Crimson Shore Read online

  “So what happened to the survivors?”

  “A grim question indeed.”

  There was a pause before Constance spoke again. “And you believe the wreck to have been deliberate, I imagine, because 1884 was the year of the Exmouth famine, when the crops failed and people were desperate. A passing ship, most likely carrying valuables, might be too great a temptation to resist for a starving town. The looters tortured the captain to get the location of the treasure on board the ship by walling him up.”

  “Brava, Constance.”

  “But why come back a hundred and thirty years later to retrieve the captain’s skeleton? Was a certain party trying to cover up the old crime by removing it?”

  “Unlikely. That skeleton was in no danger of being discovered.”

  “So why run the risk of retrieving it?”

  “Why indeed?”

  A brief silence settled over the room before Pendergast continued.

  “McCool visited Exmouth twice. He visits, the skeleton is stolen; he returns, he is murdered. McCool must have spoken of something on his first visit—something that certain townsfolk, aware of the Pembroke Castle atrocity, learned of in turn. That triggered the theft of the skeleton. When McCool returned, he might have been killed to seal his lips from revealing what he’d discovered. When we deduce what McCool learned—we will know precisely why the skeleton was stolen.”

  Pendergast fell silent. The fire crackled. Constance could not suppress a sense of satisfaction at having helped Pendergast further his deductive work. She took another sip of the Calvados.

  He continued. “Let us move on to the second tangled ball in this case: the Tybane Inscriptions. That list you gave me of those who accessed the papers at the Historical Society was most interesting.”

  “How so?”

  “There were twenty-four names. Twenty-three of them I’ve verified as belonging to real people, virtually all Wiccans. Then there was a name that did not appear on the various Wiccan membership lists. It sounded fake.”

  “Indeed?”

  “A Mr. William Johnson. Too common to be genuine, don’t you think?”

  “Not exactly proof, though, is it?”

  “Except that when I contacted your friend Mrs. Jobe, and enlarged on your amusing story of the Amish mother looking for her daughter, I was able to discover that our William Johnson had been captured on camera. With a little gentle persuasion she emailed me the man’s image.”

  “And?”

  “He was Dana Dunwoody, our deceased lawyer.”

  “Good God. You have been busy.” A pause. “When was his visit to the library?”

  “Three weeks ago.”

  “He wouldn’t have known of the hidden security camera,” Constance said, more to herself than to Pendergast. Then she glanced toward the FBI agent. “But what’s the connection between him, the historian, and this lost witch colony?”

  “I cannot say. For now, Constance, let me show you this.” From his portmanteau, Pendergast removed a sheaf of photographs and a map. “Come here, if you please.”

  Constance rose from her chair and sat next to him on the bed, looking over his shoulder. The room had become warmer and she felt a faint thrumming of blood in her neck. She caught the faintest scent of Floris No. 89, his aftershave balm. She looked at the picture.

  “My God.” She stared, startled. “What is that?”

  “An object I retrieved from under two feet of earth in the center of the quincunx of the old witches’ settlement—the one Sutter referred to as ‘New Salem.’”

  “How grotesque. And it bears the mark of Morax. Is it…genuine?”

  “It appears to be. Certainly it was buried many centuries ago. Here it is in situ, and here’s another shot of it.” More shuffling. “And here is the map of the witches’ colony, showing the location. I also uncovered three medallions, buried at the points of the quincunx. I’ve temporarily put them all in a safe-deposit box here in town, for the sake of prudence. The fourth I could not find; it seems to have washed away in the cutting of a water channel.” She watched as he shuffled through the photographs. He plucked one out, which showed a warped, crudely cast medallion with a stamped mark on it.

  “The mark of Forras,” said Constance.

  Another photo.

  “The mark of Andrealphus.”

  Another photo.

  “The mark of Scox. All symbols found in the Tybane Inscriptions. By the way, the Wiccan I mentioned pointed out that bane is, among other things, a word for ‘poison.’”

  “Interesting—considering that this region is known for its profuse growth of deadly nightshade.” He thought a moment. “In any case, judging from your partial translation of the inscriptions, especially the part about the ‘dark pilgrimage’ and ‘wandering place,’ it suggests that the witch colony did not, as legend has it, immediately die out.”

  “I’ve come to that conclusion myself. So what could have happened to it?”

  “They moved.”

  “Where?”

  “Another good question. Southward, it would seem.” He sighed. “Eventually, we’ll find the common thread, although I remain certain that the witchcraft aspect will ultimately prove tangential to the central case. Thank you again, Constance. Your help has been invaluable; I’m glad you came.”

  A silence descended. Pendergast began putting away the photographs. Constance remained seated on the bed, her heart unaccountably accelerating. She could feel the warmth emanating from his body, feel the edge of his thigh lightly touching hers.

  Pendergast finished putting away the photographs and turned to her. They looked at each other for a moment, face-to-face, the silence in the room yielding to the crackling of the fire, the distant thundering of the surf, and the moaning of the wind. And then in an easy motion Pendergast rose from the bed, grasped the bottle of Calvados from the table, picked up her glass, and turned back to her.

  “A final splash before you go?”

  Constance got up hastily. “No thank you, Aloysius. It’s already past midnight.”

  “Then I shall see you at breakfast, my dear Constance.” He held open the door and she glided past and into the dim hallway, continuing on to her own room without a backward glance.

  27

  At a quarter past two in the morning, Constance awoke. Unable to go back to sleep, her mind wandering uncharacteristically down strange avenues, she lay in bed, listening to the moaning of the wind and the distant surf. After a while she got up and quietly dressed. If sleep would not come, at least she could satisfy her curiosity about something.

