The Dalwich Desecration by Gregory Harris Page B

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.
    â€œThese gents have come all the way from London ta talk ta yer pop,” Raleigh Chesterton explained with uncharacteristic softness. “Is he about?”
    â€œHe’s out back with the chickens,” the boy, who looked about eight, answered at once. “He says they’re layin’ like shite.”
    â€œHush,” his sister scolded.
    â€œ ’At’s all right,” Mr. Chesterton chuckled. “He’s only tellin’ the truth, Louise. And there ain’t nothin’ wrong with tellin’ the truth.”
    â€œ Mr. Chesterton?! ” a strong female voice bellowed from one of the upstairs windows of the house. “ There somethin’ I can do for ya? ”
    â€œHullo, 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.”
    â€œOh,” her tone dropped. “That poor girl.”
    â€œIt’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.”
    â€œYes, 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.”
    â€œThank 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.
    â€œYa want me ta take ya round back?” young Benjamin asked.
    â€œIf it wouldn’t trouble you,” Colin replied with an easy smile before glancing at Mr. Chesterton. “You’ll wait here for us then?”
    â€œCourse.” He climbed back onto the wagon and stretched his legs out. “Ya do what ya need. I ain’t goin’