Verses for the Dead

3

Mrs. Trask wheeled the tea cart carefully down the shadowy hall leading from the kitchens of the mansion at 891 Riverside Drive, New York City. It was unusual, serving tea at this time of the afternoon, not quite three o’clock — normally, Pendergast preferred it late rather than early. But such had been his request, along with a lavish presentation: instead of the usual ascetic green tea and ginger biscuits, today there were Bath buns with lemon curd, scones, clotted cream, madeleines — even miniature Battenberg cakes. As a result, it was the first time in ages she’d had to serve afternoon tea on a cart instead of a simple silver tray. She felt fairly certain this was all meant to please his ward, Constance — despite the fact she ate like a bird and would probably touch little of it.

Indeed, since their rather abrupt return to the mansion just over a week before, Pendergast had seemed especially attentive to Constance. Even Proctor, Pendergast’s stoic chauffeur-cum-bodyguard, had mentioned it to Mrs. Trask. Pendergast had been more than usually talkative, drawing Constance out on her favorite subjects late into the night. He had assisted with her long-term task of researching the complex and — it seemed — often mysterious Pendergast family tree. He had even professed an interest in her latest project: a terrarium devoted to the propagation of imperiled carnivorous plants.

Mrs. Trask moved from the corridor into the reception hall, the wheels of the tea cart creaking over the marble floor. From the direction of the library, she could hear the low tones of Pendergast and Constance in conversation. Just this quiet sound gladdened her heart. She didn’t know why Constance had left so suddenly for India last December, or what had occasioned Pendergast’s own recent trip to bring her home. That affair was between Pendergast and his ward: Mrs. Trask was simply pleased the household was together again. And though even that was about to be interrupted — with Pendergast’s abrupt news that he was bound for Florida — Mrs. Trask took comfort in knowing the journey was merely business.

It was true she rather disapproved of Pendergast’s “business” — but that was something she kept to herself.

Now she wheeled the cart into the library, with its deep mahogany tones; cabinets laden with rare fossils, minerals, and artifacts; and walls of leather-bound books rising to a coffered ceiling. A large fire was blazing on the hearth, and two wing chairs had been pulled up close to it. They were empty, however, and Mrs. Trask searched for the room’s occupants. As her eyes adjusted to the flickering light, she made them out. They were together in a far corner, heads almost touching as they bent over something of evident interest. Of course — it must be the new terrarium. Even now, Mrs. Trask could hear Constance speaking of it, her contralto voice just audible over the crackle of the flames. “... I find it ironic that Nepenthes campanulata — which for fifteen years was believed extinct — is now merely considered threatened, while Nepenthes aristolochioides, then barely recognized as a species, is presently critically endangered.”

“Ironic indeed,” Pendergast murmured.

“Note the peculiar morphology of the aristolochioides. The peristome is almost vertical — rare among pitcher plants. Its feeding mechanism is most interesting. I’m still awaiting a shipment of native insects from Sumatra, but local rhinoceros beetles seem a satisfactory diet. Would you care to feed it?” And Constance held out a pair of forceps, almost a foot long, which glinted in the firelight, with a wriggling beetle at the end.

There was the briefest of hesitations. “I’d much prefer to watch your more practiced hand at work.”

Mrs. Trask chose this moment to clear her throat and trundle the tea cart forward. Both occupants turned toward her.

“Ah, Mrs. Trask!” Pendergast said, turning from the glass-walled terrarium and approaching her. “Punctual as always.”

“Rather more than punctual,” Constance said, coming up behind Pendergast, her violet eyes scanning the cart. “It’s just gone three. Aloysius, did you request this cornucopia?”

“I did indeed.”

“Are we having the Trojan army for tea?”

“I’m giving myself a sending-off party.”

Constance frowned.

“Besides,” Pendergast went on, sitting down and helping himself to a madeleine, “you look thinner, subsisting on that monastic diet.”

“I ate very well, thank you.” Constance took a seat in the opposite wing chair, bobbed hair swinging at the motion. “You know, I really wish you’d let me come to Florida. This case that’s suddenly been dropped in your lap — it sounds intriguing.”

“And I really wish I had not had a partner forced upon me. But there it is. Constance, I promise you shall be both my sounding board and my oracle, à la distance.”

Mrs. Trask chuckled as she poured out two cups of tea. “Can you imagine, our Mr. Pendergast with a partner underfoot? It’ll never do. When it comes to working with others, he’s a lost cause — if you’ll pardon my saying so.”

“I’ll pardon your saying so,” Pendergast replied, “if you’ll be good enough to bundle a few of these madeleines in with the rest of my packing. I understand that certain airplane food can be hazardous — if not worse.”

“Is he indeed a lost cause?” Constance said, turning to Mrs. Trask. “One can always hope.”

Mrs. Trask had already turned to leave, and so she missed the look that — so fleetingly — passed between Pendergast and the woman seated opposite him.