Crimson Shore (Agent Pendergast, #15)(18)

“And a very interesting history.”

“Please go on.”

“Down near the old waterfront was what they called Dill Town. It was the black section of town.”

“Why Dill Town?”

“Named after the freed slave who originally settled there. John Dill. Most of the residents were sailors in the early days. That area was actually more prosperous for a time than the white half of town.”

“Why was that?”

“They went out to sea longer, worked on whalers and grain ships. When you’re out to sea, nobody gives a damn about skin color. It’s what you could do. And the crews on those ships were polyglot.”

“But back on land—in Exmouth—was there racial tension?”

“Not at first, when there was plenty of work for everyone. But later on there was—resentment about the prosperity of Dill Town. You see, the Exmouth whites were mostly coastal fishermen. They didn’t go to sea for years at a time a-whaling, like the blacks did. And then, thanks to Krakatoa, things got bad for everyone.”

“Krakatoa?”

“Yes, indeed. Late 1883 it was, the year Krakatoa erupted. There was no summer for Exmouth the following year; folks say there were frosts in every month of 1884. The crops died and the fishing industry failed. By that time the whaling industry was already suffering, and the easy money it once brought in was no more. Things went from bad to worse until there was an incident where a black youth was blamed for raping a white woman. The man was lynched.”

“A lynching? In Massachusetts?”

“Yes, ma’am. They strung him up, threw his body in the bay. In 1902, that was. For the blacks, that was the beginning of the end for Dill Town. It was almost empty by the time the Yankee Clipper blew through in ’38, flattening Oldham.”

“Oldham?”

“A very backward old community that used to exist south of here, on Crow Island. It’s part of that wildlife preserve now, you know.”

“Let’s get back to the lynching. Any idea who was responsible?”

“The usual drunken vigilante types. It’s a matter of shame now, and you won’t get anyone to talk about it.”

“But you’re talking about it.”

“My family’s ‘from away,’ as they say around here. My parents moved here from Duxbury. And I’ve seen more of the world than many of these townsfolk. Don’t forget, I played Macbeth in Boston.”

Constance held out her hand. “I didn’t introduce myself. Constance Greene. Thank you for all the information.”

He shook it. “Nice to meet you, Constance. Ken Worley, at your service.”

“If I have more questions, may I come back?”

“It would be my pleasure. And I hope you and Mr. Pendergast will be able to enjoy our little town while you’re here.” He threw out a hand and ended with a declamation:

This castle hath a pleasant seat; the breeze

Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself

Unto our gentle senses



Constance knew it was possible the man might be of further use to them. However, her patience was now at an extremity. “Air,” she said.

Worley blinked. “Excuse me?”

“‘Air.’ Not ‘breeze.’ Thank you again for your help, Mr. Worley.” And with the faintest of curtsies she exited the building.





10



Bradley Gavin came out from the back offices, sack lunch in hand. He stopped when he saw a figure lounging in the doorway of the police station’s waiting room. It was that strange private investigator, Pendergast. Gavin was already curious about the man who had managed to get the chief so riled up. Not that it was hard to do—all the chief needed to get worked up was to be given some actual work. For the past two years, Gavin had done virtually all the policing in town…while the chief concerned himself with writing up parking tickets. He had six more months of that, and then Mourdock would retire his lazy ass and Gavin would take over as chief. Or so he hoped; it depended, of course, on the town’s three selectmen. But he’d been a dedicated officer, his family was old Exmouth stock, he was part of the town’s inner circle, and his father had been chief before him, so he felt his chances were good.

Putting his lunch to one side, Gavin glanced back at Pendergast, wondering whether the man wasn’t pushing his luck a little, showing up here so soon after his arrest.

“Can I help you?” he asked politely.

The man in the door unbent himself, took a step forward, and extended his hand. “We haven’t formally met. I’m Pendergast.”

Gavin took it. “I’m Sergeant Gavin.”

Now another figure stepped into the waiting room from outside: it was Pendergast’s secretary, or assistant, or whatever she was, the petite young woman named Constance. She looked at him silently with her strange violet eyes. Her bobbed hair was a deep, rich mahogany and, though the cut of her clothing was severe, it could not entirely conceal the curvaceous form beneath. With some effort, Gavin returned his gaze to Pendergast.

“Am I correct in my understanding that you and the chief are the entirety of the Exmouth constabulary?”

Constabulary. He could see how this guy could get under the chief’s skin. “We’re a small department,” Gavin said.