Crimson Shore (Agent Pendergast, #15)(17)

“Brandish’d steel.”

A silence. “I’m quite sure it’s burnished,” said Worley in a stiff voice. “I was a thespian in my youth—and theater director for twenty years at the old Exmouth Playhouse.”

Feeling a rising impatience with this tiresome man, Constance ignored him and continued poking around the museum, glancing over the framed pictures of ships, articles about storms and wrecks and legends of buried pirate treasure. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Worley retire to his chair behind the register book and busy himself with addressing envelopes laboriously by hand. She hoped that would keep him quiet at least until she had finished going through the museum.

She was struck with a sudden thought: How would Pendergast respond to this situation? Would he be able to glean anything from these shabby artifacts and old newspaper stories? Was there something she, perhaps, was overlooking? As she looked around, it dawned on her how Pendergast would, in fact, profit from this situation. The realization caused her to flush with chagrin. She glanced at Worley, still addressing envelopes.

“Mr. Worley?”

He raised his eyes. “Yes?”

And yet Pendergast’s method was difficult. It did not come naturally to her. “On second thought, I think you are right,” she managed. “It is burnished.”

At this his face brightened. “I’ve played Macbeth many times.”

“At the Exmouth Playhouse?”

“Yes, and also once in Boston, at the Market Square Theater. Full house.”

“Boston?” A pause. “I’ve always wanted to go onstage, but I never had the opportunity. One wonders how you remember all those lines.”

Surely the motivation behind such a toadyish observation would be obvious. And yet the man was nodding. “There are ways,” he said. “Various tricks of the trade. It’s really not all that difficult.”

Being a lickspittle was mortifying in the extreme, but Constance found the mortification somewhat mitigated by her observation that his stiff, offended manner was quickly dropping away.

“You must know everyone in town,” she observed.

“I certainly do! Nothing like theater to bring a town together.”

“How fortunate. As it happens, I have a particular interest in lighthouses and was wondering if you knew anything about the one here.”

“The Exmouth Light is one of the most historic in New England,” Worley opined. “It was built in 1704 by order of Queen Anne herself. This was a dangerous stretch of coast. Many ships were lost.”

“I was hoping to find a list of the keepers of the light and their tenures.”

“I don’t think anyone’s compiled an official list.”

She thought back to the information Pendergast had given her at breakfast. “Who was keeper around 1880?”

A silence. “Why 1880?”

She’d been pushing too hard. Really, this was most difficult. “No particular reason,” she said, forcing a little laugh.

“Let’s see. The Slocum family were keepers from around the Civil War—all the way through to 1886, I think. That was when Meade Slocum fell down the lighthouse steps and broke his neck. Afterwards, it was taken over by the McHardies. Jonathan McHardie. They had it up to the time the light was automated in 1934.”

“So there are none of Meade Slocum’s descendants in town?”

“As far as I’m aware there are none anywhere. Widower, no children. He was a drinker. One of the hazards of the job, up at all hours, lonely, isolated—especially in winter. They say he went crazy in his last few years, claimed the lighthouse was haunted.”

“Haunted? How so?”

“The crying of babies at night, or something like that.”

“I see.” She paused. “Where might I find out more about him?”

Worley peered at her under bushy brows. “Are you by chance working with that historian?”

In addition to the age and racial identity of the finger bone, Pendergast had mentioned Morris McCool to her at breakfast. She simply must learn how to ask questions more nonchalantly. “No. Simple curiosity.”

“Because that fellow was asking the same kinds of questions.” He took a step closer, his face clouded with suspicion. “Who are you with?”

Constance felt confusion mingled with rising annoyance. She was botching this. But she didn’t dare lie—not in a small town like this. “I’m here with Mr. Pendergast, the private investigator. He’s looking into the theft of the wine cellar.”

“Ah! That fellow in the red car who got himself arrested yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“Good for him. Chief Mourdock is a horse’s ass.” Apparently, Worley felt getting arrested by the police chief was something very much in Pendergast’s favor. “If you could be more specific about what you’re looking for, maybe I could help.”

“I wish I could be more specific. I’m trying to learn the history of the town.”

“It was a shame someone stole Lake’s wine. He’s a nice gent. But I’m not sure the town’s history has anything to do with it.”

“We’re trying to be thorough. One of the things I’m interested in is the history of the town’s African American population.”