Crimson Shore

They were driving along a narrow lane between old New England stone walls. Now the trees parted, revealing the Captain Hull Inn: a large, rambling Victorian sea captain’s house, shingled in gray with white trim, standing by itself in a broad meadow, packed tightly around with Carolina rose bushes heavy with hips. It had a large wraparound porch with white pillars and a dozen rocking chairs looking out to sea, with a view of the Exmouth lighthouse about a half mile down the coast. The crushed-oyster-shell parking lot contained several cars. Constance had found her room, which she’d checked into the night before, pleasantly old-fashioned.

“When is your trial?” Constance asked. “I understand that small towns such as this often believe in dispensing swift justice.”

“There will be no trial.” Pendergast looked at her, evidently absorbing the expression on her face. “Constance, I’m not trying to be deliberately perverse. It is simply better for your education into my methods if you witness how events unfold naturally. Now, shall we?” And with that he put his hand on the frame of the roadster, got out, and opened the door for her.

6

Percival Lake paused in the doorway of the Chart Room restaurant, spotting Pendergast immediately among the knots of diners. The man stuck out like a sore thumb, all black and white among this crowd of New England folk in madras and seersucker. In Lake’s experience, even eccentric and unconventional people carefully curated their persona. Very few truly didn’t give a goddamn what others thought. Pendergast was one.

Lake rather liked that.

Pendergast was gazing at the chalkboard — the Chart Room of the Captain Hull Inn had no printed menus — with a frown. As Lake threaded his way through the tables, Pendergast glanced up, then rose. They shook hands.

“I love this room,” said Lake as they sat down. “The old sawn pine planks on the floor, the nautical instruments, the stone fireplace. It’s very cozy, especially now, in the fall. When it gets chillier they’ll light the fire.”

“I find it rather like a coffin,” said Pendergast.

Lake laughed and glanced at the chalkboard. “The wine in here is rotgut, but the Inn has a nice selection of craft beers. There’s a local one I highly recommend—”

“I am not a drinker of beer.”

The waitress — a young woman with close-cropped hair almost as blond as Pendergast’s — came over to take their orders. “What can I get you gentlemen?” she asked perkily.

A silence as Pendergast glanced over the bottles arrayed behind the bar. Then his pale eyebrows shot up. “I see you have absinthe.”

“I think it’s sort of an experiment.”

“I’ll have that, if you please. Make sure the water you bring with it is fresh springwater, not tap, and absolutely ice cold but without ice, along with a few sugar cubes. If you could manage a slotted spoon and a reservoir glass, that would be most appreciated.”

“A reservoir glass.” The waitress scribbled everything down. “I’ll do my best.”

“Shall we order dinner?” Lake asked. “The fried clams are a specialty.”

Pendergast shot another glance at the chalkboard. “Perhaps later.”

“A pint of the Riptide IPA for me, please.”

The waitress went away and Lake turned to Pendergast. “Striking-looking girl. She’s new.”

He could see Pendergast had so little interest he didn’t appear to have heard.

Lake cleared his throat. “I hear you got yourself arrested today. It’s all over town, of course. You’ve made quite a splash.”

“Indeed.”

“I guess you had your reasons.”

“Naturally.”

The young waitress returned with their drinks, setting everything in front of Pendergast: glass; spoon — not slotted; a dish of sugar cubes; a small glass pitcher of water; and the absinthe in a tall glass. “I hope this is okay,” she said.

“A credible effort,” said Pendergast. “Thank you.”

“Looks like you’re about to conduct a chemistry experiment,” said Lake as Pendergast carefully arranged everything.

“There is in fact some chemistry involved,” Pendergast said, placing a sugar cube in the spoon, balancing it over the absinthe glass, and carefully dribbling the water over it.

Lake watched the green liquid turn cloudy. The scent of anise drifted across the small table and he shuddered.

“There are certain oil-based herbal extracts in absinthe that dissolve in alcohol but have poor solubility with water,” Pendergast explained. “They come out of solution when you add the water, creating the opalescence, or louche.”

“I’d try it if I didn’t hate licorice. Isn’t wormwood supposed to cause brain damage?”

“The act of living causes brain damage.”

Lake laughed and raised his glass. “In that case: to Exmouth and the mystery of the walled-up skeleton.”

They clinked glasses. Pendergast sipped from his and set it down. “I’ve noticed a somewhat cavalier attitude in you,” he said.

“How so?”

“You’ve just lost a very valuable wine collection. Usually, burglaries leave people feeling unsettled, violated. Yet you appear to be in good spirits.”