Crimson Shore

16

This was going to be interesting. More than interesting. Bradley Gavin slipped under the yellow police tape that blocked off the end of the second-floor hall at the Inn. He turned and lifted it for Constance Greene. She followed him to the closed door of Morris McCool’s room. He opened the door and pushed it wide.

Agent Pendergast had made it clear that every professional courtesy was to be extended to Constance, which explained why she was being allowed once again into what was, effectively, a crime scene. He was more curious about her than about what they might find in the room, which, he suspected, was precious little. The word intriguing hardly began to describe this strange and beautiful woman. And this was his first chance to speak to her alone.

He turned and held out his hand. “After you, Ms. Greene,” he said.

“Miss Greene, if you please. I find Mizz a disagreeable neologism.”

“Oops. Sorry.” Gavin watched her out of the corner of his eye as she entered, an ethereal figure in a long dress. This woman was as remote as the glaciers, and maybe that was part of what appealed to him — that, and a kind of mysterious self-possession. Gavin rather liked the old-fashioned “Miss” part. He was starting to view this Miss Greene as a challenge. He knew he was attractive to women; and he suspected that, as she got to know him better, he just might prove to be her type.

He followed her into the historian’s room. It was done up in period furniture, like the rest of the Inn, and he took in its charming yet shabby contents: the big heavy bed in dark wood, the lace curtains, the braided rugs that were a little too worn, and the bathroom peeking through an open door, which had last seen a renovation so long ago that the tiling had come back in style and then gone out again.

“The agreement was eyes only, Miss Greene,” he said. “But if you want to handle something, I don’t see a problem as long as you ask me first.”

“Thank you.”

The SOC team had already been through the room with a fine-tooth comb, and their tags and flags could be seen festooning just about everything. They’d been looking for forensic evidence — latents, hairs, fibers, DNA, blood. He and the lady were looking for papers — specifically, evidence on what the historian might have been working on. Not that he expected that would lead to anything; he had already more or less satisfied himself that this murder was just a robbery-homicide, albeit one with some uniquely disturbing aspects.

He did a quick mental inventory. A short stack of books and papers on a rolltop desk. No computer. The maid had fixed up the room after the historian had gone downstairs for dinner, a few hours before his murder. That was too bad. Everything was very neat, but whether this was a reflection of the maid or the historian’s personality was hard to say.

He walked over to the small desk where the historian had stacked the books and papers. He took out his notebook and glanced over at Constance. She was looking around the room, her violet eyes taking everything in.

He examined the books: Storms and Shipwrecks of New England, by Edward Rowe Snow; a photocopied document called “Registry of Missing Ships 1850–1900,” from the Lloyd’s archives. There were several bookmarks in each publication. As he was jotting down the titles, he heard a soft rustle and Greene materialized behind him.

“May I pick up the registry, Sergeant?”

“Sure, go ahead.”

She opened it to where the bookmark was, turning from his field of view. Gavin began looking around for wallet, watch, or money. Nothing had been found with the body. He then took a closer look at the Snow book, turning to a bookmarked chapter titled, “The Mysterious Disappearance of the S.S. Pembroke Castle.”

“May I direct your attention to this?” Constance said, handing him the registry. It, too, had a marker at a page about the Pembroke Castle. Gavin was vaguely familiar with the story — but he read the entry with interest anyway.

“This must be what our historian was looking into,” he said, closing the document and laying it back on the desk.

“Yes,” said Greene. She had been standing close to him, reading the entry over his shoulder. There was something oddly thrilling in her proximity.

She stepped back. “Do you find it strange that no money seems to have been paid for the loss of the passengers?”

“I hadn’t thought about it.”

“And this ‘loss of cargo’ — I wonder what that was, why it was so valuable, and why it took over two years to get reimbursed for it?”

Gavin shrugged.

“Why would an English noblewoman charter a ship to begin with? And why wasn’t she on the ship?”

Gavin looked into her face. She was really very young, no more than twenty-two or twenty-three. But there was an unusual depth in those violet eyes. He felt a most unprofessional stirring. “Well,” he said, “those are interesting questions, but I doubt they’re relevant.”

“Why not?”

He swallowed, stung by her sharp tone. “Because I’m pretty sure some crankhead from Dill Town killed our guy for money and kicks.”

“Crankhead? What’s that?”

She seemed almost to be from another world — at least, a world far from Exmouth. That, too, was appealing. “Meth addict. You know, methamphetamine? Breaking Bad?”

A silence. “Are there many addicts in Dill Town?”

“A few years ago we busted a lab over there, and we think there might be another one operating, maybe out in the marshes.”

“Why is there an addiction problem?”

“‘Addiction problem’ may be too strong. It’s just... you know, poverty, lack of education, no opportunities... Fishing’s been in decline for decades. And fishermen, well, they’re a rough bunch.” He paused. “Just saying.”

“I see. Thank you for that observation, Sergeant. What was found with the body?”

This segue was so unexpected it took Gavin a moment to parse it. “Um, nothing. Well, a wristwatch. The rest of the body had been stripped.” She’d been there; why was she asking him this question?

“If the motive of the ‘crankhead’ was money, why didn’t he take the watch?”

Gavin shrugged. “It was a crappy brand.” He hesitated. “So what does Pendergast think?”

“About what?”

“Those markings. A red herring — or something else?”

“He hasn’t said.”

“And you?”

“I don’t know.”

There was a silence as they looked at each other. Gavin finally spoke. “I’ve been doing police work for a long time, and I’ve made one bedrock observation about crime.”

“Which is?”

“That most crimes are banal. Moronic. The obvious explanation is almost always the right one. And in this case, robbery is the simplest explanation, with those crazy markings the work of drug addicts.”

“If most crimes are banal and moronic, it’s because most people are.”

Gavin was surprised by her answer. “That’s your view of human nature? That people are basically stupid?”

“Yes. There’s the exception to the rule. Some people defy simple explanations. And so do some crimes. This is one of those crimes.”

“Some people defy simple explanations,” Gavin repeated. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that a few exceptional people stand above the common lot. For them, the rules are different. Their crimes are also different. There was nothing banal or stupid about this murder — or the criminal who committed it.”

Gavin had never met a woman quite like this. He looked at her curiously, and then — most uncharacteristically — decided to take a step into the unknown. “I’m quite sure that you, Miss Greene, are one of those exceptional people.”

He awaited her denial, a flare-up of anger, but it didn’t come. Encouraged, he ventured further, his voice dropping just a little. “And for that reason, I would like to get to know you better.”

She continued looking at him, her face unreadable. Then she said, “Are we done here?”

“We’re done here.”

He watched her elegant lips curve upward in a faint smile at what appeared to be some private amusement. “After you, Sergeant.”