Crimson Shore Read online

  Unrolling the map, he first oriented himself, then walked ahead until he was on top of the starting waypoint. He then assembled the metal detector, affixing the shaft onto the box, attaching the search coil, and fitting the earphones to his ears. He adjusted several dials, calibrating the device. And then, taking a careful bearing with his GPS, he began walking forward slowly, sweeping the soggy ground with the coil, back and forth, keeping his eye on the LED screen. He went about fifty feet, moved to a new line two feet parallel, then returned to the starting point, and turned again.

  In about five minutes he got a squawk. Laying the machine aside, he knelt and, with a trowel, began to dig with the utmost care. The ground was spongy and soft, with no rocks or gravel, but veined with a tangle of grass roots that had to be cut by the edge of the trowel.

  About a foot down, he stopped and took a small probe from his pocket, gently pushing it into the ground. Something prevented its descent. He probed around to determine an outline, withdrew the probe, dug some more with the trowel—and uncovered a peculiar disk-like object, a large coin or medallion, rudely cast in pot metal. On it was die-stamped a symbol: one he recognized immediately as belonging to the Tybane Inscriptions. According to Constance—who had emailed him a detailed report in midafternoon, along with photos, just before starting back for Exmouth—this represented the demon Forras.

  He marked it on the map. With the previous discovery, he now had two outer points of the quincunx.

  Carefully measuring his steps, he walked to where he estimated the third point would be, employed the metal detector, and uncovered a third pot-metal coin. This was followed by a fourth, each containing the symbols of another demon. None of them, oddly, represented Morax.

  These four outer points, by their positions, betrayed the location of the central point in the quincunx: the so-called “altar” mentioned in the Sutter documents that Constance had examined. He moved to that point and knelt, pushing aside and tearing out the grass. This was where Sutter had apparently recovered the Tybane Stone itself, but there was no evidence left of that excavation, which had taken place a hundred and fifty years before.

  Again Pendergast employed the metal detector; again it squawked. He cleared out an area about two feet square around the site and began to dig. Twenty minutes had passed since he’d left Gavin with the boat, which allowed him plenty of time. He worked slowly, until he had deepened the hole to about eighteen inches. With the detector, he narrowed the location of the still-buried metal object, and, with exquisite care, employed the probe.

  It was perhaps another twelve inches down. Now he abandoned the trowel and began digging with his bare hands, until his fingers closed around something hard. He carefully cleared away the roots and dirt until the object was exposed, cleaned it as best he could, photographed it in situ, and then pried it from the soil.

  It was a most peculiar object. The central part was made of the same pot metal—a mixture, he guessed, of lead and tin. It was in a strange, wild shape—the quasi-abstract image of a gaping, devouring mouth, full of crooked teeth, in the act of swallowing what appeared to be a coil of intestines. As Pendergast examined it, he realized it had been formed by pouring molten pot metal into water, where it had frozen into a hideous shape—accidentally, but in an uncannily demonic form. This twisted, bubbled mass of metal had been framed in a setting of silver, with the remains of something tied to it—horsehair, it seemed, and a fragment of rotten bone, preserved only by virtue of the anaerobic characteristics of the soil. And stamped into the silver was the symbol of Morax, the ape-headed demon with dog’s teeth and a devil’s tail.

  He removed a shallow Tupperware container from the equipment bag and placed the object inside, nestling it inside Bubble Wrap he had brought for just such a purpose. Then he slipped it back into the bag along with the map and the rest of the equipment, straightened up, checked his watch, wiped his hands, and proceeded back to the boat.

  He found Sergeant Gavin looking fretful and impatient.

  “Find anything?” the man asked.

  Pendergast took his place in the bow of the boat. “Indeed I did.”

  “What?”

  Pendergast removed the Tupperware container from the bag, opened it, and displayed the object in its nest of Bubble Wrap.

  Gavin stared, his face going white. “What the fuck?”

  “What the fuck indeed,” came the laconic reply.

