Crimson Shore Read online

  “This is my associate, Carole Hinterwasser,” Lake told them. “Please meet Agent Pendergast and Constance Greene. They are here to find my wine collection.”

  The woman turned with a smile, displaying white teeth, dried her hands on a cloth, and shook their hands in turn. “Excuse me, I’m just making a mirepoix. I’m so glad you could come! Perce is really devastated. Those wines meant a lot to him—way more than the value.”

  “Indeed,” said Pendergast. Constance could see his silvery eyes darting about.

  “This way,” said Lake.

  At the back of the kitchen stood a narrow door. Lake opened it, flicked on a light switch. It illuminated a set of steep, rickety stairs going down into darkness. A rich, cool smell of damp earth and stone rose up.

  “Take care,” he cautioned. “These stairs are steep.”

  They descended into a mazelike space, with stone walls covered in niter, and a stone floor. In one alcove was a furnace and water heater, in another a finished room with a collection of air tools, sandbags, protection suits, and equipment for polishing stone.

  They turned a corner and came into the largest room in the basement. One wall was covered, floor to ceiling, with empty wooden wine racks. Curling yellow labels were tacked to the wood or strewn about the floor, along with broken bottles and a heavy perfume of wine.

  Pendergast picked up a piece of a broken bottle, reading the label. “Chateau Latour, ’61. These burglars were singularly careless.”

  “They made a mess of the place, the cretins.”

  Pendergast knelt before the closest rack, examining it with a bright LED penlight. “Tell me about the weekend of the theft.”

  “Carole and I had gone away to Boston. We do that frequently, to dine, go to the symphony or a museum—recharge our batteries. We left Friday afternoon and returned Sunday evening.”

  The light probed here and there. “Who knew you were gone?”

  “Pretty much the whole village, I imagine. We have to drive through town on our way out, and as you can see Exmouth is a small place. Everyone knows we make frequent trips to Boston.”

  “You said they broke a window. I assume the house was locked?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there an alarm system?”

  “No. I suppose in retrospect that seems stupid. But crime is almost nonexistent here. I can’t remember the last time there was a burglary in Exmouth.”

  Now a test tube and tweezers appeared from somewhere in Pendergast’s suit. Using the tweezers, he plucked something from the wine rack and put it in the tube.

  “What is the history of the house?” he asked.

  “It’s one of the oldest north of Salem. As I mentioned, it was the lighthouse keeper’s place, built in 1704, and added on to at various later dates. My wife and I bought it and took our time with the renovations. As a sculptor I can work anywhere, but we found this to be an idyllic location—quiet, off the beaten track yet close to Boston. Charming and undiscovered. And the local granite is splendid. There’s a quarry just on the far side of the salt marshes. Some of the pink granite used to build the Museum of Natural History in New York came out of that quarry. Lovely stuff.”

  “I should like a tour of your sculpture garden sometime.”

  “Absolutely! You’re staying at the Inn, I assume? I’ll be sure to arrange a viewing.”

  While Lake was praising the local granite, Constance watched as Pendergast moved about on his knees, getting his suit filthy, scrutinizing the cellar floor. “And the bottles of Braquilanges? I assume they are in that case in the far corner?”

  “Yes, and thank God they missed them!”

  Pendergast rose again. His pale face seemed troubled. He went over to the wine, which sat by itself in a wooden crate with the crest of the chateau stamped on it. The top was loose, and he lifted it up and peered inside. Ever so gently he reached in and removed a bottle, cradling it almost like a baby.

  “Who would have believed it?” he murmured.

  He put it back.

  Crossing the floor, feet crunching on glass, Pendergast returned to the empty wine racks. This time he examined the upper sections. He took a few more samples, shone his light along the ceiling, and then along the floor, where the racks were anchored. Suddenly, he grasped two wooden braces holding up the center part of the racks and gave a mighty pull. With a cracking and groaning of wood the rack came away, exposing the wall behind, laid with dressed stone.

  “What in the world—?” Lake began.

  But Pendergast ignored him, pulling more pieces of the wine rack away, until the entire central area of the mortared wall behind the rack was exposed. Now, taking out a small penknife, he inserted it between two of the stones and began to scrape and cut, wiggling free one stone and pulling it out. He laid it with care on the ground and shone his penlight through the hole he’d made. With surprise, Constance realized there was a space behind.

  “I’ll be damned,” said Lake, coming forward to look.

  “Step back,” said Pendergast sharply.

  He now removed a pair of latex gloves from a suit pocket and snapped them on. Then he took off his jacket and spread it on the grimy floor, placing the stone upon it. Working more rapidly, but still with great care, he removed another block of stone, and then another, arranging them faceup on his jacket. Constance winced; already the English bespoke suit looked beyond redemption.

  A shallow niche gradually became exposed. It was empty, save for chains set into the stone at the top and bottom of the back wall, from which dangled wrist and leg irons. Constance contemplated these with cool detachment; she had long ago discovered similar articles in the subbasement spaces of Pendergast’s own Riverside Drive mansion. The FBI agent himself, however, had grown even paler than usual.

  “I’m floored,” said Lake. “I had no idea—”

  “Silence, if you please,” Constance interrupted. “My guardian—that is, Mr. Pendergast—is occupied.”

  Pendergast continued removing stones until the entire niche was exposed. It was about six feet tall, three feet wide, and three feet deep. It was as ancient as the house, and had clearly been built to contain a person. The leg and wrist irons had rusted shut in the closed position, but contained no skeleton. The niche, she noticed, was inexplicably clean, not a speck of dust visible.

