The Dalwich Desecration by Gregory Harris

grumbled, rolling his shoulders backward and forward. “But I’m sure as hell not carrying that damn thing back down. When it’s time to leave I’ll pitch it out the bloody front window first.”
    I started to laugh, but as he began dragging it the short distance to the open doorway Miss O’Dowd was standing in front of, I rather believed him.
    â€œIt may not be The Cavendish,” Maureen O’Dowd said with a grin, “but it’s clean.”
    I gave her a smile as I stared into the room that looked nearly the same size as the monks’ cells. “Thank you . . .” I mumbled, hearing the surprise coloring my voice.
    The bed it contained defined its size. There was a single side table wedged between the side of the bed and the wall that held a ceramic pitcher and bowl, both of which looked well used based on the number of chips on their respective rims. The only other piece of furniture was a slim wood chair stationed at the foot of the bed that undoubtedly belonged to some long-defunct dining set. The room was so diminutive that it was physically impossible for someone to sit on that lone chair unless it was turned sideways to provide room for a person’s knees between the chair, the bed, and the wall. Two gas sconces hung above the bed, one listing toward the room’s only window on the far wall and the other badly scorched across its face.
    â€œYer other room is about four doors down on the other side a the stairs. Right by the WC. Ya can’t miss it.” She gave a sideways smirk and I wasn’t at all sure whether her comment was relevant to finding our other room or if it was some veiled warning about the WC.
    â€œMight we trouble you at some future point with a few questions about the monks at Whitmore Abbey?” Colin asked.
    â€œWhenever it pleases ya.” She gave another of the hearty smiles that illuminated her entire face. “But I really don’t know much about ’em. I don’t think they like women, ya know? The ones I seen don’t ’ardly look at me, let alone talk ta me, and I just ain’t that scary.” She laughed. “Why don’t ya come down and try a pint a their ale. I’ll clear a table for ya, don’tcha worry ’bout that.” She gave us a wink. “Will ya come back down?”
    â€œHow could we say no to an offer like that?” Colin grinned.
    â€œI’ll keep an eye out for ya,” she said with more enthusiasm than I thought we deserved, and was gone before either of us could say anything more.
    â€œI’m not at all sure this is one whit better than the monastery,” I muttered from my spot just inside the door.
    â€œI’d say Miss O’Dowd herself is a vast improvement. She almost makes that Mr. Chesterfield palatable,” he said as he kicked the door shut so he could slide the trunk into the corner behind it.
    â€œChesterton,” I corrected.
    He waved me off indifferently. “We shall leave the trunk here for the duration.” He unlocked it and shoved it wide and I was amazed to see that there was just enough space to maneuver past it as long as one turned sideways first.
    An abrupt knock on the door made me swivel around in the compact space. “Is that you, Miss O’Dowd?” I asked as I opened the door to a pretty, young woman in a gray smock with black hair tied up tightly at the back of her head.
    â€œI’m yer chambermaid, Dora,” she answered with a ready blush, and I suddenly felt as though I had been caught doing something untoward. “Mo . . . Miss O’Dowd . . . asked me ta bring some water up fer ya.” Sure enough she was cradling a large pitcher of water in her hands and sloshed it tenuously, but without spilling a drop, as she gave me a quick curtsy.
    â€œVery good,” Colin spoke up from somewhere behind me.
    â€œOh!” She looked surprised and I realized she had not noticed him.
    â€œWhy