The Dalwich Desecration (31 page)

“You meant for this crime to appear to have been perpetrated by the same man who killed Abbot Tufton,” Colin continued as he walked around to the far side of Edward Honeycutt and stopped. “But just in case, you arranged her body as though she had been violated, which, we know from the coroner's report, she was not.” Colin peered across Edward Honeycutt at Mr. Whitsett. “What a godsend it must have seemed when Constable Brendle fetched you first and then left you alone at the scene with her body. The scene you had so carefully set up that you were then able to completely foul by pulling her bodice closed, fixing her skirts, and laying your blasted coat atop her to supposedly protect her modesty. If there had been any evidence to be gathered, you utterly soiled it, knowing that yours would have been the only evidence left behind anyway. And then you could not apologize enough for not having followed appropriate protocol. Happy to hide behind your inexperience.”

“This is preposterous!” Mr. Whitsett babbled, half-rising from his chair, his eyes darting between Constable Brendle and Mr. Masri as though trying to gauge whether they were being swayed by Colin's words.

“How noble you have looked staying right by your constable's side since the accident, seeming to be assuaging your guilt when, in truth, I rather think you shot him on purpose to ensure you were kept at the center of every step of this investigation. . . .”

“
That's a bloody lie!
” He was standing now. “I would
never
hurt Lachlan. You're wrong. You have no proof.”

Colin gave a mirthless smile, his lips pulling tight. “And in that you are woefully mistaken. For I shall look forward to proving that your handprint matches the one left round the neck of Miss O'Dowd.” He took a step toward Mr. Whitsett. “Did you decide her refusal not in earnest?” he snarled. “That you had a right to press your attentions where they were not wanted . . . ?”

And before Colin could take another step forward Edward Honeycutt launched himself across the room, landing on Graham Whitsett with a battering of fists and garbled screams. Mr. Masri, his left arm encapsulated in its sling, and Constable Brendle, confined to his bed, could be of no use, so it was left to Colin to cross the room after a long minute, a minute in which I knew he had purposefully hesitated, and yank Edward Honeycutt off the cowering scarecrow of a man.

“
Get him off of me!
” Mr. Whitsett screeched, sliding himself across the floor on his backside until he'd shoved himself into one corner of the room, his face bleeding and his nose a battered pulp. “It wasn't me . . .” he protested, his voice cracking with fear and desperation, “. . . it was her. She wanted me to pay her for favors so she could get money for London. And then she tried to toss me instead. Started screaming and clawing at me . . .” His gaze flew around the room, his forehead slick with sweat and his lips pulled back as though with rictus. “I was just defending myself. . .” he howled. “I swear it . . .”

“Of course . . .” Colin spoke icily. “I can see how a man might throttle a woman half his size in self-defense. How utterly heroic.”

Edward Honeycutt released a primal wail as he thrashed about in Colin's grip, and it was enough to finally cease Graham Whitsett's pitiful excuses, leaving the contemptible man to hunker back on the floor and shut his mouth.

It was Raleigh Chesterton who moved then, standing up and seizing Edward Honeycutt in a bear's grip, the pitiable young man sagging against him as he began to weep. The two of them remained like that a moment, Mr. Chesterton stoic and hard, before he finally pulled Edward from the room taking care not to pass anywhere near Mr. Whitsett. As the two of them left, Mr. Masri instinctively pushed himself to his feet, his face a reflection of aggrieved sorrow, and went over to Mr. Whitsett. Moving with awkward, rudimentary motions, Mr. Masri managed to haul Mr. Whitsett's arms behind his back, one after the other, and fasten handcuffs around his wrists. I was struck by the fact that Mr. Whitsett put up no fuss, and as he cowered in that corner, trussed like the criminal he was, it occurred to me that he was the most pitiable soul of all.

When I slid my eyes back to Constable Brendle, an impotent hostage in his own bed throughout this ordeal, it was to find him staring toward the side of the room, away from all of us, his gaze blank and unwavering, unable to face the scene laid bare before his eyes.

CHAPTER 28

I
n spite of Colin's success earlier in the day, by nightfall he had become perceptibly uncommunicative and moody. Yet another awkward dinner with the monks had passed. Brother Green remained the most hospitable of the assembled men, with the other monks bringing little added warmth or camaraderie in their dealings with us.

