Crimson Shore (Agent Pendergast, #15)(78)
She lowered her light and approached. “Who are you?”
No answer; two silent stares.
She seized the padlock and gave it a shake. “Where is the key?”
This question, instead of receiving an answer, triggered an unintelligible wailing and sobbing from the girl, who stretched a hand out through the bars. Constance stepped forward to grasp it, the filth causing her to hesitate for just a moment. With a cry the girl seized the proffered hand and grasped it with tremendous strength, as if it were her only lifeline, and began babbling. It was not a language Constance understood, and after a moment she realized that, in fact, it wasn’t a language at all—just an outpouring of quasi-human vocalizations.
The older woman remained eerily silent and passive, her face expressionless.
“I can’t free you until you let go of my hand,” Constance said.
As she pulled away, the girl kept up a frantic wailing. Exploring with the flashlight, Constance looked everywhere for a key—walls, ceiling, floor—nothing. Apparently, the jailers kept the key with them.
Constance turned back to the cell, where the girl was still mumbling and weeping.
“Stop that noise,” she said. “I’m going to get help.”
More moaning. But the mother seemed to understand, and she placed a restraining hand on the girl, who fell silent.
“Who are you?” Constance asked the mother. She spoke slowly, enunciating the words. “Why are you here?”
A voice spoke from the darkness behind her. “I can answer that question.”
50
Bradley Gavin stood in the archway, his heart hammering in his chest. He was deeply shocked and surprised at finding Constance Greene in this most unexpected of places. She was dressed in a heavy, long, old-fashioned dress; her hair was wet and the dress sodden. He made a mighty effort to suppress his amazement, collect his thoughts, and project an air of calm and control. As his shock wore off, he felt a growing feeling of…what? A sense that fate had played a deep hand in this. A sense that the universe had created this opportunity, and now it was up to him to make good on it.
He took a step forward. “Miss Greene. Constance. What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” she said in a low voice. “What is this place? And who are these women?” She held a flashlight in one hand, and a wicked-looking stiletto in the other. He was impressed, even inspired, by her coolness.
“Good questions.” Gavin gestured, holding out his arm. “But this is not the most pleasant place for an explanation. May I show you something?”
He offered his arm but she did not take it. Undaunted, he turned and walked back into the long central hallway, heading toward the cul-de-sac at the end. He was aware, with a tingling glow in his chest, that Constance was indeed following him. He paused at the far wall, pushed three loose bricks in, and slid wide the secret door and fastened it open. With a lighter he quickly circled the room, lighting the candles in each of the four sets of candelabras.
Then he turned with a smile to face Constance.
She did not run. She did not erupt in anger or become hysterical. She simply stared.
Even though he had been there hundreds of times, he knew it was an impressive sight. In the center stood the altar, an ancient block of granite, dating back to the eleventh century, hidden behind a gauzy, hanging shroud; this altar, created in France, had been carried to England, and thence across the seas, hidden, transported from place to place, until it ended up here. Along its sides were Romanesque carvings of devils, polished by a thousand years of use. To one side sat a fantastically carven table, half as long as the altar. On its top were arranged a large silver cup set upon a linen cloth, along with lancets, scarificators, and other bloodletting tools.
Illuminated in the wavering candlelight were the frescoed vaults of a pentagonal room, again depicting devils, gargoyles, ouroboros, Barbary apes, men and women, all cavorting in a kind of paradise of sin: a truly Boschian scene. Thick tapestries hung on the walls, decorated with forest images, flowers, and unicorns, also dating back to Romanesque times; and along the columns holding up the barrel ceiling were elaborately decorated alchemical symbols. The ceiling itself was hung with dozens of fine constructions made out of whittled bones bound up in twine, reminiscent of animals, birds, and beasts. Even in the still air they managed to endlessly sway and turn, as if alive and agitated, throwing raking shadows in the indirect candlelight. Ancient benches, polished by use, stood in serried ranks along the pentagonal walls of the room, and the floor was thick with layers of Persian rugs, some dating back three hundred years.
Gavin watched Constance carefully. As he hoped, she was calmly taking it all in with those intense violet eyes, without hysteria or perturbation. He felt a swell of confidence that what was happening here was, in a way, ordained. This was one remarkable woman.
He smiled. “Welcome.”
“Welcome to what?” she asked in an even voice.
“Before I go into that, may I ask how you got here?”
No answer.
“Let me guess, then: you’re here because you figured out the abandoned witches’ colony had not vanished, but moved to this spot. And you came to investigate. Am I right?”
She did not react. God, it was hard to read her face, beyond those strangely quiet but intense eyes.
“And now you’ve arrived at all this.” He spread his hands. “It must be very confusing.”