Crimson Shore

Boyle shrugged. “Can’t keep no secrets in a town as small as Exmouth.”

“Any speculations as to why someone would do that?”

“It’s some kids, probably, tweakers from Dill Town getting their kicks, playing at raising the devil. They robbed the man to buy drugs and are dumb enough to think they’ll get the cops to think witches did it.”

“Why Dill Town?”

“Dill Town’s got a lot of history of troubles. Crime, drinking. That sort of thing.”

“Have you seen any sign of people in the salt marshes?”

“As a matter of fact, I have. I think there’s a homeless guy living out there. Seen some footprints in the mud, trails through the grass. Never seen him in the flesh, but a few times I’ve smelled his campfire.” He laughed. “Maybe he’s the guy swiped Lake’s wine collection. Now there’s a wino’s dream. Maybe he’s even the Gray Reaper in person. You might want to look into that, Mr. Detective.”

“I will,” Pendergast said, rising. “Thank you, Mr. Boyle, for your time.” He glanced at Constance. “I think we can dispense with the rest of the interviews — for now, at any rate.”

Boyle got up. Then he leaned forward and asked, in a confidential tone: “How much does a guy get paid in your line of work?”

16

This was going to be interesting. More than interesting. Bradley Gavin slipped under the yellow police tape that blocked off the end of the second-floor hall at the Inn. He turned and lifted it for Constance Greene. She followed him to the closed door of Morris McCool’s room. He opened the door and pushed it wide.

Agent Pendergast had made it clear that every professional courtesy was to be extended to Constance, which explained why she was being allowed once again into what was, effectively, a crime scene. He was more curious about her than about what they might find in the room, which, he suspected, was precious little. The word intriguing hardly began to describe this strange and beautiful woman. And this was his first chance to speak to her alone.

He turned and held out his hand. “After you, Ms. Greene,” he said.

“Miss Greene, if you please. I find Mizz

a disagreeable neologism.”

“Oops. Sorry.” Gavin watched her out of the corner of his eye as she entered, an ethereal figure in a long dress. This woman was as remote as the glaciers, and maybe that was part of what appealed to him — that, and a kind of mysterious self-possession. Gavin rather liked the old-fashioned “Miss” part. He was starting to view this Miss Greene as a challenge. He knew he was attractive to women; and he suspected that, as she got to know him better, he just might prove to be her type.

He followed her into the historian’s room. It was done up in period furniture, like the rest of the Inn, and he took in its charming yet shabby contents: the big heavy bed in dark wood, the lace curtains, the braided rugs that were a little too worn, and the bathroom peeking through an open door, which had last seen a renovation so long ago that the tiling had come back in style and then gone out again.

“The agreement was eyes only, Miss Greene,” he said. “But if you want to handle something, I don’t see a problem as long as you ask me first.”

“Thank you.”

The SOC team had already been through the room with a fine-tooth comb, and their tags and flags could be seen festooning just about everything. They’d been looking for forensic evidence — latents, hairs, fibers, DNA, blood. He and the lady were looking for papers — specifically, evidence on what the historian might have been working on. Not that he expected that would lead to anything; he had already more or less satisfied himself that this murder was just a robbery-homicide, albeit one with some uniquely disturbing aspects.

He did a quick mental inventory. A short stack of books and papers on a rolltop desk. No computer. The maid had fixed up the room after the historian had gone downstairs for dinner, a few hours before his murder. That was too bad. Everything was very neat, but whether this was a reflection of the maid or the historian’s personality was hard to say.

He walked over to the small desk where the historian had stacked the books and papers. He took out his notebook and glanced over at Constance. She was looking around the room, her violet eyes taking everything in.

He examined the books: Storms and Shipwrecks of New England, by Edward Rowe Snow; a photocopied document called “Registry of Missing Ships 1850–1900,” from the Lloyd’s archives. There were several bookmarks in each publication. As he was jotting down the titles, he heard a soft rustle and Greene materialized behind him.

“May I pick up the registry, Sergeant?”

“Sure, go ahead.”

She opened it to where the bookmark was, turning from his field of view. Gavin began looking around for wallet, watch, or money. Nothing had been found with the body. He then took a closer look at the Snow book, turning to a bookmarked chapter titled, “The Mysterious Disappearance of the S.S. Pembroke Castle.”