  25

  Constance had the hired car stop in Exmouth’s main street, well short of the Inn, to consider her options. It had been her intention to sit at the bar, as Pendergast had requested, and listen for useful gossip. She had not been in the mood to do so the night before. But now, she felt rather drained from her trip to Salem. Perhaps an interval in the Chart Room would prove less vexatious.

  There was a rap on her window. Constance lowered it to see Carole Hinterwasser.

  “Constance!” the woman said. “I thought that was you. My shop’s just there. Would you care to come in for a late-afternoon tea?”

  Constance hesitated. “I had rather planned on returning to the Inn.”

  “Just a quick cup. Come on, it would be nice to chat. I’ll have the Inn send their car for you.”

  “Very well.”

  Paying off the driver, she stepped out of the car and into the teeth of the wind that whipped down the Exmouth main street, carrying with it the smell of salt air and seaweed. A few scraps of newspaper whirled along with it, while a pair of screeching seagulls wheeled about overhead. She followed the woman into her shop, wondering what it was Hinterwasser wanted to talk to her about—as that was clearly her intention.

  “Sit down, please.” The shop, A Taste of Exmouth, sold mostly tourist bric-a-brac: local crafts, postcards, maps and charts, T-shirts, candles, shells, and potpourri, with tea and coffee served at three tiny tables in the back of the premises. Constance took a seat while Hinterwasser asked her shop assistant—a bright-eyed young woman with close-cropped blond hair—to make them a pot of tea. A few minutes later, the assistant brought over the tea on an antique silver tea set, with china cups, bread, butter, and marmalade. She set it down on a stand next to their table, laid out their cups and silverware.

  “You’re the one helping that FBI agent with the wine theft, right?” she asked with ill-concealed curiosity.

  Constance nodded, a little surprised at the forward nature of the question. “I am.”

  “Thank you, Flavia,” Carole said in polite dismissal.

  The woman smiled at them both in turn, then moved away.

  Constance said, “She’s also a waitress at the Inn.”

  “Flavia Strayhorn,” Hinterwasser said. “New in town. Native New Englander, but she spent the last few months hiking around northeast Asia. She’s earning money for graduate school. And she seems to be picking up our small-town avidity for gossip.” She laughed.

  “People appear to be so curious about us.”

  “Well, apart from your companion being an FBI agent, your old-fashioned way of dressing has been noticed. Is there any particular reason for it?”

  “No, no, it’s just what I’ve always worn.” Constance realized that—at least for the purpose of excursions such as this—she should make an effort to update her wardrobe.

  “Well, your bag is new, anyway,” Carole said, nodding at the saltwater crocodile bag that hung from Constance’s chair. “A Hermès Birkin, isn’t it?”

  Constance nodded.

  “Beautiful. It’s probably worth more than this entire building.”

  Constance said nothing. Perhaps it had been a bad idea to bring the bag—a present from Pendergast on her last birthday. Really, when it came to interacting with outsiders in this modern world, she could not seem to get anything right.

  “The tea’s almost ready.” Carole pointed to the steeping pot. “It’s my special blend—Exmouth Chai. Help yourself to bread and jam.”

  “Thank you, this is most kind.”

  “Not at all—it’s
nice to have a chance to chat.”

  Constance took a slice of bread—it was fresh and homemade—then spread on some butter and marmalade. She’d had nothing to eat all day.

  Hinterwasser poured out their tea, with a generous addition of milk and sugar. “I’m glad I ran into you. Did you hear about the, ah, difficult words between Mr. Pendergast and Perce yesterday?”

  She took a sip. “I did.”

  “I want you to know how badly Perce feels about it. It’s true that he’s been having problems selling his work lately—you know how tastes change—and he’s a little sensitive about it. He didn’t mean to fly off the handle. He realizes in retrospect that an investigator has to ask questions, examine every angle, look into everyone’s background. Even my past—which isn’t squeaky clean, unfortunately, with a dreadful stain on my record. Imagine—shoplifting.” She gave a laugh.

  Constance had the impression the woman was hoping to be asked about that theft. She let the moment pass.

