Brimstone (Pendergast #5)(13)

Pendergast stopped. “She is well. Physically. Emotionally, as well as could be expected. We’re making slow progress. It’s been so long, you see.”

Wren nodded his understanding. Then he reached into his pocket and withdrew a DVD.

“Here it is,” he said, passing it to Pendergast. “A complete inventory of the collections within this house, cataloged and indexed to the best of my ability.”

Pendergast nodded.

“It still amazes me that the world’s preeminent cabinet of curiosities is housed under this roof.”

“Indeed. And I trust you found the pieces I gave you from it payment enough for your services?”

“Oh, yes,” Wren whispered. “Yes, yes, they were definitely payment enough.”

“As I recall, you were so long on restoring a certain Indian ledger book I was afraid the rightful owner would get restive.”

“One can’t hurry art,” Wren sniffed. “And it was such a beautiful ledger book. It’s just that . . . it’s just time, you know. Time bears away all things, as Virgil said. It’s bearing away my books right now, my lovely books, faster than I can restore them.” Wren’s domicile was the seventh and deepest sub-basement of the New York Public Library, where he held court over uncataloged legions of decaying books, their endless stacks navigable by no one but himself.

“Indeed. Then it must be a relief to know that your work here is done.”

“I’d have inventoried the library as well, but she seems to retain everything about it in her head.” And Wren allowed himself a bitter laugh.

“Her knowledge of this house is remarkable, and I’ve found uses for it already.”

Wren glanced at him inquiringly.

“I’m planning to ask her to examine the library’s holdings on Satan.”

“Satan? That’s a broad topic, hypocrite lecteur.”

“As it happens, I’m interested in just one aspect. The death of human beings at the hand of the devil.”

“You mean, as in selling one’s soul? Payment for services rendered, that kind of thing?”

Pendergast nodded.

“It’s still a broad topic.”

“I’m not interested in literature, Wren. I’m interested solely in nonfiction sources. Primary sources. Preferably first-person and eyewitness accounts.”

“You’ve been in this house too long.”

“I find it’s beneficial to keep her occupied. And, as you said yourself, she knows the library’s holdings so well.”

“I see.” And Wren let his gaze stray toward a set of doors in the far wall.

Pendergast followed his gaze. “You wish to see her?”

“Are you surprised? I’m practically her godfather, after what happened here this summer. You forget my role.”

“I forget nothing, and will always be in your debt for that, if nothing else.” And without another word, Pendergast stepped forward and noiselessly opened the doors.

Wren peered through them. His yellow eyes grew bright. On the far side lay a large and sumptuously appointed library. Case after case of richly bound books rose to the ceiling, firelight warming their leather spines. A dozen small sofas and wing chairs were arranged across a thick Persian carpet. In one of the chairs, sitting before the fire, was a young woman, paging through an oversize book of lithographs. She was wearing a pinafore over a white dress and black stockings, and as she turned another page, the firelight shone on her slender limbs, her dark hair and eyes. On a low table nearby sat a tea service, laid out for two.

Pendergast cleared his throat gently and the girl looked up. Her eyes went from the FBI agent to Wren, and for a moment, fear flashed through them. But then recognition spread across her features. She put the book aside, stood up, smoothed her pinafore, and waited for the two men to approach.

“How are you, Constance?” Wren asked in as soothing a croak as he could manage.

“Very well, Mr. Wren, thank you.” Constance gave a small curtsy. “And yourself?”

“Busy, very busy. My books take up all my time.”

“I shouldn’t think one would speak grudgingly of such a noble occupation.” Constance’s tone was grave, but the faintest of smiles touched her lips—in amusement? condescension?—and was gone again before Wren could be sure.

“No, no, of course not.” Wren tried not to stare. How, in such a short time, could he have forgotten that studied voice with its quaint constructions? How could he forget those eyes, so very ancient, yet set in such a young and beautiful face? He cleared his throat. “So tell me, Constance, how you pass your days.”

“Rather tranquilly. In the mornings, I read Latin and Greek, under the direction of Aloysius. My afternoons are my own, and I generally spend them browsing the collections, correcting the occasional inaccurate label I happen to come across.”

Wren darted a quick look at Pendergast.

“We have a late tea, during which Aloysius generally reads to me from the newspapers. After dinner, I practice the violin. Wretchedly. Aloysius suffers me to believe he finds my playing bearable.”

“Dr. Pendergast is the most honest of people.”

“Let us say Dr. Pendergast is the most tactful of people.”

“Be that as it may, I’d love to hear you play sometime.”