  Picking up the small but powerful flashlight Pendergast had given her, she went to the door of her room and opened it with caution. The second-floor corridor beyond was empty and still. Stepping out and shutting the door behind her, she made her way noiselessly down the hallway, negotiating the various twists and turns until she reached the room that had belonged to the historian, Morris McCool. At one point, as she crept along, she looked over her shoulder—Constance was not given to flights of imagination, but more than once over the last several days she’d had the distinct sense she was being followed.

  The end of the hallway was still covered by bands of yellow CSI tape, the room off-limits and unavailable for new guests. She had heard Walt Adderly, the owner, complaining about it in the Chart Room. Constance knew from her previous visit with Sergeant Gavin that the door was unlocked. Glancing around once more, she slipped beneath the tape, opened the door, and went inside.

  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 k
eeping 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.

  There are only three of them left: a maiden aunt; Sir Bartleby Hurwell, Lady Hurwell’s great-grandson, a sadly attenuated specimen; and his unmarried spinster daughter. They spent hours telling old family stories, showing me photo albums, and speaking of Lady Hurwell in reverent tones. Despite their admiration for the woman, they, alas, had little useful information: most of what they told me I had already learned in the course of my research. They served me a lunch of tired cucumber sandwiches and weak tea. I felt myself growing disheartened. I had held off on contacting Lady Hurwell’s descendants until I was far into my research, feeling certain that a show of familiarity with their ancestor would help break the ice. However, now that the ice was broken, it seemed my efforts would yield but slender results.

  Nevertheless, it was during lunch that I inquired as to the state of Lady Hurwell’s papers. It turned out that the three remaining Hurwells knew nothing about any papers, but informed me that, if any existed, they would be in the attic. Naturally, I requested access. After a brief confabulation, they agreed. And so, lunch concluded, Sir B. led me along echoing galleries and up rickety back staircases to the attic, tucked up under the eaves of the mansion. There was no electric light but, luckily, I’d had the foresight to bring along a flashlight with spare batteries.

  The attic went on and on. It contained a near-riot of effluvium: ancient steamer trunks; stacks of empty wooden shipping crates; tailor’s dummies, bleeding stuffing; endless piles of old copies of the Times and issues of Punch dating back decades, carefully tied with twine. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust, and additional dust rose in noxious plumes with every footstep. At first, Sir B. shadowed me—perhaps he feared I might fill my pockets with some of the ancient jetsam—but in short order the dust, and the squeaking of rats, got the better of him and he excused himself.

  I spent an hour, my back aching from bending beneath the low ceiling, my eyes and nose and hands and clothes powdered with dust, and found nothing of value. Just as I was about to give up and descend back into the land of the living, however, the beam of my flashlight landed on an ancient wooden filing cabinet. Something about it piqued my curiosity: even with its veneer of dust I could see that the cabinet was of a higher quality than its neighbors. A swipe with the cuff of my jacket revealed the cabinet to be made of high-quality rosewood, with brass fittings. Luckily, it was unlocked. I opened it—and found precisely the treasure-trove I had been hoping for.

  Inside the two drawers were scores of Lady Hurwell’s personal documents: papers relating to the estate; various deeds; legal documents in a right-of-way dispute she’d carried on with a neighbor; an early copy of her will. But of greatest interest to me was a diary that she had kept
in her teens and early twenties, and a bundle of letters, tied up in a ribbon, that was the correspondence she’d kept up with Sir Hubert Hurwell during their courtship. This was a rare find indeed—after all, Lady Hurwell had been something of a free thinker as well as a proto-feminist, and her marriage was rumored to have been a stormy one before it was cut short by her husband’s premature death—and would no doubt prove fascinating. I immediately began planning my campaign to convince the remaining Hurwells to allow me to transcribe both the diary and the letters.

  There was another set of intriguing documents in the cabinet, consisting of a maritime contract, an insurance document, and a list—carefully enumerated—of a series of gemstones.

  I turned first to the list of gems. There were twenty-one in total, all cabochon cut rubies of the star and double-star variety, and all of the highly prized “pigeon’s blood” color. The carat weights varied between 3 and 5.6. Without doubt, this was a catalogue of the famous “Pride of Africa” suite of family jewels given to Elizabeth by her husband as a wedding present. Because the stones have since been lost, I knew this detailed catalogue would prove of great interest.

  The attached insurance document was of still greater interest. It was from Lloyd’s of London and it verified the enumeration and evaluation of the gemstones, which had been done at Lloyd’s request, and was stamped with the notation “This cargo is now certified and insured.”

  Next I examined the maritime contract. It was dated November of 1883 and was made between Lady Hurwell and one Warriner A. Libby, a licensed sea captain. According to the stipulations of the contract, Libby was to take command of the London and Bristol steamship SS Pembroke Castle and, on behalf of Lady Hurwell, deliver its “most precious and unusual cargo” to Boston with all haste. The contract contained several very specific certifications related to the “twenty-one gemstones enumerated in the attached insurance document.” Libby was to carry the gemstones in a leather pouch, which would be sewn tightly shut and affixed to a belt. The belt was to be worn on his person at all times, even at night. He was not to cut open or otherwise interfere with the pouch or its contents, nor was he to speak of it to anyone. Upon making landfall in Boston, he was to immediately deliver the belt and the attached pouch to Oliver Westlake, Esq., of Westlake & Hervey, Solicitors, Beacon Street.