Crimson Shore

“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 females 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.”

Pendergast merely smiled. “Let us go shopping.”

“You can’t be serious.”