been eleven or so. Who the hell remembers,” he sniffed, clearly daring me to counter his declared generosity.

  “You mentioned there were two children?” Colin pressed.

  “She has a brother . . .” he started to say before shaking his head with a protracted sigh. “Doyle’s gonna be nobbed off when the constable gets word ta him about what’s happened ta Mo. They was close even though he lives over in Mountfield. He’s been workin’ the Mountfield gypsum mine since he were fifteen. A scrawny lad, but I guess he does all right fer himself.”

  “Is he older or younger than Miss O’Dowd?” Colin asked.

  “Couple years older.”

  “Do you know when they last saw each other?”

  “ ’Bout a month ago. Doyle came here. The two a them took turns goin’ back and forth. This was Doyle’s turn. I know ’cause he always spends a lot a time sittin’ in me pub glarin’ at anyone who gives his sister the slightest bit a grief or a randy smack on the arse.” He chuckled at the memory. “Like she couldn’t take care a herself.” His laughter abruptly caught in his throat with the obvious flaw in his statement. “Shite.” He spat the word out as though it tasted rotten.

  “And what does her brother think of the boy she’s been courting?”

  “Courtin’?” Mr. Chesterton snorted with amusement. “Mo wasn’t courtin’ nobody. You make her sound like one a them upper-crust snoots wot hangs off her gentleman’s arm swoonin’ every time he looks at her while she waits ta shove a litter out for him. That weren’t Mo. Ya bloody well met her. I’d a think you’d a seen that.” He eyed us critically. “She were the type who could have what she wanted and weren’t shy about takin’ it. Ain’t too many women know their own minds like that,” he pronounced.

  “I rather think the true art of a woman is in letting the man believe he’s in charge when all the while she is bending him to her will,” Colin replied.

  “That was Mo,” Mr. Chesterton snorted. “She could make me starkers. You’d a thought I was workin’ for her half the bloody time.” He shook his head again, this time with a wistful hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

  “And you say she wasn’t seeing anyone in particular then?” Colin pushed back to the topic at hand.

  “She’d been gettin’ close to a fine lad the last bunch a months, but they wasn’t doin’ any high-flyin’ courtin’.”

  “Are you talking about the Honeycutt boy?”

  “ ’At’s him. Edward Honeycutt.”

  “A fine lad you say?” Colin repeated, casually leaning back in the wagon and glancing about the bucolic scenery as though he were only enquiring in passing, which, most certainly, I knew he was not.

  Raleigh Chesterton nodded without a second’s thought. “He’s a smart, reliable sort, which is sayin’ a lot given he’s not yet quite twenty. He helps me out at the pub gettin’ me books ta tally. I ain’t never had much of a head for numbers,” he scoffed. “And I let him putter about the kitchen and tend to the bar once in a while. Those are the skills he’ll really be able ta use.”

  “I’d say he’s taking a uniquely divergent path from his father’s occupation,” Colin remarked.

  “ ’At’s the truth. Edward’s always readin’ and studyin’ so he don’t have ta muck about in cow and chicken shite like his father does. That’ll be left for his brother David ta do. That boy can’t tie his ruddy shoes without an extra hand.”

  “Miss O’Dowd told us she was going to move to London as soon as she got married. Did you know she and young Mr. Honeycutt were harboring those plans?”

  “Those two didn’t have a feckin’ farthin’ between ’em. They weren’t goin’ nowhere. And after all I did for ’em. Ungrateful little shites,” he snarled.

  Colin’s closest eyebrow arced up before a benign smile tickled the corners of his lips. “And what about Miss O’Dowd’s brother? What did he make of his sister’s relationship with Edward Honeycutt?”

  Mr. Chesterton gave a shrug that seemed to border on annoyance. “I already told ya he’s in the mines. Doyle ain’t got nothin’ ta do with anything.”

  “I understand that,” Colin shot right back as we turned onto a long, muddy drive that led to a large, well-used farmhouse. “But he must have had some opinion if he was as close to his sister as you’ve said.”

  Raleigh Chesterton tossed a foul look at Colin and I could tell he was displeased at being goaded by him. “Yer about ta meet Edward yerself, so why the hell don’t ya ask him?!”

  “Indeed,” Colin muttered under his breath and, to my relief, left the subject alone.

