Crimson Shore (Agent Pendergast, #15)(49)
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.
In the middle of the floor, she noticed an unusually large gap between two of the boards. She knelt once again, removing the antique Italian Maniago stiletto she had recently begun keeping on her person. A press of the trigger set into the mother-of-pearl handle released the small, slim blade.
A brief interval of probing at the gap made it clear the boards were securely fastened.
The bed had a skirt that fell almost to the floor. But its lower trim was dusty and obviously undisturbed; nothing had been stored beneath.
Now Constance rose once more and went over to the rolltop desk. It had four small drawers in its top, two on each side, and four larger drawers beneath. One after the other, she pulled out the small upper drawers—full of faded Exmouth postcards and writing paper adorned with sketches of the Inn—and looked behind them. Nothing but sawdust and the traceries of spiderwebs. Next she began pulling out the larger drawers beneath the desktop, placing them on the floor one at a time, examining their contents with the flashlight, then probing the resulting cavities with her flashlight and feeling along the upper edges.
As she pulled out the lower-right drawer, a quiet thud sounded from the recesses behind. Quickly, she shone her light inside. Two items—the thin leather notebook and a periodical of some kind—had been hidden there, placed on end behind the closed drawer. She removed them, replaced the drawer, then took a seat on the bed to examine her find.
What she thought had been a periodical was, in fact, an auction catalog from Christie’s of London. It dated to August of two years before, and was titled Magnificent Jewels from a Noble Estate. While a few entries had been indicated by bookmarks, there were no notes or jottings of any kind.
Constance frowned a moment, glancing at the cover of the catalog, thinking. Then she put it to one side, opened the worn leather journal, and began leafing through the pages of crabbed, tiny handwriting. At one page she stopped and began reading intently.
28
March 5
I spent the morning and much of the afternoon in Warwickshire, visiting Hurwell Ossory. What a time I had of it! The Hurwells are a type of ancient English family that, I’m afraid, is becoming all too common: much reduced, living like paupers in their stately home, the line weakened by inbreeding, a useless carbuncle on society. One thing they have retained, however, is their pride: they are almost fanatical in their devotion to the memory of Lady Elizabeth Hurwell and her good works. This, in fact, was initially a stumbling block, due to the way the family jealously guards their reputation (God only knows what kind of reputation they believe they have). When I told them I was planning a biography of Lady Hurwell, they were immediately suspicious. Curiosity, no doubt, compelled them to agree to my request for a visit—but when I stated my intentions in more detail they became closed-mouthed and uncooperative. This gradually changed, however, when I explained in what a good light I viewed Lady Hurwell and how glowing a picture I planned to paint of her. I also swore them to secrecy, which (if I may offer a note of self-congratulation) was a masterstroke; it gave them the impression that there was a great deal more interest in the history of their family than, alas, there actually is.