Nothing more profound than the state of the crops in the fields and predictions around the severity of the storm that had been brewing since late in the afternoon along the western horizon were bandied about the dining tables. Throughout the mundanity we shared meager portions of roast chicken, asparagus, and corn rolls. Father Demetris had been right on our first day here, the food was simple, but it was good.

During the meal I had glanced around at the disparate monks and tried to conceive of Colin's assertion that one of these devout men had slain their abbot. The multiple knife wounds . . . the excised tongue . . . I did not know how it could be. So it was with some measure of relief that the meal finally ended, taking with it my macabre musings.

As we all began to shuffle out of the refectory, Father Demetris asked Colin and me to return to Abbot Tufton's office with him, informing us that two telegrams addressed to Colin had been sent up from Dalwich just before supper. That news was the only thing to even partially rouse Colin from the somber temperament that had been descending upon him since our return. If he had some notion as to what they might be concerning he did not let on, leaving the three of us to pad the short distance from the refectory to the abbot's office in the usual silence.

“Please sit down . . .” Father Demetris invited as we stepped inside. “I've got them both right here,” he muttered as he fumbled through a sheaf of papers piled on one corner of the desk. He appeared well settled in even though he had only been back at the monastery for a day. “Ah . . .” He pulled an opened envelope from the pile and passed it over to Colin, which drew an immediate frown that I noticed the priest did not miss. “This first one was actually addressed to me. There are, however, a few lines meant for you,” he explained as he sat down and immediately began thumbing back through the pile in search of the second telegram.

“So I see . . .” Colin pulled a single sheet from the envelope and shifted his gaze to me. “It's from Bishop Fencourt.”

“He is enquiring after my safe arrival in the first line, but it is the next several lines that I knew you would want to see,” the priest babbled as he finally extracted a second envelope, a sealed envelope, with a flourish and a sigh.

Colin lowered the sheet of paper and stared across at Father Demetris, the frown he had already adopted creasing deeper into his forehead. “What does Proverbs 3:5 say?” he asked, though I was certain he was loath to do so.

Father Demetris allowed the hint of a grin to whisk across his face as he snatched up a Bible from the corner of the desk. “To tell you the truth, I had to look it up myself,” he admitted as he quickly flipped through the pages of the book. “ ‘
Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding
. ' ” He looked back at us as he set the Bible down, his face a mixture of confusion and distress. “Whatever do you think Abbot Tufton could have meant by it?”

Colin's forehead knit ever deeper as he glared at the wall behind the priest. “I wish I knew . . .” he mumbled, managing to look as agitated as he did mystified. “And the other telegram . . . ?” he asked in more of a bark than a question.

“Right here . . .” Father Demetris said as he handed over the second telegram.

Colin tore one end of the envelope off and tipped out a single sheet of paper that he slowly read. His face remained ever stoic, and yet I could see by the gentle loosening of his brow that he found this news far less aggravating. It took a long moment before he finally handed the page to me, standing up as he did so. “Thank you for your time tonight, Father,” he said quite suddenly, speaking with renewed vigor. “Let us meet first thing in the morning and see what the new day has to offer us.” He turned to me with a curt nod that could not hide the obvious exhilaration that had so abruptly nestled in behind his eyes. “Come then, Mr. Pruitt.”

I glanced down at the telegram and read it quickly as I stood up. It was from Acting Inspector Evans of Scotland Yard. The telegram contained only two short lines, but I understood at once what had so profoundly changed Colin's mood.

Charlotte Hutton. The only person I knew who had outmaneuvered Colin, cleverly leading us down a trail until, in the end, she had disappeared as neatly as an apparition.

“Tomorrow morning then . . .” Father Demetris was saying.

“Quite so,” Colin tossed over his shoulder as he rushed me out into the empty hall and pulled the door shut behind us. “As if we did not have incentive enough to solve this case,” he hissed, herding me along like a wayward sheep, “now I feel like we have run out of time.”

“We cannot leave here until we've seen the end of this terrible business. These monks . . . Bishop Fencourt . . .
your father
are all counting on you.”

A ready scowl creased his forehead in an instant. “Yes,” he snapped, “I am well aware of that and am
not
proposing to simply leave. But I will solve this case come morning. I have tended this virtuous garden long enough and have only to coax the infected flower open. And that is what I shall do.” We paused as we arrived at the door to my cell . . . Abbot Tufton's cell . . . and he looked at me keenly. “This is the last night you shall have to sleep in that horrid little space. I give you my word.”

