“Ward, huh?” said D’Agosta.
Pendergast nodded.
“Where’d she come from?”
“I inherited her with the house.”
“How the heck do you ‘inherit’ someone? She a relative?”
“Not a relative. It’s rather complicated. This house and its collections were passed down to me from my great-uncle Antoine. She was discovered in the house by an acquaintance of mine who cataloged the mansion’s collections during the summer. She’d been hiding here.”
“For how long?”
There was a pause. “A good while.”
“What is she, a runaway? Doesn’t she have family?”
“She’s an orphan. My great-uncle had taken her in, looked after her welfare, educated her.”
“Yeah? He sounds like a saint.”
“Hardly. As it happens, Constance was the only person he ever cared for. In fact, he continued caring for her long after he’d stopped caring even about himself. He was a misanthrope, but she was the exception that proved his rule. In any case, it seems I’m her only family now. But I must ask you not to mention any of this in her presence. The last six months have been exceptionally . . . trying for her.”
“How so?”
“That is something better left in the past. Suffice it to say, Vincent, that Constance is the innocent beneficiary of a set of diabolical experiments conducted long ago. Seeing how her own family was victimized early on by those experiments, I feel bound to look after her well-being. It’s a complication I certainly did not anticipate. However, her knowledge of this house and its library is proving invaluable. She will make an excellent research assistant and curator.”
“At least she’s not hard to look at.” When he felt Pendergast’s un-amused gaze on him D’Agosta cleared his throat and added hastily, “How did your own interviews go?”
“Montcalm could add little to what we already know. He was away until yesterday, traveling. It seems that Grove left a frantic message with his assistant: How does one break a contract with the devil? The assistant threw the note away—apparently Montcalm is a magnet for cranks and gets many such messages. He could add nothing else. Fosco, on the other hand, proved to be most interesting.”
“I hope you really sweated him.”
“I’m not sure who sweated who.”
D’Agosta could not imagine anyone sweating Pendergast. “Is he involved?”
“That depends on what you mean by involved. He is a remarkable man, and his recollections proved to be invaluable.”
“Well, the jury’s still out on both Cutforth and Bullard.”
“You said Cutforth was a liar, as well as Bullard. How do you know?”
“He told me Grove had called him in the middle of the night, wishing to buy some piece of rock memorabilia. I bluffed him by saying Grove hated rock music. His look gave him away immediately.”
“A crude lie.”
“He’s a crude man, and pretty stupid to boot. I imagine he’s good at what he does, though, given all the dough he’s made.”
“Intelligence, culture, and education are not qualities generally associated with the popular music business.”
“Well, Bullard’s on another level. He’s crude, too, but highly intelligent. I wouldn’t underestimate him. The fact is they both know a lot more about Grove’s death than they’re telling. We can crack Cutforth, I’m pretty sure—he’s a wuss—but Bullard’s going to be a tough nut.”
Pendergast nodded. “The forensic report on Grove’s body should be ready tomorrow. That may give us badly needed information. The critical thing now is to find the connection between Bullard, Cutforth, and Grove. If we find that connection, Vincent, we’ll have the key to this entire mystery.”
{ 17 }
Dr. Jack Dienphong cast his eye about his laboratory: examining the metal tables, the chemical hoods and glove boxes, microscopes, SEMs, microtomes, and titration setups. It wasn’t pretty, but it was organized and functional. Dienphong was chief of the FBI’s Forensic Science Division on Congress Street, and he was very curious to meet—at last—this Special Agent Pendergast he had heard so much about.