White Fire

44

Hampstead Heath, Roger Kleefisch remarked to himself, had changed sadly since the days when Keats used to traverse it on his way from Clerkenwell to the cottage of Cowden Clarke, there to read his poetry and chat about literature; or since Walter Hartright, drawing teacher, had crossed it late at night, deep in thought, only to encounter the ghostly Woman in White on a distant byroad. These days it was hemmed in on all sides by Greater London, NW3, with bus stops and Underground stations dotted along its borders where once only groves of trees had stood.

Now, however, it was almost midnight; the weather had turned chilly, and the heath was relatively deserted. They had already left Parliament Hill and its marvelous panorama of the City and Canary Wharf behind and were making their way northwest. Hills, ponds, and clumps of woodlands were visible as mere shadows beneath the pale moon.

“I brought a dark lantern along,” Kleefisch said, more to keep up his spirits than to be informative. He brandished the device, which he’d kept hidden beneath his heavy ulster. “It seemed appropriate to the occasion, somehow.”

Pendergast glanced toward it. “Anachronistic, but potentially useful.”

Earlier, from the comfort of his lodgings, planning this little escapade had filled Kleefisch with excitement. When Pendergast had been unable to secure permission to enter Covington Grange, he had declared he would do so anyway, extralegally. Kleefisch had enthusiastically volunteered to help. But now that they were actually executing the plan, he felt more than a little trepidation. It was one thing to write scholarly essays on Professor Moriarty, the “Napoleon of crime,” or on Colonel Sebastian Moran, the “second most dangerous man in London.” It was quite another thing, he realized, to be actually out on the heath, with breaking and entering on the agenda.

“There’s the Hampstead Heath constabulary, you know,” he said.

“Indeed,” came the response. “What’s their complement?”

“Maybe a dozen or so. Some use police dogs.”

To this there was no response.

They skirted South Meadow and passed into the heavy woods of the Dueling Ground. To the north, Kleefisch could make out the lights of Highgate.

“Then there’s the National Trust groundskeepers to consider,” he added. “There’s always the chance one of them might be loitering about.”

“In that case, I would suggest keeping that lantern well concealed.”

They slowed as their objective came into sight over the lip of a small hill. Covington Grange was sited just at the far edge of the Dueling Ground, surrounded on three sides by woods. Stone Bridge and Wood Pond lay to the right. To the north, a green lawn ran away in the direction of sprawling Kenwood House. Beyond, late-night traffic hushed along Hampstead Lane.

Pendergast looked about him, then nodded to Kleefisch and made his way forward, keeping to the edge of the wood.

The Grange itself was an archaeological enigma, as if its builder could not decide which school, or even which era, he wished it to belong to. The low façade was half-timbered and Tudor, but a small addition to one side was a bizarre bit of neo-Romanesque. The long sloping wooden roof, bristling with exposed eaves, presaged the Craftsman era by a good half century. A greenhouse clung to the far side, its glass panels now cracked and covered with vines. The entire structure was enclosed by a hurricane fence, sagging and weathered, which appeared to have been erected as a security measure decades ago and long since forgotten.

Following Pendergast’s lead, Kleefisch crept up to the front of the building, where a narrow gate in the fencing was held in place with a padlock. Beside it, a weather-beaten sign read: PROPERTY OF H. M. GOV’T. NO TRESPASSING.

“Shall we, Roger?” Pendergast asked, as calmly as if he were inviting Kleefisch in for cucumber sandwiches at the Ritz.

Kleefisch glanced uneasily around, clutched the dark lantern more closely to him. “But the lock—” he began. Even as he spoke, there was a faint clicking noise and the padlock sprang open in Pendergast’s hand.

They stepped quickly past the gate, and Pendergast closed it behind them. Clouds had drifted over the moon; it was now very dark. Kleefisch waited in the forecourt while Pendergast made a quick reconnoiter. He was aware of a variety of sounds: distant laughter; a faint staccato honk from the motorway; and — or so he imagined — the nervous beating of his own heart.

