Crimson Shore (Agent Pendergast, #15)(5)

“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.”

“I shall.” He dropped the tiny bone into the glass test tube, stoppered it, and handed it to her. “Take this.”

She took it, along with the loupe.

“That is the distal phalanx of the left index finger of a human being. You will note the very tip of the bone is chipped, scraped, and fractured. That was done perimortem—at the time of death.”

She handed it back. “I can see that.”

“Now let us look at the building stones.” He pivoted with the penlight. “I’ve arranged them on my jacket as they were in situ, with the inside face towards us. Note the deep gouges, scratches, and those splatters of a dark substance.” She watched as he used the LED as a pointer. “What do they tell you?”

Constance had seen this coming. “That someone, many years ago, was chained and walled up in that niche alive, and tried to claw his way out.”

A mirthless smile gathered on Pendergast’s face. “Excellent.”

“That’s awful,” Lake broke in, undisguised shock on his face. “Just awful. I had no idea! But…how did you know that niche was there?”

“The thieves did not take the Braquilanges. That was my first clue. Anyone who goes to the trouble of stealing an entire wine cellar is going to know about such a legendary vintage. And they would not have been so clumsy as to break that magnum of ’61 Chateau Latour”—here, Pendergast indicated a mess on the floor—“which is worth at least fifteen thousand dollars. So I knew from the start that, though we were undoubtedly dealing with thieves, we were most certainly not dealing with wine thieves. No—they were here to get something far more valuable, at least to them. Naturally, this led me to look behind the wine racks, where I saw evidence of recent activity—which in turn led to the niche.”