  “If I was Agent Pendergast, I’d look at all the angles, too. The point is, Perce is a proud man. That’s why I’ve taken it upon myself to ask you whether you might tell Agent Pendergast how embarrassed Perce feels about the whole thing. He would like to encourage Agent Pendergast to continue looking into the wine theft and hopefully not allow these murders, as horrible as they are, to deflect him completely from his original intention.”

  “I can assure you he’s working hard on your case,” said Constance. She did not elaborate. In his unspoken way, her guardian had made it clear that the state of the investigation was never to be discussed with anyone until he deemed the time right.

  “I’m so glad. This second murder has really thrown the town into a tizzy. I’ve never seen anything like it. The chief is in way over his head. Luckily, we’ve got Sergeant Gavin to take up the slack. Anyway, I understand Pendergast heard the actual killing when he was out in the marshes.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “Gossip spreads fast around here. The more grim or salacious, the faster it travels.”

  “I see.”

  “How horrible.” Hinterwasser shuddered. “At the time, Perce and I were at the classical guitar concert at the Little Red Church. Perce loves classical guitar music and brought the musician up from Boston himself, as part of the Exmouth Fall Concert Series. He’s on the board, you know.”

  Constance took advantage of the stream of words to pick up a second slice of bread and slather it with butter.

  “I wonder how you can keep such a trim figure,” said Hinterwasser with a laugh.

  Constance took a sip of tea, put down the cup. “I seem to have an overactive metabolism.”

  “Ah, to be a young lady again!” said Hinterwasser, refilling Constance’s cup.

  There was a tinkle of a bell and a figure came into the shop.

  “A customer,” said Hinterwasser, rising. “How rare; perhaps I ought to have him stuffed and put on display!” She went over while Constance finished her tea. The customer’s sale was quickly concluded. As if on schedule, the 1936 Buick Special 8 that the Inn used as a car to ferry guests to and from town pulled up.

  “Your ride,” said Hinterwasser, plucking an item from a shelf and pressing it into her hand. It was a sachet of tea bags. “Here’s a little something to take home—my Exmouth Chai blend.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Not at all. Thank you for stopping in.” Hinterwasser pressed her hand again. “I hope you’ll remember what I asked. About speaking to Agent Pendergast, I mean.”

  26

  At ten o’clock, the Chart Room had almost emptied. Constance sat at a table in the corner, across from Pendergast, the remains of two portions of Filets de Sole Pendergast before them, prepared by Reginald Sheraton, along with an empty bottle of wine. It was a brutal night, with gusts rattling the windows and shaking the walls. The distant thunder of surf below the bluffs added a dark ostinato to the wailing of the wind about the Inn.

  Constance nodded at the chalkboard that held the evening’s menu. “Your sole seems to have become a restaurant favorite. I noticed it being served to at least half of the tables.”

  “I have always maintained Massachusetts to be a bastion of good taste.” Pendergast rose. “Shall we retire upstairs? We have some important—and confidential—matters to discuss.”

  Constance rose and followed Pendergast past the bar, where he paused and spoke to the bartender, asking him to send up a dusty bottle of Calvados—which, by a minor miracle, he had spied on the back wall—and two snifters to his room.

  She followed him up the steep, creaking stairs. Pendergast’s room, which she had not yet seen, was dominated by a large Victorian four-poster bed; at the far side was a small brick fireplace, a writing table, chair, and lamp. A fire had been laid but not lit.

  “Please take the chair; I’ll sit on the bed,” said Pendergast, going over to the fireplace and lighting the kindling. It flared up, casting a flickering yellow light about the room.

  Constance produced from her bag the sachet of tea bags that Carole had given her earlier in the day. “Perhaps this would be more appropriate,” she said. “You know I’m not much of a drinker. We could ask for a pot of hot water.”

  Pendergast took the sachet and glanced at it. “Chai?” he said, his lip curling in distaste. He tipped it into the wastebasket. “Sorry, my dear Constance—that is unfit for consumption. No: Calvados it shall be. Besides, I have little doubt that we’ll be back to our cups of King’s 403 oolong in the Riverside Drive mansion before much more time has passed.”