Pendergast returned, then gestured them toward the front door. This, too, yielded almost immediately to the FBI agent’s touch. The two passed inside, Pendergast shut the door, and Kleefisch found himself in utter darkness. He was aware of several additional things now: the smell of mildew and sawdust; the pattering of small feet; the low squeaking of disturbed vermin.

A voice came out of the darkness. “To aid us in our search, let us review again what we know. For over a decade, from about 1917 to 1929, Conan Doyle came here frequently, as a guest of Mary Wilkes, to further his study of spiritualism and to read his writings on the subject to like-minded friends. He died in 1930, bound for — in his words—‘the greatest and most glorious adventure of all.’ Mary Wilkes herself died in 1934. Her daughter, Leticia Wilkes, lived here — joined in the early years by her niece and nephew — until her own death in 1980, at which time she left the property to the government. It has not been lived in — indeed, it has apparently remained untouched — ever since.”

Kleefisch could add little to this, so he said nothing.

A small glow of red appeared. Pendergast was holding up a flashlight, a filter fixed to its end. The faint beam swept here and there, revealing a hallway leading back into what was obviously a furnished and, at one time, well-lived-in house, circa 1980. There were piles of books set along the wall in disorganized ranks, and various tiny gnomes and glass figurines sat on a brace of side tables, heavy with dust. The far end of the hallway gave onto a kitchen: to the left and right were openings leading to a parlor and dining room, respectively. The first floor seemed to be covered in shag carpet of a detestable orange color.

Pendergast sniffed the air. “The odor of wood rot and decay is strong. My friend at the National Trust was correct: this house is in a state of dangerous decrepitude and may be structurally unsound. We must proceed with caution.”

They moved into the parlor, pausing in the doorway while Pendergast swept his muted light around the room. It was a scene of confusion. An upright piano stood in one corner, sheet music spilling from its music stand and overturned bench onto the floor; several card tables, furry with mold, held abandoned jigsaw puzzles and half-finished games of Monopoly and Chinese checkers. Magazines were spread haphazardly across the chairs and sofas.

“It would appear Leticia Wilkes allowed her charges to run wild,” Pendergast said with a disapproving sniff.

The rest of the first floor was the same. Toys, bric-a-brac, discarded jackets, swimming trunks, and slippers — and everywhere that same odious orange carpet, lit a dreadful crimson by Pendergast’s hooded light. No wonder the National Trust had let the place fall to wrack and ruin, Kleefisch thought to himself. He could imagine some poor functionary, poking his head into the place for a minute, taking an exploratory glance around, and then closing the door again, despairing of renovation. He stared at the paisley-papered walls, at the worn and stained furniture, looking for some ghostly evidence of the enchanted cottage in which, once upon a time, Conan Doyle had worked and entertained. He was unable to find any.

The basement yielded nothing more than empty storage rooms, a cold furnace, and dead beetles. Pendergast led the way up the dangerously creaking stairs to the second floor. Six doors led off the central hallway. The first was a linen closet, its contents ravaged by time and moths. The second was a common bathroom. The next three doors opened onto bedrooms. One, in somewhat decent order, had apparently been that of Leticia herself. The others had obviously been used by her niece and nephew, as attested to by the Dion and Frankie Valli posters in the first room and the numerous issues of the Sun, all opened to page three, in the other.

That left just the single, closed door at the far end of the hall. Kleefisch’s heart sank. Only now did he realize how much he’d allowed himself to hope that, at long last, the missing Holmes story might actually be found. But he’d been a fool to believe he would succeed where so many of his fellows had already failed. And especially in this mess, which would take a week to search properly.

Pendergast grasped the knob, opened the final door — and as quickly as Kleefisch’s heart had sunk, it leapt anew.