“I've gotten rather used to it,” I shrugged glibly.

He easily saw through my deceit. “Nevertheless”—he leaned forward slightly—“tomorrow night you will have my cold feet to contend with once again.”

“Maurice Evans is right, you know,” I said before Colin could turn away. “It seems there is nothing your father is unable to accomplish.”

The ghost of a smile fleeted across his face. “Yes . . . well . . . he did set a rather high standard when I was growing up.”

“And you are every bit the man he is,” I reminded. “Which you will prove once again when you bring an end to this dreadful case, whether it is tomorrow or not,” I could not help but add.

“Doubt.” He gave me a stiff smile before turning and starting away. “I shall accept that challenge,” he said as he headed off for his cell.

“Colin . . .” I called in a hushed voice, forcing him to stop and glance back at me. “Get some sleep tonight.”

He waved me off with a taut grimace that I supposed was meant to be a smile. “There will be time enough for that tomorrow night,” he mumbled as he started off again. And with that sentence he spoke to my deepest fear. For now I was certain that he had no idea how he was going to entice this case to unfurl.

CHAPTER 29

T
he night was fitful for me. I worried about Colin, imagining him pacing throughout the night in his cell, trying to decipher an outcome that I myself had no inkling of. For a time I had tried to take his advice and rummage back through the facts, the things we had been told, the things we had learned, but I could discern no murderer amongst these holy men. And as that thought pressed in on me, I had known I would get no sleep tonight.

I had thought Colin might come back to my cell once he was certain the monks had settled in for the night to test his thoughts or suppositions upon me, but he never did. So sometime deep in the heart of the night I finally gave up my vigil and forced myself to lie down on the cot in the tiny room, remaining fully dressed, and pretended that I was going to fall asleep. I would tell you that I never managed to do so except for the fact that at some point I was awakened by the slightest rattling of the door in its jamb. The noise had been minute and clandestine, but it caused me to bolt upright on the accursed cot nonetheless, my ears attuned like those of a night hunting owl, but it had been nothing. No other whispered murmur of any type followed, though I do not believe I was able to catch even the merest slumber after that.

At the first sounds of the monks beginning to move around I was up and in the balneary trying to wash the night's troubles from my heart and mind, but other than the cleansing of my body, I seemed to have little success. My head felt as dopey as if I had spent the night in the embrace of an opiate. No amount of cold water splashed into my face made the slimmest difference. So after dousing the whole of my head under the spigot I finally gave up and decided to return to my cell and finish dressing.

I could hear the monks' distant chanting drifting from the chapel as I headed back to my cell, its dirge-like quality continuing to sound both reverential and haunting to me. It only served to further unnerve me. I quickened my pace and was glad to arrive at my cell so I could diminish the brunt of their voices behind the closed door. For once I was grateful there were no mirrors about as I was certain I must look the sight, red-eyed and wearied. There was only so much I was going to be able to do to vanquish my exhaustion, leaving me to worry ever the more about Colin.

“Now, that is a fine monastic specimen.” The words hit me the moment I shoved the cell's door open. Colin was seated at the small table at the back of the cell and had the tapers already lit, including a third one that he had obviously brought himself. He looked well sorted and wore the hint of a grin as his icy blue eyes slipped across my face. “Although I will admit you look a touch worse for the wear this morning.”

I kicked the door shut behind me as I shrugged into a fresh shirt. “I didn't sleep well,” I mumbled, glancing over at him as I slumped down onto the bed to pull on my boots. “But you don't seem to have suffered the same fate.”

He waved a dismissive hand at me. “Sleep is overrated,” he announced as he stood up and pulled my vest and coat from the back of the chair and began tossing them to me in order. “This morning shall prove to be the defining moment for the men of this monastery. I fear we are going to tremble it down to its foundations.” He pursed his lips and came out from behind the table. “It is an unenviable task that lies before us, but one that must not be avoided. If you had slumbered without recourse last night I should have to wonder at the state of your heart.”

“Yes . . .” was all I could muster in response as the awareness that he had actually suffered the same sort of night as me began to penetrate my murky brain. He was, I now realized, operating solely under the force of his determination to see this case brought to its inexorable conclusion. And it was providing him with a drive that I had to admire. “Have you solved this murder then?”

