Douglas Preston - Crimson Shore

“And?”

“He was Dana Dunwoody, our deceased lawyer.”

“Good God. You have been busy.” A pause. “When was his visit to the library?”

“Three weeks ago.”

“He wouldn’t have known of the hidden security camera,” Constance said, more to herself than to Pendergast. Then she glanced toward the FBI agent. “But what’s the connection between him, the historian, and this lost witch colony?”

“I cannot say. For now, Constance, let me show you this.” From his portmanteau, Pendergast removed a sheaf of photographs and a map. “Come here, if you please.”

Constance rose from her chair and sat next to him on the bed, looking over his shoulder. The room had become warmer and she felt a faint thrumming of blood in her neck. She caught the faintest scent of Floris No. 89, his aftershave balm. She looked at the picture.

“My God.” She stared, startled. “What is that?”

“An object I retrieved from under two feet of earth in the center of the quincunx of the old witches’ settlement — the one Sutter referred to as ‘New Salem.’”

“How grotesque. And it bears the mark of Morax. Is it... genuine?”

“It appears to be. Certainly it was buried many centuries ago. Here it is in situ, and here’s another shot of it.” More shuffling. “And here is the map of the witches’ colony, showing the location. I also uncovered three medallions, buried at the points of the quincunx. I’ve temporarily put them all in a safe-deposit box here in town, for the sake of prudence. The fourth I could not find; it seems to have washed away in the cutting of a water channel.” She watched as he shuffled through the photographs. He plucked one out, which showed a warped, crudely cast medallion with a stamped mark on it.

“The mark of Forras,” said Constance.

Another photo.

“The mark of Andrealphus.”

Another photo.

“The mark of Scox. All symbols found in the Tybane Inscriptions. By the way, the Wiccan I mentioned pointed out that bane is, among other things, a word for ‘poison.’”

“Interesting — considering that this region is known for its profuse growth of deadly nightshade.” He thought a moment. “In any case, judging from your partial translation of the inscriptions, especially the part about the ‘dark pilgrimage’ and ‘wandering place,’ it suggests that the witch colony did not, as legend has it, immediately die out.”

“I’ve come to that conclusion myself. So what could have happened to it?”

“They moved.”

“Where?”

“Another good question. Southward, it would seem.” He sighed. “Eventually, we’ll find the common thread, although I remain certain that the witchcraft aspect will ultimately prove tangential to the central case. Thank you again, Constance. Your help has been invaluable; I’m glad you came.”

A silence descended. Pendergast began putting away the photographs. Constance remained seated on the bed, her heart unaccountably accelerating. She could feel the warmth emanating from his body, feel the edge of his thigh lightly touching hers.

Pendergast finished putting away the photographs and turned to her. They looked at each other for a moment, face-to-face, the silence in the room yielding to the crackling of the fire, the distant thundering of the surf, and the moaning of the wind. And then in an easy motion Pendergast rose from the bed, grasped the bottle of Calvados from the table, picked up her glass, and turned back to her.

“A final splash before you go?”

Constance got up hastily. “No thank you, Aloysius. It’s already past midnight.”

“Then I shall see you at breakfast, my dear Constance.” He held open the door and she glided past and into the dim hallway, continuing on to her own room without a backward glance.

At a quarter past two in the morning, Constance awoke. Unable to go back to sleep, her mind wandering uncharacteristically down strange avenues, she lay in bed, listening to the moaning of the wind and the distant surf. After a while she got up and quietly dressed. If sleep would not come, at least she could satisfy her curiosity about something.

Picking up the small but powerful flashlight Pendergast had given her, she went to the door of her room and opened it with caution. The second-floor corridor beyond was empty and still. Stepping out and shutting the door behind her, she made her way noiselessly down the hallway, negotiating the various twists and turns until she reached the room that had belonged to the historian, Morris McCool. At one point, as she crept along, she looked over her shoulder — Constance was not given to flights of imagination, but more than once over the last several days she’d had the distinct sense she was being followed.

The end of the hallway was still covered by bands of yellow CSI tape, the room off-limits and unavailable for new guests. She had heard Walt Adderly, the owner, complaining about it in the Chart Room. Constance knew from her previous visit with Sergeant Gavin that the door was unlocked. Glancing around once more, she slipped beneath the tape, opened the door, and went inside.

Closing the door behind her, she switched on the flashlight and shone it slowly around the scuffed period furnishings. She looked at each item in turn: the hooked rugs; the bed with its oversize headboard; the small bookcase full of well-thumbed paperbacks; the dresser and rolltop desk.

In many ways, Constance was unused to this modern world: its exchange of courtliness for familiarity; its obsession with technology; its feverish embrace of the mundane and the ephemeral. One thing she did understand, however, was the keeping of secrets — a skill almost completely lost in the present age.

All her instincts told her this room possessed one.

She stepped over to the dresser, looking at but not touching it. Next, she approached the rolltop desk. Again, she looked at, but did not touch, the few books and papers arranged there.

The one time she had seen the historian in person, he had been sitting at a table in the Inn’s front parlor. He’d had a worn leather notebook open in front of him, into which he was earnestly making notes, while at the same time consulting what appeared to be a rude map or diagram. At the memory, she felt a sharp pang of dismay at what must have been a frightening and brutal end.

She recalled that no notebook had been found in the room. But he kept a journal: she was certain. There was no other place it could be.

She stepped back and used the flashlight to survey the room’s contents once again. As she did so, Pendergast’s words echoed in her head: When we deduce what McCool learned — we will know precisely why the skeleton was stolen.

The old building groaned under a fresh gust of wind.

McCool was only a temporary lodger. As a result, he could not have contrived the kind of clever, elaborate, time-consuming hiding places she had become familiar with in her wanderings of the sub-basement of the Riverside Drive mansion. He could not have removed the bathroom tiles, for example; nor could he have cut away the wallpaper in search of a cavity. No matter: while he’d no doubt been possessive about his pet project, he would have no reason to believe anyone was actively trying to steal his research. If he’d secreted away any documents or other items, it would have been in a place that would resist the cursory cleaning of a maid, but nevertheless offer easy access.

She walked over to the small bookcase and, kneeling before it, pushed the books aside, one at a time. Nothing was hidden behind them. Nor was the journal hidden, “Purloined Letter” — style, among the titles.

Rising again, she let the beam of her flashlight roam much more slowly over the room, looking for any faults of construction, any symptoms of weathering or age, that McCool might have employed to his advantage.