Douglas Preston - Crimson Shore

She was amazed at how cooperative the chief had become — at least, when directly asked for assistance. That very morning, the chief had let Pendergast rifle the Exmouth PD storage room for outmoded equipment and take whatever he wanted.

“Ah, Constance. I see you are admiring my interrogation room.” Pendergast stood in the doorway, cradling an old IBM PC.

“Is that what this is? An interrogation room?”

He set down the computer. “Indeed. What do you think?”

“It looks more like a museum of ancient technology.”

He plugged in the PC, attached the keyboard, and booted it up. Next to it he placed an old but still-sealed box of floppy disks.

“Does that even work?”

“No.”

“And what, may I ask, is wrong with your MacBook?”

“Far too pretty to be intimidating.”

She glanced around again. “So this is all for show?”

“You will find, my dear Constance, that a wall of equipment, even old equipment, has a most salutary effect on a potential witness. The tape recorder does in fact work, but for convenience I have the microphone hooked up to a digital recorder hidden inside the reel-to-reel.”

He began arranging everything in severe order on the table. Constance did have to admit it all formed a rather daunting façade, one that served to separate and isolate the interviewee from the interviewer.

“Please shut the door and have a seat.”

Constance closed the door, swept back her dress, and seated herself. “Who are you going to interview?”

He produced a list. She scanned it, laid it down. “There are a lot of names here.”

“We may not need to speak to them all. I am, as they say in these parts, fishing .”

“In other words, you think the killing of the historian is related to the walled-up skeleton.”

“Normally I put no faith in the ‘gut reaction.’ But in this situation, my gut reaction is so definite that I will make an exception: yes, they are most certainly connected.”

“How?”

He tented his fingers and sat back. “I would be interested, Constance, to learn your thoughts first. You’ve been agitating for the freedom to investigate as you see fit, and I’m curious to hear your analysis of what we’ve gathered so far.”

She sat forward, self-conscious under the pressure of his steady, waiting gaze. “A few things stand out,” she began. “We know the historian was investigating the disappearance of a ship along this coast in 1884. That same year, due to the eruption of Krakatoa, the whole region, including Exmouth, suffered a devastating crop failure. Between 1870 and 1890, according to the carbon dating, a man — an African American sailor — was tortured and his body walled up in the basement of the lighthouse keeper’s residence. In 1886, the lighthouse keeper fell down the stairs in a drunken stupor and was killed.”

A slow nod.

“If you put all that together, it seems to me the man was probably walled up in 1884 and is connected somehow to the disappearance of the ship. I wouldn’t be surprised if the death of the drunken lighthouse keeper two years later was related, as well. After all, it was his basement the man was walled up in. There’s a dark secret in this town — something happened here around that time. The historian found out some crucial fact which threatened to expose that secret and was murdered to keep him quiet.”

“And the marks on the body?”

“I don’t have an answer for that.”

“What about the wine theft?”

“As you pointed out, it was a smokescreen for the removal of the sailor’s skeleton. More evidence, as if we needed it, that the dark secret I mentioned is still present in Exmouth.”

“And what are your recommendations on how to proceed? Prioritized, of course.”

Constance paused. “One, find out what the historian discovered that caused his death. Two, find out more about the ship that disappeared, the Pembroke Castle . Three, find out more about that lighthouse keeper who died — assuming that’s possible. And four, identify those markings on the body.”

“There are many gaps of logic in your chain of reasoning, and there is much speculation, but on the whole I am not disappointed in you, Constance.”

She frowned. “I don’t take kindly to being damned by faint praise. To what gaps of logic, in particular, do you refer?”

“Allow me my little joke. Your analysis, and your recommendations, are most commendable. In fact, as a result I intend to entrust you with an assignment of importance.”

She shifted in her seat, trying to conceal the pleasure this gave her. “What are your own thoughts?”

“I concur with all you have said, pending more specific evidence. But I must add, the two items that I find most telling are the word TYBANE carved on the historian’s body, along with the curious symbols... and the ghost story.”

“The ghost story?”

“The one you told me, about the lighthouse being haunted, with babies heard crying.”

“You really think that’s important?”

“Of the utmost.”

Pendergast turned as a rap sounded on the door. “Ah, here is our first interviewee!”

He opened the door to reveal a man standing in the passage. He was in his early forties, slightly built, with thinning brown hair and a prominent Adam’s apple. Constance recalled seeing him around town twice before: once in the street, watching Pendergast’s arrest from a distance, and again at breakfast here in the Inn yesterday morning. On both occasions he had worn conservative, rather boring suits, contrasted almost comically — and this was why she remembered him — by hairy woolen V-neck sweaters in gaudy colors. He was wearing one today, as well: peach colored and fuzzy. Chacun à son goût , she thought with distaste — or, in this case, lack of goût .

“Ah,” Pendergast said. “Dana Dunwoody, Esquire — bedecked in your usual sartorial splendor.”

“Bright colors please me,” the man said, shaking the proffered hand. “You, I assume, feel precisely the opposite.”

“A hit, a very palpable hit! Please, take a seat.” Pendergast waited while the man made himself comfortable. “This is my assistant, Miss Greene, who will be present at the interview. Constance, meet Dana Dunwoody, Exmouth’s attorney at law.”

Constance nodded in greeting.

“How can I be of assistance, Agent Pendergast?” Dunwoody asked.

“Just a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

Dunwoody waved a hand. Constance noticed the lawyer had a simple, faded tattoo of a single anchor on the back of one wrist.

Pendergast consulted a notebook. “You live on a house overlooking the salt marshes, I believe.”

Dunwoody nodded.

“Were you home the night before last?”

Dunwoody nodded again.

“Did you hear or see anything unusual that evening?”

“Nothing I can recall.”

Pendergast made a notation in the book. “How is the law profession here in Exmouth?”

“Adequate.”

“What kind of work do you do?”

“Real estate sales. The occasional lawsuit. Some routine town legal business.”

“What kind of lawsuits?”

“Various kinds. Property claims. Right-of-way disputes. Requests for zoning variances.”

“I see. And your being a town selectman might be useful there.”

Dunwoody plucked a loose thread from his sweater. “Agent Pendergast, I never allow my civic duties and my professional ones to overlap.”

“Of course not.”

Dunwoody smiled faintly. He was, Constance noted, rather sharp-witted, not easily intimidated.

“Are you married, Mr. Dunwoody?”

“Not anymore.”

Constance looked at the man through narrowed eyes. He had a certain lawyerly knack for answering questions without providing any real information.