  I
turned back to study the farmhouse as we drew nearer and noted that while it was indeed weary looking, it still showed the signs of being cared for. It was a two-story, plaster-coated structure of a grayish hue, though whether it had once been white, I could not be sure. There were dark green shutters astride each of the half-dozen windows across the face of the house, and while the shingles on the roof were a similar tone they had settled into more of a mossy green while the shutters had deepened to something closer to a greenish black. A small porch was attached to the center of the house’s face by the door, and someone had planted a row of sunflowers across its front in an effort, I presumed, to make it look more cheerful. The remainder of the yard was more scrub and dirt than grass, with a litter of children’s toys about, including a handmade child-sized tractor constructed of wood that spoke to the craftsmanship of either George Honeycutt or one of his sons.

  Three small children, a boy and two girls, had been playing in the side yard between the house and a sorrowful-looking barn, but they now stood mutely watching us as Mr. Chesterton guided the wagon to a stop nearby. “Hullo, Benny, Louise, and dear little Josey,” he called with a chuckle. “They’re the Honeycutts’ youngest,” he muttered to us. “They got nine. Bless ’em.”

  The littlest one instantly raced for the house and flew through the front door as though her skirts were aflame, but the other two stood their ground as we climbed from the wagon and headed toward them.

  “These gents have come all the way from London ta talk ta yer pop,” Raleigh Chesterton explained with uncharacteristic softness. “Is he about?”

  “He’s out back with the chickens,” the boy, who looked about eight, answered at once. “He says they’re layin’ like shite.”

  “Hush,” his sister scolded.

  “ ’At’s all right,” Mr. Chesterton chuckled. “He’s only tellin’ the truth, Louise. And there ain’t nothin’ wrong with tellin’ the truth.”

  “Mr. Chesterton?!” a strong female voice bellowed from one of the upstairs windows of the house. “There somethin’ I can do for ya?”

  “Hullo, Mrs. Honeycutt.” He brushed a hand across the top of his bare skull as though to be sure he looked his best. “I’ve brought these two gentlemen wot want ta speak ta yer mister about Miss O’Dowd.”

  “Oh,” her tone dropped. “That poor girl.”

  “It’s a terrible thing,” Mr. Chesterton agreed. “But these men are here ta help our constable. They’re gonna make it right.” He glanced at us with an expectant nod as though our job were as easy as driving his wagon.

  Colin ignored him, turning a smile toward the woman of the house. “Perhaps we could speak with you as well, Mrs. Honeycutt?” he called up to her.

  There was a momentary silence before her answer drifted back. “I wasn’t with ’em when they found ’er, ya know.”

  “Yes, I know. But sometimes a woman’s thoughts are a powerful tool. You might be able to help us more than you know.”

  Once again there was a protracted silence before Mrs. Honeycutt responded. “All right then. I’ll meet ya by the chickens. That’s where you’ll find George.”

  “Thank you,” Colin said with a wave, though neither of us had even seen the woman nor could we be sure from which upstairs window she had called.

  “Ya want me ta take ya round back?” young Benjamin asked.

  “If it wouldn’t trouble you,” Colin replied with an easy smile before glancing at Mr. Chesterton. “You’ll wait here for us then?”

  “Course.” He climbed back onto the wagon and stretched his legs out. “Ya do what ya need. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

  Benjamin seemed quite pleased to escort us, skipping excitedly around the side of the house with us and his sister in his wake. He chattered incessantly about the chickens before pointing to a nearby hillside where a herd of slender cattle were idly grazing, which, he proudly informed us, also belonged to his father.

  My first glimpse of George Honeycutt found him in the midst of an area no more than twenty feet by twenty feet that was surrounded by a small, tightly constructed wooden fence no higher than my thighs. There was a tatty coop at the back of the fenced section that looked like it might house as many as fifty chickens, all of whom seemed to currently be in the open area pecking around the feet of the thin, weathered man with a harsh nose and strong, square jaw. His brown hair was sparse, giving him the appearance of being well into his middle years, though I suspected him likely younger given that his eldest, Edward, was only nineteen.

  Mr. Honeycutt was grumbling at the birds as he flicked seed about, not taking any heed of us until little Benjamin finally called out in a singsong voice. “Da, Mr. Chesterton brought these men from London ta talk to ya.”

  Only then did George Honeycutt turn his dark eyes toward us with an expression that was as uninviting as it was wary. “London . . . ?” he repeated in a graveled voice.

  “We are in Dalwich at the behest of Bishop Fencourt of Chichester,” Colin explained patiently, clearly having also noted the man’s unease. “He has asked that we investigate the murder that took place up at the monastery.”

  “Wot’s ’at ta do wit’ me?”

  “Nothing, I would hope.” Colin gave a stiff grin that was not returned. “We would actually like to speak with you about Miss O’Dowd,” he went on with a renewed sense of gravitas. “I understand that you and one of your sons were the first to happen upon her body this morning.”

