The Dalwich Desecration by Gregory Harris Page A

don’t we get out of your way then,” Colin said as he squeezed past the open trunk. “Please get some water up to Mr. Pruitt’s room as well, won’t you?”
    â€œYes, sir.” She curtsied even deeper this time, once again managing to do so without splattering so much as a drop of water.
    I was happy to scuttle past the bashful young woman and get back downstairs to the exuberance of the tavern crowd. Pints of honey-colored ale were being raised and drained as quickly as the ever-beaming Miss O’Dowd and her auburn-haired companion could hand them out. Nevertheless, the instant Colin and I stepped out of the back hallway I heard Miss O’Dowd holler to us from the table where she was passing out a half-dozen ales to a tableful of rowdy blokes.
    â€œ Mr. Pruitt! . . . Mr. Snapdragon! ” she called with a wave of her free arm. “ Over ’ere! ” She turned in a single fluid motion to a small nearby table where two scruffy young men were seated next to a door that I suspected must lead out to the kitchen. As we headed toward her she smacked one of the men on the shoulder and shoved them both out of their seats. “Go on ’ome, ya buggers. We got a couple a fine gents come all the way from London. I ain’t ’avin’ ’em stand around.”
    To my surprise the two men moved off without a word, minding Miss O’Dowd as though she were their headmistress.
    â€œYou really needn’t have done that,” I said when we reached her.
    She grabbed their used glasses and wiped the table with a singular swipe that spoke of too many years of practice. “Don’t trouble yerselves over them. They don’t need a table and chairs ta get pissed. Besides, their wives’ll thank me if they get ’ome early fer once. Or maybe they won’t.” She let out a raucous laugh. “Two Whitmore Ales?”
    â€œIf you please,” Colin answered with a smile. “And it’s Pendragon.”
    She tossed him a curious look. “Wot?”
    â€œMy name. It’s Pendragon, not Snapdragon.”
    â€œAh . . .” She laughed. “I ain’t good with names.” Her smile widened as she got a pixie’s twinkle in her eye. “And do ya remember my name?”
    Colin’s grin widened as he stared back at her. “However could I forget the delightful Maureen O’Dowd?”
    Miss O’Dowd beamed her amusement at being thusly dubbed. “I’ll jest bet ya got a swirl a ladies back in London waitin’ in line for you ta pay ’em a bit of attention like that.”
    â€œOh”—Colin lifted his eyebrows and gave her a mischievous grin—“you would be surprised.”
    She let loose another hearty laugh. “I’ll fetch yer ales,” she said, leaning in suddenly and giving a conspiratorial wink. “And the first one’s on the ’ouse.” She lowered her voice. “Don’t tell Raleigh.” And with a merry chortle she was off, swallowed up by the crowd in a flash.
    â€œI like her,” Colin chuckled.
    â€œAnd it would seem she is equally enamored of you, the poor girl.”
    He laughed outright. “How you cut me.”
    â€œNever mind that. What do you make of those monks?”
    â€œAh . . .” He leaned back in his chair, his eyes clouding. “I appreciate that they have suffered a terrible and shocking loss, but they really do seem like such a grim lot.”
    â€œThey’re monks,” I reminded, “not circus chimps.”
    Colin rolled his eyes just as Miss O’Dowd swept back and slid two pints onto the table. “Here ya are. Some a the Lord’s better ale,” she said, giving us an impish grin before charging back off with her tray full of pints artfully balanced in one hand.
    Colin immediately snatched up his mug and downed a healthy swallow. “Wheat,” he announced as he licked his upper