Crimson Shore

40

The storm that had been lingering over Exmouth the past few days had blown away on the previous night’s wind, and the morning had dawned bright and warmer. Now the noon sun shone benevolently over the main street, gilding the shopfronts and window displays, and throwing the large crowd gathered before the police station into sharp relief. Percival Lake stood back from the crowd, Carole at his side, on the doorstep of her shop. He clutched a shopping bag in one hand, and held Carole’s hand with the other.

It was, he thought, an almost painfully typical New England small-town event. A microphone and podium had been set up on the steps of the police station, and over the last hour almost everybody who was anybody in town had taken their turn before it. It had started with the first selectman, an elderly and reclusive man of ancient New England stock, who, despite his position, rarely appeared in public anymore. He had been followed by the town’s other remaining selectman, Dana Dunwoody of course being unable to attend. Next came notables such as the director of the library and that tiresome ex-thespian, Worley. And now, finally, Chief Mourdock was taking his turn before the microphone, his portly figure angled so that the smattering of press photographers could snap his profile. He’d already cataloged in detail his critical role in cracking the case. Now, he was expressing relief that this “shameful taint” — meaning the Dunwoody clan and their contemporary, as well as ancient, crimes — had at last been scrubbed from the town. To one side stood his deputy, Gavin, looking distinctly uncomfortable at all the attention. On Mourdock’s other side was a sealed glass case, containing the twenty-one blood-red rubies that made up the “Pride of Africa,” dazzling in the sunlight. They were being watched over by a stuffy representative of Lloyd’s of London, who — Lake knew — was not only guarding them, but would shortly take possession. Lloyd’s had, after all, paid out the claim on the gemstones over a century ago and owned them as a result.

Lake still couldn’t get over the fact that those jewels — and the body that had once contained them — had lain behind the wall of his cellar all these years.

The last few days had been such a series of shocks — one revelation after another, each more bizarre than the last — that Lake felt quite exhausted. As no doubt did many residents. And yet they had turned out, almost every single one. A sea of heads, hundreds and hundreds, stretched away from the police station steps for at least a block, all sharply defined by the brilliant sun. His gaze roamed over them, picking out familiar faces. Mark and Sarah Lillie — wearing matching outfits; old Ben Boyle; Walt Adderly, proprietor of the Inn. Somehow — despite the inflated words of Mourdock, despite the pompous speechifying and small-town politics — the ritual was, undoubtedly, a benediction. Mourdock, in his own obnoxious way, was right. A horror that had been festering in Exmouth for over a century had been identified, named, and rooted out. Now, after all that had happened, the town could heal.

The chief finally went into a rousing We-Are-the-Salt-of-the-Earth, America-Is-Great, God-Bless-Us-All finish. There was applause and cheers. And then it was over. Accompanied by the snapping of press photographs, the crowd began to disperse.

Lake caught sight of Agent Pendergast, standing on a far corner, in his usual black suit. Constance Greene was at his side, a thin, lovely specter in an old-fashioned lace dress. Her only concession to the modern world was a pair of classic Ray-Bans as protection from the sun.

“What a perfect small-town spectacle,” said Lake.

Carole laughed. “That’s what I love about this place.”

Squeezing Carole’s hand, Lake stepped away from the shopfront and made his way across the street, threading through the crowds until he reached Pendergast. The agent, who had been looking this way and that, scrutinizing the crowd with great care, fixed his eyes on him as he approached.

“You think Mourdock might have mentioned your name, if only once,” Lake said. “After all, it was you, not him, out there in the dark last night.”

“I dislike publicity,” Pendergast said. “Let the chief have his moment in the sun — literally.”

“It still seems like a miracle to me — that Dana and Joe had a brother, hiding out in the marshes all these years.”

“The Dunwoody brothers came from a dysfunctional family, going way back. The youngest brother, Dunkan, was born mentally and emotionally disadvantaged. He was not only unloved — he was his parents’ shame. They kept his birth a secret, never sent him to school. From what I can tell, he returned his parents’ dislike. As soon as he was old enough, he ran away. In time, he returned ‘home’ — in a manner of speaking. He had been living in those marshes for many years, grudgingly helped by his brothers... who then ultimately found a use for him — as a killer.”

“How in the world did you discover his identity?”

Pendergast shrugged. “A process of elimination. I’d written off every suspect in town — including you.”

“Me?”

“It’s not uncommon to stage a crime in your own home and then feign interest in the investigation in order to put yourself above suspicion. But your reactions during our stroll in your sculpture garden — and, more particularly, in our later talk in the lighthouse — convinced me you truly had nothing to do with the theft. Besides, despite your pedigree you’re not an Exmouth native. Only a local could know about the old crimes, and thus have perpetrated the new one. But in looking around the town, all my suspects were eliminated. That left an unknown third party — someone like Dunkan. The Dunwoodys had already attracted my interest. In the days before Dana’s death, I’d noticed a small piece of bright-colored sweater material, similar to the garish outfits he favored, clinging to a shrub far out in the marsh. And when I made a reference to The Hound of the Baskervilles and the food missing from the Inn’s kitchen, his reaction was telling. His murder, of course, was a temporary setback. But then, I noticed his brother Joe’s tense demeanor — although he had an ironclad alibi and didn’t seem capable of fratricide in any case. The Dunwoody family had deep roots in the town, and indeed in the nineteenth century there were many more of them. But again, it was the regularly pilfered food from the Chart Room kitchen that sealed my interest. So I laid a trap for Joe last night at the bar... and he took the bait.”

“A feral brother. He must have been behind all those local legends of a Gray Reaper.” Lake shook his head. “Well, all I can say is that when I came to see you about the theft of my wine, I never expected it would lead to all this.” He handed over the shopping bag. “By the way, here’s that bottle of the Haut-Braquilanges. I recall saying you could have your pick of the case — and you still can, if you’d like — but this one seemed to be the best-preserved.”

Pendergast took the bag. “I’m sure it will be more than satisfactory, thank you very much.”

Lake hesitated just a moment. “Who actually carried out the theft? From my cellar, I mean.”

“Joe and Dana.”

“You’ve interrogated Joe, I take it?”

“Yes. He’s talking quite freely now.”

Lake was almost afraid to ask the next question. “Do you know what... what he did with all the wine?”

“I’m afraid he took it out to sea in his boat and dumped it overboard.”

Lake clapped a hand over his mouth.

“It took him three trips, late at night, to dispose of it all.”

“Oh, my God,” Lake said in a strangled voice.

“I know,” Pendergast replied grimly.

Now Constance spoke for the first time. “I have observed,” she said in a low and even voice, “that there are some crimes for which the death penalty does not seem a sufficiently severe sentence.”