Crimson Shore (Agent Pendergast, #15)(6)

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.”

“What about his deputy? The sergeant?”

“Gavin? Not nearly as dumb as his boss. Seems a good fellow—just too much under the chief’s thumb.” Lake hesitated.

Constance noticed the hesitation. “And the chief knows we’re here, does he not?”

“The other day, I’m afraid I put my foot in it. I got a bit hot under the collar with Mourdock. I told him I was going to hire a private detective.”

“And his reaction?” Pendergast asked.

“Hot air. Threats.”

“What kind of threats?”

“Said if any private dick set foot in his town, he’d arrest him on the spot. I doubt he’d actually do it, of course. But he’s bound to cause trouble. I’m sorry—I should have kept my mouth shut.”

“And from now on you will—particularly regarding the discovery made today.”

“I promise.”

Pendergast took a sip of champagne. “Moving on, how much do you know about the specific history of this house and its inhabitants?”

“Not all that much. It was the lightkeeper’s house until the 1930s, when the light was automated. The house grew badly neglected. When I bought it, it was practically falling apart.”

“And the lighthouse? Does it still operate?”