“Solved it?” He tilted his head slightly before taking the few steps to the door. “Let us just say that I know enough to be nettlesome and I suspect enough to be lethal.”

“Are you going to tell me?”

“Indeed.” He nodded as a smile ghosted across his lips. “Just as soon as we have gathered together the fine brothers of this monastery.”

I was about to protest, to insist he take me into his confidence, but before I could do so he pulled a small cloth from the waistband of his pants, its corners appearing to have been folded in upon themselves many times over. He handed it to me and I realized at once that it was not a cloth at all but one of his cummerbunds that had been rolled up and pressed flat. “What is this . . . ?” I mumbled as I squeezed the contents, noting their pliability and yet quite unable to discern precisely what was nestled inside.

“What does it feel like?” he asked as a cockeyed grin slowly bloomed onto his face.

I unrolled the cummerbund partway and was immediately struck by the pungent scent that rushed up at me, caustic and harsh. There was no need for me to unwrap it further as I knew at once what it was. “Where . . . ?” I started to say before he interrupted me.

“I need you to secrete that from everyone until I ask you to hand it to me.” His eyes crackled with exhilaration and I finally understood the nature of his mood this morning.

“Did you . . . ?” But the rest of my question halted in my throat as Colin reached over and flung the door open.

“Let us be on our way and have this unfortunate business resolved,” he muttered, all signs of his earlier grin vanquished from his face.

I carefully folded the cummerbund again and slid it beneath my suspenders at the small of my back so no one would see it until Colin deemed it time. I tugged on the back of my coat to ensure there was no telltale bulge and then hurried after him, my heart thundering heavily, and I only hoped that we were ready for this final joust.

“Father Demetris . . .” I heard Colin call as the priest rounded the corner from the chapel with a bevy of monks at his heels.

“Mr. Pendragon . . .” He glanced behind Colin and gave me a quick smile. “Mr. Pruitt . . . God's blessings on you both this morning.”

“And the same to you, Father,” Colin replied at once, though the tautness in his voice was unmistakable to me. “Might I trouble you and some of the brothers to join us for a meeting in the refectory? Much progress has been made on the abbot's murder and I should very much like to discuss it with those of you who have been most helpful.”

“Of course.” Father Demetris managed to summon up something that faintly resembled a smile, but like Colin, there was no joy behind it. “Who do you wish to address?”

Colin stepped forward as the monks filed past on the way to their daily obligations. “Most certainly these good men right here,” he said, gesturing toward Brothers Silsbury and Wright, before pointing across the hallway at Brother Bursnell, who was just on the verge of ducking into his library. “And perhaps Brother Clayworth and Brother Green . . . ?” Colin's smile turned warmer when he said the last monk's name, though I was instantly disheartened to hear that he would need that congenial man to take part in this final parley. “Good morning, Brother Hollings . . .” Colin called to the young man, clouting his back as though they were aged comrades, but the gesture only earned him a grimace for his efforts. “You will join us, won't you?” he asked before turning to find Brother Morrison ambling toward us in the young monk's wake. “And, of course, Brother Morrison.”

“Of course Brother Morrison what . . . ?” the elderly monk repeated, his visage as unyielding as ever.

“Mr. Pendragon and Mr. Pruitt have asked that a few of us gather in the refectory for a short discussion,” Father Demetris answered before Colin could do so.

“I really must get out to the brewery,” Brother Clayworth reminded, giving an uncharacteristic scowl. “Those young neophytes don't know what they're doing without me to keep an eye on them.”

“I give you my word that I shan't take more time than is absolutely necessary,” Colin responded. Still, it was evident Brother Clayworth was not happy about being thusly restrained from his duties, and I wondered if his demeanor was at all attributable to the fact that he had likely not gotten any fire into his belly yet this morning.

“Fine, fine,” he mumbled, turning and following Brother Bursnell into the refectory.

“Then I should think we have a quorum,” Colin announced grimly as he too pushed through the door.

“A quorum?!” Father Demetris turned to me, the look on his face as confused as it appeared uneasy.

“It's just an expression,” I said with the fragment of a shrug, though in truth I had no idea what Colin's intentions were.