  A moment later, a knock came at the door and Flavia, the young waitress, brought in a tray with two snifters and the bottle of Calvados. Pendergast pressed a bill into her hand, murmured his thanks, and shut and locked the door. He poured a finger into each snifter and handed one to Constance, taking a seat on the bed.

  “My apologies for the size of the room,” he said. “It makes up for it in charm. I’m afraid what we must now discuss could not be mentioned in the dining room.”

  She took a sip of the Calvados. It went down like a tongue of warmth.

  “I hope it’s to your satisfaction.”

  She nodded. She was already feeling the pleasant effects of the wine, which she normally did not indulge in; she would have to be careful.

  “Constance, I first want to tell you how pleased I am with your work. You have been both steady and reliable.”

  She felt herself flush at this unexpected compliment, although his emphasis on the word steady seemed a trifle backhanded. “Thank you.”

  “You have also been careful to heed my warnings not to freelance, or to wander away from the Inn after dark. I appreciate that.” He paused. “This has been a peculiar investigation. We’re caught in a tangle of evidence, and we’ve reached the point where we must stop and tease out the threads. To that end, I’d like to go over what we know so far: a recap, so to speak. And to give you the benefit of my most recent discoveries.”

  “Please.”

  “There are two balls of twine here: the skeleton in the cellar, which I feel sure is related to the disappearance of the SS Pembroke Castle; and the lost witches’ colony. Let’s start with the skeleton. A healthy, forty-year-old African European man was tortured and walled up in the lighthouse keeper’s basement. Why? There can be only one reason: he had information. What information?”

  He paused.

  Constance spoke. “Lady Hurwell received a ninety-five-hundred-pound insurance settlement for loss of cargo. Maybe it was something to do with that.”

  Pendergast raised a slender finger. “Precisely! In 1884, such a sum was enormous, equivalent to millions of dollars today. The records of Lloyd’s are kept as secure as Fort Knox, but one might guess the cargo was money, bullion, or valuables of some sort. That, my dear Constance, is likely why this individual was tortured: to extract the location of the valuables kept aboard the ship.”

  “That seems a bit of a leap.”

  “No
t when you know who the man was: a gentleman by the name of Warriner A. Libby.”

  “You’ve learned the man’s name?”

  “I certainly have.” Pendergast seemed uncharacteristically pleased with himself. “Warriner A. Libby was the captain of the Pembroke Castle. He was forty, born in Barbados and raised in both London and New York, of an African father and a—to use the unfortunate parlance of the time—mulatto mother. In his day, he was a respected and prosperous sea captain.”

  Constance stared. “That’s quite remarkable.”

  “The man most likely to know the location of anything valuable aboard ship would be the captain. He was easily identified. I knew the age and racial characteristics of our skeleton. They matched. Quite simple.” He took a sip of his Calvados. “In any case, if Libby was tortured to give up the location of the valuables carried on the ship, that tells us something crucial: the ship wasn’t lost at sea. Otherwise, the valuables would have gone down with it.”

  “So the ship took refuge in Exmouth Harbor?”

  “No. The harbor is far too shallow. This was a three-hundred-foot steamship with an eighteen-foot draft.”

  “So what happened to it?”

  “I believe it was wrecked along the Exmouth shore, where there are many treacherous sandbars and rocks.”

  “Just a moment. Wrecked…deliberately?”

  Pendergast nodded. “Yes. Deliberately.”

  “By whom?”

  “By certain townspeople.”

  “But how could the townspeople contrive to wreck a ship at sea?”

  “In concert with the lighthouse keeper. It’s a well-known trick. Extinguish the lighthouse and build a fire on the beach, in a location calculated to guide the ship onto the rocks. Once there, the townspeople loot the ship and retrieve any cargo that washes ashore. If the ship ran aground, before it broke up the looters would likely have time not only to retrieve much cargo but also to get their hands on the money—if they knew where it was hidden. In those days, ships that carried bullion or coin always had secret spaces precisely for such safekeeping.”