Crimson Shore

3

Constance stared at Pendergast’s dust-coated face. After a moment, she replied: “Too dangerous? For me? Aloysius, you forget whom you’re speaking to.”

“I do not.”

“Then perhaps you might explain.”

“I shall.” He dropped the tiny bone into the glass test tube, stoppered it, and handed it to her. “Take this.”

She took it, along with the loupe.

“That is the distal phalanx of the left index finger of a human being. You will note the very tip of the bone is chipped, scraped, and fractured. That was done perimortem — at the time of death.”

She handed it back. “I can see that.”

“Now let us look at the building stones.” He pivoted with the penlight. “I’ve arranged them on my jacket as they were in situ, with the inside face towards us. Note the deep gouges, scratches, and those splatters of a dark substance.” She watched as he used the LED as a pointer. “What do they tell you?”

Constance had seen this coming. “That someone, many years ago, was chained and walled up in that niche alive, and tried to claw his way out.”

A mirthless smile gathered on Pendergast’s face. “Excellent.”

“That’s awful,” Lake broke in, undisguised shock on his face. “Just awful. I had no idea! But... how did you know that niche was there?”

“The thieves did not take the Braquilanges. That was my first clue. Anyone who goes to the trouble of stealing an entire wine cellar is going to know about such a legendary vintage. And they would not have been so clumsy as to break that magnum of ’61 Chateau Latour” — here, Pendergast indicated a mess on the floor — “which is worth at least fifteen thousand dollars. So I knew from the start that, though we were undoubtedly dealing with thieves, we were most certainly not dealing with wine thieves. No — they were here to get something far more valuable, at least to them. Naturally, this led me to look behind the wine racks, where I saw evidence of recent activity — which in turn led to the niche.”

Lake peered a little gingerly into the space. “And you really think a person was walled up in there?”

“Yes.”

“And that this whole robbery was staged to... to remove the skeleton?”

“Undoubtedly.” Pendergast tapped the test tube in Constance’s hand that contained the finger bone.

“Good Lord.”

“The walling-up was clearly an ancient crime. Yet the people who took the skeleton must have known about that crime, and either wished to cover it up or wanted to retrieve something in the niche, or both. They went to great lengths to hide their activity. Pity for them they missed this bone. It should prove most eloquent.”

“And the danger?” asked Constance.

“My dear Constance! This crime is the work of local people — or, at the very least, someone with a deep history in this town. I’m certain they also knew of something else walled up with the skeleton — presumably something of great value. Since they had to move the wine rack, and would be unable to disguise the disturbance, they staged a theft to cover it up.”

“They?” asked Lake. “There was more than one?”

“A presumption on my part. This took a significant amount of effort.”

“You still have not addressed the element of danger,” said Constance.

“The danger comes from the fact that I will now investigate. Whoever did this will not be happy. They will take steps to protect themselves.”

“And you think I’m vulnerable?”

The silence stretched on until Constance realized Pendergast was not going to answer the question.

“The only real danger here,” she said in a low voice, “is what might happen to the criminals if they make the mistake of crossing swords with you. In that case, they will answer to me.”

Pendergast shook his head. “That, frankly, is what I fear most.” He paused, considering. “If I allow you to remain here, you must keep yourself... under control.”

Constance ignored the implication. “I’m confident you’ll find me a great help, particularly with the historical aspects — since obviously there’s a history here.”

“A valid point: no doubt I could benefit from your assistance. But please — no freelancing. I had enough of that with Corrie.”

“I am, thankfully, not Corrie Swanson.”

A silence fell in the room. “Well,” Lake said at last. “Let’s get out of this dank basement, have a drink, watch the sun set, and talk about what comes next. I have to say I’m totally floored by this discovery. Rather macabre, but a fascinating diversion nonetheless.”

“Fascinating, yes,” Pendergast told him. “Dangerous, even more so. Do not forget that, Mr. Lake.”

They settled on the porch looking out over the sea while the sun set behind them, shooting purple, orange, and scarlet light into the clouds piled on the eastern horizon. Lake opened a bottle of Veuve Clicquot.

Pendergast accepted a glass. “Mr. Lake, I have to ask you a few more questions, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind the questions, but I do mind the ‘Mr. Lake’ bit. Call me Perce.”

“I am from the South. I would be obliged if I could be indulged and we address each other formally.”