  Now Pendergast knelt within the niche and probed every little crack and fissure with a magnifying loupe and the small set of tweezers, test tube at the ready. Constance watched him work for ten minutes, before—finding very little—he transferred his attention to the floor immediately in front of the niche. Another lengthy period of probing and poking followed. Lake looked on, clearly having a difficult time remaining silent.

  “Ah!” Pendergast suddenly said. He rose, holding what appeared to be a tiny bone in the tweezers. He affixed the loupe to his eye and examined the bone at some length. Then he knelt again, and—almost genuflecting over the stones he’d removed—examined their rear faces with the light and the loupe.

  And then he glanced up, silvery eyes fixing on Constance.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “The vacation is over.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This is no mere theft of wine. This is far bigger—and far more dangerous. You can’t stay here. You must return to Riverside Drive.”

  3

  Constance stared at Pendergast’s dust-coated face. After a moment, she replied: “Too dangerous? For me? Aloysius, you forget whom you’re speaking to.”

  “I do not.”

  “Then perhaps you might explain.”

  “I shall.” He dropped the tiny bone into the glass test tube, stoppered it, and handed it to her. “Take this.”

  She took it, along with the loupe.

  “That is the distal phalanx of the left index finger of a human being. You will note the very tip of the bone is chipped, scraped, and fractured. That was done perimortem—at the time of death.”

  She handed it ba
ck. “I can see that.”

  “Now let us look at the building stones.” He pivoted with the penlight. “I’ve arranged them on my jacket as they were in situ, with the inside face towards us. Note the deep gouges, scratches, and those splatters of a dark substance.” She watched as he used the LED as a pointer. “What do they tell you?”

  Constance had seen this coming. “That someone, many years ago, was chained and walled up in that niche alive, and tried to claw his way out.”

  A mirthless smile gathered on Pendergast’s face. “Excellent.”

  “That’s awful,” Lake broke in, undisguised shock on his face. “Just awful. I had no idea! But…how did you know that niche was there?”

  “The thieves did not take the Braquilanges. That was my first clue. Anyone who goes to the trouble of stealing an entire wine cellar is going to know about such a legendary vintage. And they would not have been so clumsy as to break that magnum of ’61 Chateau Latour”—here, Pendergast indicated a mess on the floor—“which is worth at least fifteen thousand dollars. So I knew from the start that, though we were undoubtedly dealing with thieves, we were most certainly not dealing with wine thieves. No—they were here to get something far more valuable, at least to them. Naturally, this led me to look behind the wine racks, where I saw evidence of recent activity—which in turn led to the niche.”

  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?”

  “Oh, yes. It comes on at dusk. It’s no longer needed, of course, but all the lighthouses along the New England coast still run—for nostalgic reasons. I don’t actually own the lighthouse itself—it’s owned by the U.S. Coast Guard and licensed to the American Lighthouse Foundation, which keeps it up. It’s got a fourth-order Fresnel lens, flashing white, nine seconds character. The historical society should have a list of all the lighthouse keepers.”

  Pendergast glanced at Constance. “There’s your first assignment: find out who was keeper of the light when this atrocity occurred in the basement. I will have the finger bone analyzed and get you a date.”

  She nodded.

  He turned back to Lake. “And the town’s history? Anything that might shed light on the crypt downstairs?”

  Lake shook his head, ran a big, veined hand through his white hair. Constance noticed he had massive arms—probably a result of being a stone sculptor. “Exmouth is a very old fishing and whaling town, established in the early 1700s. I’m not sure what genius decided to situate it on these salt marshes, but it wasn’t a great idea. The whole area is plagued by greenheads. Although the fishing was lucrative for decades, it never took off as a summer resort, like Rockport or Marblehead.”

  “Greenheads?” Pendergast asked. “Is that some type of biting fly?”

  “The worst. Tabanus nigrovittatus. It’s the female of the species who bite and drink blood—naturally.”

  “Naturally,” said Constance dryly. “Only f
emales do the real work.”

  Lake laughed. “Touché.”

  “Any dark history to the town? Tales, rumors, murders, intrigue?”

  Lake waved his hand. “Rumors.”

  “Such as?”

  “About what you’d expect, given that Salem is just south of here. Stories that a band of witches settled nearby, in the 1690s, trying to escape the trials. Rubbish, of course. Basically, we’re what’s left of an old New England fishing village. Although the west part of town—they call it Dill Town, but it was incorporated into Exmouth back in the ’40s—has its petty crimes now and then. The other side of the tracks, you might say.” He took a greedy sip of his champagne. “I must tell you, finding a torture chamber in my basement is quite a shock. I can hardly believe it. It’s like that gruesome story by Poe, ‘The Cask of Amontillado.’” He paused, looked at Pendergast. “You say there was something of value inside, too? Like a pirate treasure, maybe? The skeleton guarding the chest of gold?”

  “It’s too early to speculate.”

  Lake turned to Constance, a twinkle in his eye. “What do you think? Any speculations?”

  Constance gazed back at him. “No. But a certain phrase does come to mind.”

  “Which is?”

  “For the love of God, Montresor!”

  Pendergast looked at her sharply, then at Lake, whose startled face had momentarily gone pale. “You’ll have to excuse my associate,” Pendergast said. “She has a rather mordant sense of humor.”

  Constance smoothed down her dress with a prim gesture.

  4

  Pendergast pulled the Porsche roadster—its top down to greet the late-morning sunlight—into a parking space along Main Street.

  “Automobiles are still something of a novelty to me,” Constance said as she got out. “But even I can tell you’ve parked improperly. You’ve straddled the line again.”