  Mr. Honeycutt glanced back behind us, glaring at his young son and daughter. “Go on . . .” He shooed the children as he crossed to a short gate, which he unlatched to let himself out of the pen. “I already talked ta the constable,” he informed us as Louise and Benjamin dutifully raced off. “I don’t know nothin’ else but wot I already said. Yer wastin’ me time.” He re-latched the little gate and wiped his hands on his grimy gray trousers as he headed toward the barn with a loping gait. “Go talk ta ’im.”

  “It is Constable Brendle’s suggestion that brings us here to speak with you,” Colin answered as we tagged along behind Mr. Honeycutt. “He has asked for our assistance in Miss O’Dowd’s murder.”

  George Honeycutt reached a split-rail fencepost near the great run-down doors of his barn and stopped, snatching up a pipe and box of matches from atop the stanchion. He stuck the pipe between his teeth and lit the already-burnt tobacco stuffed inside, taking a generous inhalation that he immediately blew out through his nose. “Who the ’ell are you ’at ever’body wants yer ’elp?”

  Colin forced a smile to his lips that did little to hide his annoyance. “Colin Pendragon,” he answered before gesturing toward me, “and Ethan Pruitt.”

  Mr. Honeycutt eyed Colin closely as he took another puff on his pipe and shifted his gaze to me. “Well, I ain’t never ’eard a either of ya.”

  “George . . . ?”

  A familiar female voice piped up from behind me and I turned to face a short, heavyset woman in a long, straw-colored skirt with a white apron covering a fair amount of it as well as the faded blue blouse she was wearing. Her dark brown hair was pulled beneath a similarly hued blue scarf, and her broad face was pinched in a look of worry as she stared at the three of us.

  “Wot are you doin’ out ’ere?” Mr. Honeycutt mumbled as he took another match to his pipe and pulled in another drag before setting it down on top of the fencepost again.

  “These men said they wanna talk ta me.”

  George Honeycutt flicked his eyes at us and twisted his face with displeasure. “Why you botherin’ ’er? She weren’t even out there with me this mornin’. She don’t know nothin’.”

  “I was hoping to get some information about Miss O’Dowd from your wife,” Colin answered, speaking slowly and carefully as though talking to simpletons. I only hoped the Honeycutts would not realize the tone of his voice. “A critical part of figuring out who might have wanted to hurt her is to discover something of who she was.”

  “She were a slag,” Mr. Honeycutt barked as he shot
a glob of yellowed phlegm to the ground.

  “George Honeycutt!” his wife gasped, her hazel eyes telegraphing her embarrassment, though I noticed she did not correct him.

  “I heard she’d been spending particular time with your eldest son,” Colin pressed ahead.

  “Edward’s an arse,” Mr. Honeycutt grumbled.

  “Now, you stop,” his wife scolded, taking a step forward even though she still remained some distance from her husband. Nevertheless, George Honeycutt reached back for his pipe and set himself to smoking it rather than speaking further. “Our Edward is a good lad,” she continued. “Ask anybody. But when he started seein’ Miss O’Dowd . . .” Her eyes shifted away as she said the name. “Well, she weren’t who we was thinkin’ would be ’avin’ our grandbabies. She were nice enough and all, but she never struck me as the type who’d be ’appy settlin’ down.” Her husband grunted caustically and it earned him another scowl from his wife. “But ain’t none of us ever wished that poor girl any ’arm.”

  “Of course.” Colin shook his head, the wisp of an edge seeping into his tone just the same. “And we appreciate your honesty. Does your son know how you felt about Miss O’Dowd?”

  “Me ’usband tends ta speak ’is mind,” Mrs. Honeycutt responded with a flush as her husband banged his pipe against the fencepost, knocking the spent tobacco to the ground. It did not appear to me that he cared in the least what his wife was saying about him.

  “What time was it when you found Miss O’Dowd’s body this morning?” Colin looked back at him.

  He gave a slight shrug. “ ’Bout five thirty, I guess. We was just gettin’ started.”

  “Which son was with you?”

  Mr. Honeycutt glanced at his wife with a look that seemed almost defiant. “Me second oldest. David. The ’elpful one.”

  “You stop that, George,” his wife admonished once again.

  “Ach . . .” He waved her off. “You mollycoddle Eddie. It’s yer fault ’e’s soft.”

  “ ’E ain’t soft,” she shot back defensively as she tossed a quick look at Colin and me, embarrassment and a hint of anguish evident behind her eyes. “ ’E’s jest mad ’cause Edward don’t wanna work on this farm ’is ’ole life. ’E ’elps Mr. Chesterton out at the Pig and Pint. That man’s been right good ta our boy.”