Her eyes fluttered briefly, but she did not meet Colin’s gaze. “I do remember her mentionin’ that someone had been botherin’ her for a while, but she weren’t really troubled by it and said she could take care of it herself. I think she didn’t want ta get Edward upset.” She glanced up at Colin as she heaved a little shrug.
“Did she tell you who it was?”
“No, sir.”
“But you did tell me on Saturday night that someone had been pestering you with questions about Miss O’Dowd lately. Lamenting that she wouldn’t spend time with him when she had been known to be rather free with her affections with others before.”
“Yes . . .” she whispered.
“Who was that again?” he asked as if this was a name he would be likely to forget.
Annabelle White sat quietly for a long moment, and I began to wonder if perhaps she had said the name and I’d missed it. But in a tone barely above a whisper I finally heard her murmur, “Mr. Whitsett.”
Colin swept Miss White off her chair and walked her to the door, doing so with such suddenness and force that she wouldn’t have been able to keep up with him if his hand hadn’t been hovering at the small of her back. “You have been extremely helpful,” he said as he ushered her into the front room, muttering something to her that I did not catch before I heard the door open and shut. A moment later he appeared back in the bedroom doorway, resting up against the doorjamb. “Mr. Whitsett . . . ?”
The man shook his head and heaved a confused shrug. “Maybe I did fancy her some. There’s no dishonor in that. But I didn’t know she was betrothed to Mr. Honeycutt . . .” Once again he let his voice trail off as though he had said enough.
Now it was Colin’s turn to heave a sigh. “That is curious, Mr. Whitsett, because you have told me repeatedly that Miss O’Dowd was not the kind of woman who held any interest for you. Did I misunderstand your meaning?”
“I . . .” He scowled and glanced about the room, his demeanor beginning to edge toward something watchful and alert. “I said it to avoid just this sort of ridiculousness. You should be asking Edward here how deep his jealousies ran.” He glared at the young man. “Maybe you didn’t like the way she flitted around that pub, all smiles and cheek for any man.” Edward Honeycutt stared back at him blankly, his jaw unhinging as he seemed to be trying to fathom how to answer. “Lachlan . . .” Mr. Whitsett abruptly turned to the constable, who only stared back without the hint of a reaction. “Ahmet . . . you know me . . .” His words came out harsh as he turned his gaze on Mr. Masri.
“What I know,” Colin interrupted before Mr. Masri could form a response, “is that other than the monks at Whitmore Abbey, on the night Miss O’Dowd was murdered the only people who knew that the abbot’s tongue had been cut from his head are the men in this room.” He waved a dismissive hand as he began to walk back over to Edward Honeycutt. “And I think we can all agree that the monks had nothing to do with Miss O’Dowd’s murder.” No one made a sound.
“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
In 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 glance
d 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.
CONFIRM FOR YOUNG PENDRAGON THAT
ABBOT’S SABBATICAL TO EGYPT WAS
INDEED A DEVOTIONAL CRISIS. STOP. HIS
FAITH WAS SORELY TESTED BY RECENT
DISCOVERIES AND REMAINED SO UNTIL HIS
DEATH. STOP. AM IN RECEIPT OF RECENT
LETTER WHERE HE ASKED TO RESIGN FROM
WHITMORE. STOP. CITES DISSENSION. STOP.
QUOTES PROVERBS 3:5. STOP.
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.
SWISS HAVE AGREED TO FREEZE HUTTON
ACCOUNTS. STOP. IS THERE ANYONE YOUR
FATHER CANNOT SWAY? STOP.
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
The 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 he
ad 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.”
The Dalwich Desecration Page 29