Douglas Preston - White Fire

It was the question Kleefisch had been dreading. He swallowed, took a deep breath, and spoke. “Nothing, I’m afraid.”

The pale eyes gazed at him intently. “Indeed?”

“I’ve tried everything over these last twenty-four hours,” he replied. “I’ve looked back through old correspondence, read and re-read Conan Doyle’s diary. I’ve examined every book, every treatise on the man’s last years that I could find. I’ve even tried picking the brains — circumspectly — of several of our most brilliant Investitures. I’ve found nothing, not even a trace of evidence. And I must say, despite my initial enthusiasm, it doesn’t come as a surprise. All this ground had been covered so thoroughly by Irregulars in the past. I was a fool to think there might be something new.”

Pendergast did not speak. With the firelight flickering over his gaunt features, his head bowed, an expression of intense thought on his face, surrounded by Victorian trappings, he suddenly looked so much like Holmes himself that Kleefisch was taken aback.

“I’m truly sorry, Pendergast,” Kleefisch said, averting his gaze to the bearskin rug. “I was so hopeful.” He paused. “I fear you’re on a wild goose chase — one that I may have encouraged. I apologize for that.”

After a moment, Pendergast stirred. “On the contrary. You’ve already done a great deal. You confirmed my suspicions about the missing Holmes story. You showed me the evidence in Queen’s Quorum . You made the connection, in Conan Doyle’s letters, to Aspern Hall. Almost despite yourself, you’ve convinced me not only that ‘The Adventure of Aspern Hall’ existed — but that it still exists. I must locate it.”

“For an Irregular like me, a Holmes scholar, that would be the coup of a lifetime. But again I have to ask — why is it so important to you?”

Pendergast hesitated a moment. “I have certain ideas, conjectures, that this story might confirm — or not.”

“Conjectures about what?”

A small smile curled Pendergast’s lip. “You — a Holmes scholar — encouraging an investigator to indulge in vulgar speculation? My dear Kleefisch!”

As this Kleefisch colored.

“While I normally despise those who claim a sixth sense,” Pendergast said, “in this case I feel that the lost story is at the center of all mysteries here — past and present.”

“In that case,” Kleefisch finally said, “I’m sorry I’ve come up empty.”

“Fear not,” Pendergast replied. “I haven’t.”

Kleefisch raised his eyebrows.

Pendergast went on. “I proceeded on the assumption that the more I could learn about Conan Doyle’s final years, the closer I’d come to finding the lost story. I focused my efforts on the circle of spiritualists he belonged to in the years before he died. I learned that this group frequently met at a small cottage named Covington Grange, on the edge of Hampstead Heath. The cottage was owned by a spiritualist by the name of Mary Wilkes. Conan Doyle had a small room at Covington Grange where he would sometimes write essays on spirituality, which he would read to the group of an evening.”

“Fascinating,” Kleefisch said.

“Allow me to pose this question: is it not likely that, while writing his late texts on spiritualism at Covington Grange, he also wrote his final Sherlock Holmes story, ‘The Adventure of Aspern Hall’?”

Kleefisch felt a quickening of excitement. It made sense. And this was an avenue that had never, to his knowledge, been explored by a fellow Irregular.

“Given its incendiary nature, isn’t it also possible that the author might not have hidden it somewhere in that little room he used for writing, or somewhere else in the Grange?”

“Might he not indeed!” Kleefisch rose from his chair. “My God. No wonder the manuscript was never found at Windlesham! So what’s next, then?”

“What’s next? I should have thought that obvious. Covington Grange is next.”

Teacup in hand, Dorothea Pembroke stepped back into her tidy alcove at the Blackpool headquarters of the National Trust for Places of Historic Interest or Natural Beauty. It was past ten forty-five, and Miss Pembroke was almost as serious about her elevenses as she was about her position, about which she was very serious indeed. A cloth napkin, placed daintily upon the desktop; a cup of Harrisons & Crosfield jasmine tea, one lump; and a wheatmeal biscuit dipped twice — not once, not three times — into the cup before being nibbled.

In many ways, Ms. Pembroke felt, she was the National Trust. There were more important jobs than hers in the nonprofit association, of course, but nobody could boast a finer pedigree. Her grandfather, Sir Erskine Pembroke, had been master of Chiddingham Place, one of the more impressive stately homes in Cornwall. But his company had failed, and when the family realized they couldn’t maintain either the taxes or the upkeep of the mansion, they entered into talks with the National Trust. The building’s foundations and general fabric were restored, its gardens expanded, and ultimately Chiddingham Place was opened to visitors, while the family stayed on in modest rooms on the top floor. A few years later, her father had taken a position with the National Trust, as a development manager. As soon as she was out of school, Miss Pembroke had joined the Trust herself, rising over the past thirty-two years to the position of deputy administrator.

All in all, a most satisfactory rise.

As she put away the teacup and was folding the napkin, she became aware that a man was standing in the doorway. She was much too well bred to show surprise, but she paused just a moment before giving the napkin a final fold and placing it away in her desk. He was a rather striking-looking man — tall and pale, with white-blond hair and eyes the color of glacial ice, dressed in a well-cut black suit — but she did not recognize him, and visitors were usually announced.

“Forgive me,” he said in an American accent — southern — accompanied by a charming smile. “I don’t mean to intrude, Ms. Pembroke. But the secretary in your outer office was away from her desk, and, well, we did have an appointment.”

Dorothea Pembroke opened her book and glanced at the current day’s page. Yes, indeed: she did have an eleven fifteen appointment with a Mr. Pendergast. She recalled that he had particularly asked to see her, as opposed to an administrator — most unusual. Still, he had not been announced, and she did not hold with such informality. But the man had a winning way about him, and she was prepared to overlook this breach of propriety.

“May I sit down?” he asked, with another smile.

Miss Pembroke nodded toward an empty seat before her desk. “What, may I inquire, do you wish to speak with me about?”

“I wish to visit one of your properties.”

“Visit?” she said, allowing the faintest tinge of disapproval to color her voice. “We have volunteers out in front who can assist you with that.” Really, it was too much, her being bothered with such a trivial request.

“I do apologize,” the man replied. “I don’t wish to take up your valuable time. I spoke about the matter with Visitor Services, and they referred me to you.”

“I see.” That did put another spin on things. And, really, the man had the most courtly manners. Even his accent spoke of breeding — not one of those harsh, barbarous American drawls. “Before we get started, we have a little regulation here. We require visitor identification, if you please.”

The man smiled again. He had beautifully white teeth. He reached into his black suit and removed a leather wallet, which he laid open upon the table, exposing a brilliance of gold on top with a photo ID card below. Miss Pembroke was startled.