Crimson Shore

“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.”