Douglas Preston: Crimson Shore

A shallow niche gradually became exposed. It was empty, save for chains set into the stone at the top and bottom of the back wall, from which dangled wrist and leg irons. Constance contemplated these with cool detachment; she had long ago discovered similar articles in the subbasement spaces of Pendergast’s own Riverside Drive mansion. The FBI agent himself, however, had grown even paler than usual.

“I’m floored,” said Lake. “I had no idea—”

“Silence, if you please,” Constance interrupted. “My guardian — that is, Mr. Pendergast — is occupied.”

Pendergast continued removing stones until the entire niche was exposed. It was about six feet tall, three feet wide, and three feet deep. It was as ancient as the house, and had clearly been built to contain a person. The leg and wrist irons had rusted shut in the closed position, but contained no skeleton. The niche, she noticed, was inexplicably clean, not a speck of dust visible.

Now Pendergast knelt within the niche and probed every little crack and fissure with a magnifying loupe and the small set of tweezers, test tube at the ready. Constance watched him work for ten minutes, before — finding very little — he transferred his attention to the floor immediately in front of the niche. Another lengthy period of probing and poking followed. Lake looked on, clearly having a difficult time remaining silent.

“Ah!” Pendergast suddenly said. He rose, holding what appeared to be a tiny bone in the tweezers. He affixed the loupe to his eye and examined the bone at some length. Then he knelt again, and — almost genuflecting over the stones he’d removed — examined their rear faces with the light and the loupe.

And then he glanced up, silvery eyes fixing on Constance.

“What is it?” she asked.

“The vacation is over.”

“What do you mean?”

“This is no mere theft of wine. This is far bigger — and far more dangerous. You can’t stay here. You must return to Riverside Drive.”

Constance stared at Pendergast’s dust-coated face. After a moment, she replied: “Too dangerous? For me? Aloysius, you forget whom you’re speaking to.”

“I do not.”

“Then perhaps you might explain.”

“I shall.” He dropped the tiny bone into the glass test tube, stoppered it, and handed it to her. “Take this.”

She took it, along with the loupe.

“That is the distal phalanx of the left index finger of a human being. You will note the very tip of the bone is chipped, scraped, and fractured. That was done perimortem — at the time of death.”

She handed it back. “I can see that.”

“Now let us look at the building stones.” He pivoted with the penlight. “I’ve arranged them on my jacket as they were in situ, with the inside face towards us. Note the deep gouges, scratches, and those splatters of a dark substance.” She watched as he used the LED as a pointer. “What do they tell you?”

Constance had seen this coming. “That someone, many years ago, was chained and walled up in that niche alive, and tried to claw his way out.”

A mirthless smile gathered on Pendergast’s face. “Excellent.”

“That’s awful,” Lake broke in, undisguised shock on his face. “Just awful . I had no idea! But... how did you know that niche was there?”

“The thieves did not take the Braquilanges. That was my first clue. Anyone who goes to the trouble of stealing an entire wine cellar is going to know about such a legendary vintage. And they would not have been so clumsy as to break that magnum of ’61 Chateau Latour” — here, Pendergast indicated a mess on the floor — “which is worth at least fifteen thousand dollars. So I knew from the start that, though we were undoubtedly dealing with thieves, we were most certainly not dealing with wine thieves. No — they were here to get something far more valuable, at least to them. Naturally, this led me to look behind the wine racks, where I saw evidence of recent activity — which in turn led to the niche.”

Lake peered a little gingerly into the space. “And you really think a person was walled up in there?”

“Yes.”

“And that this whole robbery was staged to... to remove the skeleton?”

“Undoubtedly.” Pendergast tapped the test tube in Constance’s hand that contained the finger bone.

“Good Lord.”

“The walling-up was clearly an ancient crime. Yet the people who took the skeleton must have known about that crime, and either wished to cover it up or wanted to retrieve something in the niche, or both. They went to great lengths to hide their activity. Pity for them they missed this bone. It should prove most eloquent.”

“And the danger?” asked Constance.

“My dear Constance! This crime is the work of local people — or, at the very least, someone with a deep history in this town. I’m certain they also knew of something else walled up with the skeleton — presumably something of great value. Since they had to move the wine rack, and would be unable to disguise the disturbance, they staged a theft to cover it up.”

“They?” asked Lake. “There was more than one?”

“A presumption on my part. This took a significant amount of effort.”

“You still have not addressed the element of danger,” said Constance.

“The danger comes from the fact that I will now investigate. Whoever did this will not be happy. They will take steps to protect themselves.”

“And you think I’m vulnerable?”

The silence stretched on until Constance realized Pendergast was not going to answer the question.

“The only real danger here,” she said in a low voice, “is what might happen to the criminals if they make the mistake of crossing swords with you. In that case, they will answer to me .”

Pendergast shook his head. “That, frankly, is what I fear most.” He paused, considering. “If I allow you to remain here, you must keep yourself... under control.”

Constance ignored the implication. “I’m confident you’ll find me a great help, particularly with the historical aspects — since obviously there’s a history here.”

“A valid point: no doubt I could benefit from your assistance. But please — no freelancing. I had enough of that with Corrie.”

“I am, thankfully, not Corrie Swanson.”

A silence fell in the room. “Well,” Lake said at last. “Let’s get out of this dank basement, have a drink, watch the sun set, and talk about what comes next. I have to say I’m totally floored by this discovery. Rather macabre, but a fascinating diversion nonetheless.”

“Fascinating, yes,” Pendergast told him. “Dangerous, even more so. Do not forget that, Mr. Lake.”

They settled on the porch looking out over the sea while the sun set behind them, shooting purple, orange, and scarlet light into the clouds piled on the eastern horizon. Lake opened a bottle of Veuve Clicquot.

Pendergast accepted a glass. “Mr. Lake, I have to ask you a few more questions, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind the questions, but I do mind the ‘Mr. Lake’ bit. Call me Perce.”

“I am from the South. I would be obliged if I could be indulged and we address each other formally.”

Lake rolled his eyes. “Fine, if that’s what you want.”

“Thank you. You mentioned the unhelpfulness of the police several times. What have they done so far in the case?”

“Not a damned thing! We’ve only got two cops in town, the chief of police and a young sergeant. They came over, poked around for about fifteen minutes, took some photos, and that was it. No fingerprinting, no nothing.”

“Tell me about them.”

“The chief, Mourdock, is a bully and dumber than a granite curbstone. He’s essentially been on vacation ever since coming up from the Boston PD. Lazy bastard, especially now that he’s six months from retirement.”