Crimson Shore (Agent Pendergast, #15)(7)
“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.”
“Constance, one of the first things you must learn when on a case with me is not to question every little thing. Now…I see some lovely Hawaiian shirts in that shop window—and they’re even on sale!”
She followed him into the shop and pretended to look through a rack of tennis whites while Pendergast went through the Hawaiian shirts, selecting several of them, apparently at random. She heard him chatting up the clerk, asking her if they ever had problems with shoplifting and whether the security camera clearly visible in the front window was really necessary. She frowned as she heard the clerk ringing up his purchases. She assumed he was taking the measure of the town, but it seemed so random, so unfocused, given the fact there were many other pressing matters to investigate. For example, the list of lighthouse keepers, awaiting her in the Historical Society’s archives—and the carbon 14 dating of the finger bone.
Soon they were back out on the street, Pendergast holding a shopping bag. He loitered in the doorway of the shop, checking his watch.
“How many yards of execrable taste, exactly, did you buy?” Constance asked, eyeing the bag.
“I didn’t notice. Let us linger here for a moment.”
Constance peered at him. Perhaps it was her imagination, but he seemed to have a look of anticipation on his face.
And then she saw, rolling down Main Street, the two-toned police car.
Pendergast checked his watch again. “New Englanders are so wonderfully punctual.”
The car slowed and pulled to the curb. A policeman got out; the chief they had seen the day before. Constance was not a great judge of twentieth-century masculinity, but this fellow looked like a 1950s college football star gone to seed: crew cut, thick neck, and square jaw, perched atop an enormous, lumpy frame. Hiking up his jangling belt, the man pulled out a thick ticket book and began writing a ticket for the roadster.