The Dalwich Desecration by Gregory Harris

lolled up against the back of her throat.
    â€œJust like the abbot . . .” Constable Brendle blanched.
    â€œYes,” 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
    R aleigh 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.
    â€œShe 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.
    â€œWhat about her parents or siblings?” Colin asked.
    â€œHer 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.”
    â€œYou 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?”
    â€œNothing 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.”
    â€œ ’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.”
    â€œAnd this was when she was about twelve?” I repeated, determined to keep the sarcasm from my voice.
    â€œNear 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.
    â€œYou mentioned there were two children?” Colin pressed.
    â€œShe 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.”
    â€œIs he older or younger than Miss O’Dowd?” Colin asked.
    â€œCouple years older.”
    â€œDo you know when they last saw each other?”
    â€œ ’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