“Where in the marshes did they settle?”
“Nobody knows. Inland a bit somewhere, according to the story. But things didn’t go well. A bad winter, starvation, and Indian attacks wiped them out. Later on, they say, from time to time a traveler would get lost in the marshes and come across the ruins of that witch settlement, wooden houses all rotten and collapsed. They say in the middle of this crazy settlement was a circle of flat stones with carvings on them and, in the center of that, a piece of slate with a one-word message.”
“Which was?”
“T-Y-B-A-N-E.”
Pendergast and Constance exchanged glances.
“What does it mean?”
“No one’s ever figured it out.” A knowing leer. “Until now, maybe.”
“So you’ve heard that whoever killed the historian, McCool, carved that word on his body.”
Boyle shrugged. “Can’t keep no secrets in a town as small as Exmouth.”
“Any speculations as to why someone would do that?”
“It’s some kids, probably, tweakers from Dill Town getting their kicks, playing at raising the devil. They robbed the man to buy drugs and are dumb enough to think they’ll get the cops to think witches did it.”
“Why Dill Town?”
“Dill Town’s got a lot of history of troubles. Crime, drinking. That sort of thing.”
“Have you seen any sign of people in the salt marshes?”
“As a matter of fact, I have. I think there’s a homeless guy living out there. Seen some footprints in the mud, trails through the grass. Never seen him in the flesh, but a few times I’ve smelled his campfire.” He laughed. “Maybe he’s the guy swiped Lake’s wine collection. Now there’s a wino’s dream. Maybe he’s even the Gray Reaper in person. You might want to look into that, Mr. Detective.”
“I will,” Pendergast said, rising. “Thank you, Mr. Boyle, for your time.” He glanced at Constance. “I think we can dispense with the rest of the interviews—for now, at any rate.”
Boyle got up. Then he leaned forward and asked, in a confidential tone: “How much does a guy get paid in your line of work?”
16
This was going to be interesting. More than interesting. Bradley Gavin slipped under the yellow police tape that blocked off the end of the second-floor hall at the Inn. He turned and lifted it for Constance Greene. She followed him to the closed door of Morris McCool’s room. He opened the door and pushed it wide.
Agent Pendergast had made it clear that every professional courtesy was to be extended to Constance, which explained why she was being allowed once again into what was, effectively, a crime scene. He was more curious about her than about what they might find in the room, which, he suspected, was precious little. The word intriguing hardly began to describe this strange and beautiful woman. And this was his first chance to speak to her alone.
He turned and held out his hand. “After you, Ms. Greene,” he said.
“Miss Greene, if you please. I find Mizz a disagreeable neologism.”
“Oops. Sorry.” Gavin watched her out of the corner of his eye as she entered, an ethereal figure in a long dress. This woman was as remote as the glaciers, and maybe that was part of what appealed to him—that, and a kind of mysterious self-possession. Gavin rather liked the old-fashioned “Miss” part. He was starting to view this Miss Greene as a challenge. He knew he was attractive to women; and he suspected that, as she got to know him better, he just might prove to be her type.
He followed her into the historian’s room. It was done up in period furniture, like the rest of the Inn, and he took in its charming yet shabby contents: the big heavy bed in dark wood, the lace curtains, the braided rugs that were a little too worn, and the bathroom peeking through an open door, which had last seen a renovation so long ago that the tiling had come back in style and then gone out again.
“The agreement was eyes only, Miss Greene,” he said. “But if you want to handle something, I don’t see a problem as long as you ask me first.”
“Thank you.”
The SOC team had already been through the room with a fine-tooth comb, and their tags and flags could be seen festooning just about everything. They’d been looking for forensic evidence—latents, hairs, fibers, DNA, blood. He and the lady were looking for papers—specifically, evidence on what the historian might have been working on. Not that he expected that would lead to anything; he had already more or less satisfied himself that this murder was just a robbery-homicide, albeit one with some uniquely disturbing aspects.