Lake rolled his eyes. “Fine, if that’s what you want.”

“Thank you. You mentioned the unhelpfulness of the police several times. What have they done so far in the case?”

“Not a damned thing! We’ve only got two cops in town, the chief of police and a young sergeant. They came over, poked around for about fifteen minutes, took some photos, and that was it. No fingerprinting, no nothing.”

“Tell me about them.”

“The chief, Mourdock, is a bully and dumber than a granite curbstone. He’s essentially been on vacation ever since coming up from the Boston PD. Lazy bastard, especially now that he’s six months from retirement.”

“What about his deputy? The sergeant?”

“Gavin? Not nearly as dumb as his boss. Seems a good fellow — just too much under the chief’s thumb.” Lake hesitated.

Constance noticed the hesitation. “And the chief knows we’re here, does he not?”

“The other day, I’m afraid I put my foot in it. I got a bit hot under the collar with Mourdock. I told him I was going to hire a private detective.”

“And his reaction?” Pendergast asked.

“Hot air. Threats.”

“What kind of threats?”

“Said if any private dick set foot in his town, he’d arrest him on the spot. I doubt he’d actually do it, of course. But he’s bound to cause trouble. I’m sorry — I should have kept my mouth shut.”

“And from now on you will — particularly regarding the discovery made today.”

“I promise.”

Pendergast took a sip of champagne. “Moving on, how much do you know about the specific history of this house and its inhabitants?”

“Not all that much. It was the lightkeeper’s house until the 1930s, when the light was automated. The house grew badly neglected. When I bought it, it was practically falling apart.”

“And the lighthouse? Does it still operate?”

“Oh, yes. It comes on at dusk. It’s no longer needed, of course, but all the lighthouses along the New England coast still run — for nostalgic reasons. I don’t actually own the lighthouse itself — it’s owned by the U.S. Coast Guard and licensed to the American Lighthouse Foundation, which keeps it up. It’s got a fourth-order Fresnel lens, flashing white, nine seconds character. The historical society should have a list of all the lighthouse keepers.”

Pendergast glanced at Constance. “There’s your first assignment: find out who was keeper of the light when this atrocity occurred in the basement. I will have the finger bone analyzed and get you a date.”

She nodded.

He turned back to Lake. “And the town’s history? Anything that might shed light on the crypt downstairs?”

Lake shook his head, ran a big, veined hand through his white hair. Constance noticed he had massive arms — probably a result of being a stone sculptor. “Exmouth is a very old fishing and whaling town, established in the early 1700s. I’m not sure what genius decided to situate it on these salt marshes, but it wasn’t a great idea. The whole area is plagued by greenheads. Although the fishing was lucrative for decades, it never took off as a summer resort, like Rockport or Marblehead.”

“Greenheads?” Pendergast asked. “Is that some type of biting fly?”

“The worst. Tabanus nigrovittatus. It’s the female of the species who bite and drink blood — naturally.”

“Naturally,” said Constance dryly. “Only females do the real work.”

Lake laughed. “Touché.”

“Any dark history to the town? Tales, rumors, murders, intrigue?”

Lake waved his hand. “Rumors.”

“Such as?”

“About what you’d expect, given that Salem is just south of here. Stories that a band of witches settled nearby, in the 1690s, trying to escape the trials. Rubbish, of course. Basically, we’re what’s left of an old New England fishing village. Although the west part of town — they call it Dill Town, but it was incorporated into Exmouth back in the ’40s — has its petty crimes now and then. The other side of the tracks, you might say.” He took a greedy sip of his champagne. “I must tell you, finding a torture chamber in my basement is quite a shock. I can hardly believe it. It’s like that gruesome story by Poe, ‘The Cask of Amontillado.’” He paused, looked at Pendergast. “You say there was something of value inside, too? Like a pirate treasure, maybe? The skeleton guarding the chest of gold?”

“It’s too early to speculate.”

Lake turned to Constance, a twinkle in his eye. “What do you think? Any speculations?”

Constance gazed back at him. “No. But a certain phrase does come to mind.”

“Which is?”

“For the love of God, Montresor!”

Pendergast looked at her sharply, then at Lake, whose startled face had momentarily gone pale. “You’ll have to excuse my associate,” Pendergast said. “She has a rather mordant sense of humor.”

Constance smoothed down her dress with a prim gesture.