The priest and I went inside to find the seven monks assembled around the nearer table with Colin strolling casually across the front of the room, his arms held firmly behind his back. Father Demetris took his place at the head of the table and I sat at the opposite end, closest to the door. It was reminiscent of other cases where I was meant to create a physical barrier with my presence, though I had to remind myself that these were monks, seekers of religious devotion, not common miscreants looking to undermine the cogs of justice. So I forced myself to expel a determined breath as I sat back in my chair and waited for Colin to begin.

But it was Brother Silsbury who finally broke the uneasy silence. “You wished to speak with us?” he said with the thinnest underpinning of annoyance in his tone.

“Yes.” Colin finally stopped moving and turned to face the monks as though just realizing that they were all quite suddenly assembled in front of him. “Indeed.” A tight grin flashed across his face in an instant, his lips drawn tight and his eyes likewise pinched but noticeably watchful. “I have some questions I should like to pose to the lot of you, and thought this far more expedient than continuing to putter about one at a time.”

“Oh, fie,” Brother Morrison groused, the heavy lines pocking his face drawing tight with disapproval. “How much longer must we endure this?”

“Perhaps we can end this sorrowful business here and now,” Colin shot back, and that got their attention just as he had meant for it to. “So, let me ask you, Brother Morrison, did you ever have occasion to discuss with Abbot Tufton the circumstances of his spiritual crisis?”

“Well, of course I did,” the elderly monk huffed. “Most of us did at one time or another. That is the way of it in a monastery. When one of us bleeds we all suffer.” He turned quickly and glared down the table to where Brother Hollings was seated. “Except for our youngest members,” he corrected, pointing a finger at the ginger-haired young man who seemed quite content to try and go unnoticed. “Why in the Lord's heaven do you even have him here?”

“He found the abbot's body,” Colin reminded with unaccountable patience. “There may well be pieces to this case that he still has not yet remembered.” Colin smiled gamely at the young man but got no response whatsoever. If Brother Hollings had anything he wished to add to the conversation I knew it would take some doing for Colin to extricate it.

“We shall let Mr. Pendragon do as he sees fit,” Father Demetris announced with the authority that had been granted him from Bishop Fencourt. “It is time that we have this done.”

Colin gave the priest a slight nod as he moved his gaze to Brother Wright. The slender monk with the jawline beard had his thin brown hair swept back from his forehead and was holding himself with the rigidity of a man who does not suffer tensions well. It was a decidedly unfortunate truth considering there were so many tensions to be suffered.

“Are you feeling well today?” Colin asked.

“Well enough,” Brother Wright responded.

“I am sorry for your affliction. I can remember my mother suffering such bouts when I was a boy. Sometimes they would last several days.”

“They are a curse,” Brother Wright answered stoically, and I could tell that he too did not like to be the center of attention for his monastic brothers.

“Is there anything particular to which you attribute the cause of your sufferings?” Colin pressed.

“Were I able to attribute a cause I would avoid it with my life. I should think that someone who has witnessed such sufferings firsthand might have discerned that answer for himself.”

“Quite right,” Colin agreed, allowing the wisp of a grin to brush across his lips once again. “I wonder if tension and strife do not play some role in your unease as even now your brow is beginning to bristle with your displeasure.” Brother Wright did not respond, but I could see the furrowing of his forehead just as Colin had pointed out. “Has there indeed been particular tension and discord here at Whitmore Abbey of late?”

Brother Wright did not answer at once, his discomfort palpable, choosing instead to look as though he was pondering his answer, his brown eyes brooding and his thin lips pressed firmly. “We are a brotherhood . . .” he began after a minute, “. . . a family. As there is disharmony amongst any family, so it can be found here from time to time. Our devotion to God does not preclude the fact that we are but mortal men.”

“So I have been told.” Colin's response was quick and dismissive. “But is there anything of note that brings you specific distress?”

“Are you looking for me to admit something?” the monk snapped back, his brow now every bit as pinched as the rest of his face.

“Yes,” Colin answered with marked simplicity. “I should like you to admit the truth.” He flicked his gaze to Brother Silsbury, whose broad shoulders and powerful torso rose higher than any other monk's with the exception of the soft, round Brother Green. “You provided Brother Wright with the laudanum he required to endure his pain. Did you ever seek to ferret out the foundation of his enfeeblement?”