The room that lay beyond was as different from the rest of the house as day was from night. It was like a time capsule from a period that had vanished well over a hundred years before. The room was a study, sparsely but tastefully furnished. After the dreadful clutter of the rest of the house, it was to Kleefisch like a breath of fresh air. He stared, excitement overcoming his apprehension, as Pendergast moved his light around. There was a writing desk and a comfortable chair. Sporting prints and daguerreotypes hung on the walls in simple frames; nearby stood a bookcase, nearly empty. There was a single diamond-pane window, high up. Ornamental hangings, of austere design but nevertheless tasteful, were placed along the walls.

“I believe we might risk a little more light,” Pendergast murmured. “Your lantern, please.”

Kleefisch brought the lantern forward, grasped its sliding panel, and slid it open a crack. Immediately, the room leapt into sharper focus. He noticed with admiration the beautiful wood floor, composed of polished parquet, laid out in an old-fashioned design. A small square carpet, of the kind once known as a drugget, lay in the middle of the room. Against a far wall, between the hangings, was a chaise longue that appeared to have also served in the capacity of a daybed.

“Do you think—?” Kleefisch asked, turning to Pendergast, almost afraid to ask the question.

As if in answer, Pendergast pointed to one of the daguerreotypes on the wall beside them.

Kleefisch took a closer look. He realized, with some surprise, that it was not a daguerreotype after all, but a regular photograph, apparently from early in the twentieth century. It showed a young girl amid a pastoral, sylvan scene, chin supported by one hand, gazing out at the camera with a look of bemused seriousness. In the foreground before her, four small creatures with slender limbs and large butterfly wings danced, cavorted, or played tunes on wooden reeds. There was no obvious evidence of trickery or manipulation of the image: the sprites seemed to be an integral part of the photograph.

“The Cottingley Fairies,” Kleefisch whispered.

“Indeed,” Pendergast replied. “As you well know, Conan Doyle firmly believed in the existence of fairies and in the veracity of these pictures. He even devoted a book to the subject: The Coming of the Fairies. Two Yorkshire girls, Elsie Wright and her cousin Frances Griffiths, claimed to see fairies and to have photographed them. These are some of their photographs.”

Kleefisch stepped back. He felt his heart accelerate. There could no longer be any doubt: this had been Conan Doyle’s study away from home. And the Wilkes family had preserved it with loving care, even while allowing the rest of the house to go to wrack and ruin.

If the missing story was anywhere to be found, it would be in this room.

With sudden energy, Pendergast stepped forward, ignoring the fearful creaking of the floorboards, his flashlight arrowing here and there. He opened the desk and made an exhaustive search of its contents, removing drawers and tapping on the sides and back. Next he moved to the bookshelf, removing the few dusty tomes and looking carefully through each, going so far as to peer down the hinges of each spine. Then he took the pictures from the wall one at a time, looked behind each, and felt gently along the paper backings for anything that might be hidden within the frames. Next, he approached each of the decorative hangings in turn, feeling carefully along their lengths.

He paused, his silvery eyes roaming the room. Taking a switchblade from one pocket, he stepped over to the chaise longue, made a small, surgical incision where the fabric met the wooden framing, inserted his light into it, and then his fingers, making a painstaking examination of the interior — obviously to no avail. Next, he applied himself to the walls, holding one ear to the plaster while knocking gently with his knuckles. In such a fashion, he circled the room with agonizing thoroughness: once, twice.

As he watched this careful search, done by an expert, Kleefisch felt the familiar sinking feeling return once again.

His eyes fell to the floor — and to the small rug that lay at its center. Something was familiar about it: very familiar. And then, quite abruptly, he realized what it was.

“Pendergast,” he said, his voice little better than a croak.

The FBI agent turned to look at him.

Kleefisch pointed at the carpet. “‘It was a small, square drugget in the center of the room,’” he quoted. “‘Surrounded by a broad expanse of wood-flooring in square blocks, highly polished.’”

“I fear my knowledge of The Canon is not as nuanced as yours. What is that from? ‘The Musgrave Ritual’? ‘The Resident Patient’?”

Kleefisch shook his head. “‘The Second Stain.’”

For a moment, Pendergast returned his gaze. Then, suddenly, his eyes glittered in comprehension. “Could it be so simple?”

