Crimson Shore

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.”