“Why not recycle a good thing?”

In a moment, Pendergast was kneeling upon the floor. Pushing away the carpet, he began applying his fingertips as well as the blade of his knife to the floorboards, pushing here, probing gently there. Within a minute, there was the squeak of a long-disused hinge and one of the parquet squares flipped up, exposing a small, dark cavity beneath.

Pendergast gently reached into the hole. Kleefisch looked on, hardly daring to draw breath, as the agent withdrew his hand. When he did, it was clutching a rolled series of foolscap sheets, brittle, dusty, and yellowed with age, tied up with a ribbon. Rising to his feet, Pendergast undid the ribbon — which fell apart in his hands — and unrolled the quire, brushing off the topmost sheet with care.

Both men crowded around as Pendergast held his light up to the words scrawled in longhand across the top of the page:

The Adventure of Aspern Hall

Nothing more needed to be said. Quickly and silently, Pendergast closed the little trapdoor and pushed the rug back into place with his foot; then they stepped out of the room and made for the head of the stairs.

Suddenly there was a dreadful crash. A monumental billow of dust rose up to surround Kleefisch, blotting out his lantern and plunging the hallway into darkness. He waved the dust away, coughing and spluttering. As his vision cleared, he saw Pendergast, his head, shoulders, and outstretched arms down at the level of Kleefisch’s feet. The floor had given way beneath him and he had saved himself from falling through at just the last minute.

“The manuscript, man!” Pendergast gasped, straining with the effort of holding himself in place. “Take the manuscript!”

Kleefisch knelt and plucked the manuscript carefully from Pendergast’s hand. Snugging it into a pocket of his ulster, he grabbed Pendergast’s collar and — with a great effort — managed to pull him back up onto the second-floor landing. Pendergast regained his breath, stood up and, with a grimace, dusted himself off. They maneuvered their way around the hole and had begun creeping down the stairs when a slurred voice sounded from outside:

“Oi! Who’s that, then?”

The two froze.

“The groundskeeper,” Kleefisch whispered.

Pendergast gestured for Kleefisch to shutter his lantern. Then, raising his hooded light to reveal his face, he put a finger to his lips and pointed to the front door.

They moved forward at a snail’s pace.

“Who’s there!” came the voice again.

Silently, Pendergast drew a large handgun out of his jacket, turned it butt-first.

“What are you doing?” Kleefisch said in alarm as he grasped Pendergast’s hand.

“The man’s intoxicated,” came the whispered reply. “I should be able to, ah, render him harmless with little effort.”

“Violence?” Kleefisch said. “Good Lord, not upon one of Her Majesty’s own!”

“Do you have a better suggestion?”

“Make a dash for it.”

“A dash?”

“You said it yourself — the man’s drunk. We’ll rush out of the gate and run south into the wood.”

Pendergast looked dubious but put away the weapon nevertheless. He led the way across the carpeting to the front door, opened it a crack, and peered out. Hearing nothing further, he motioned Kleefisch to follow him down the narrow walkway to the hurricane fence. Just as he opened the gate, the moon emerged from behind the clouds and a shout of triumph came from a nearby stand of hemlock:

“You, there! Don’t go no further!”

Pendergast burst through the gate and took off at high speed, Kleefisch at his heels. There was the shattering blast of a shotgun, but neither paused in their headlong run.

“You’ve been hit!” Kleefisch gasped as he struggled to keep up. He could see droplets of blackish red liquid fly up from Pendergast’s shoulder with every stride the man took.

“A few superficial pellet strikes, I suspect; nothing more. I’ll remove them with a tweezers back at the Connaught. What of the manuscript? Is it undamaged?”

“Yes, yes. It’s fine!”

Kleefisch had not run like this since his Oxford days. Nevertheless, the thought of the drunken groundskeeper and his weapon brought vigor to his limbs, and he continued to follow Pendergast, past Springett’s Wood to the Vale of Health, and from there—Deo Gratias! — to East Heath Road, a taxi, and freedom.