In about five minutes he got a squawk. Laying the machine aside, he knelt and, with a trowel, began to dig with the utmost care. The ground was spongy and soft, with no rocks or gravel, but veined with a tangle of grass roots that had to be cut by the edge of the trowel.
About a foot down, he stopped and took a small probe from his pocket, gently pushing it into the ground. Something prevented its descent. He probed around to determine an outline, withdrew the probe, dug some more with the trowel—and uncovered a peculiar disk-like object, a large coin or medallion, rudely cast in pot metal. On it was die-stamped a symbol: one he recognized immediately as belonging to the Tybane Inscriptions. According to Constance—who had emailed him a detailed report in midafternoon, along with photos, just before starting back for Exmouth—this represented the demon Forras.
He marked it on the map. With the previous discovery, he now had two outer points of the quincunx.
Carefully measuring his steps, he walked to where he estimated the third point would be, employed the metal detector, and uncovered a third pot-metal coin. This was followed by a fourth, each containing the symbols of another demon. None of them, oddly, represented Morax.
These four outer points, by their positions, betrayed the location of the central point in the quincunx: the so-called “altar” mentioned in the Sutter documents that Constance had examined. He moved to that point and knelt, pushing aside and tearing out the grass. This was where Sutter had apparently recovered the Tybane Stone itself, but there was no evidence left of that excavation, which had taken place a hundred and fifty years before.
Again Pendergast employed the metal detector; again it squawked. He cleared out an area about two feet square around the site and began to dig. Twenty minutes had passed since he’d left Gavin with the boat, which allowed him plenty of time. He worked slowly, until he had deepened the hole to about eighteen inches. With the detector, he narrowed the location of the still-buried metal object, and, with exquisite care, employed the probe.
It was perhaps another twelve inches down. Now he abandoned the trowel and began digging with his bare hands, until his fingers closed around something hard. He carefully cleared away the roots and dirt until the object was exposed, cleaned it as best he could, photographed it in situ, and then pried it from the soil.
It was a most peculiar object. The central part was made of the same pot metal—a mixture, he guessed, of lead and tin. It was in a strange, wild shape—the quasi-abstract image of a gaping, devouring mouth, full of crooked teeth, in the act of swallowing what appeared to be a coil of intestines. As Pendergast examined it, he realized it had been formed by pouring molten pot metal into water, where it had frozen into a hideous shape—accidentally, but in an uncannily demonic form. This twisted, bubbled mass of metal had been framed in a setting of silver, with the remains of something tied to it—horsehair, it seemed, and a fragment of rotten bone, preserved only by virtue of the anaerobic characteristics of the soil. And stamped into the silver was the symbol of Morax, the ape-headed demon with dog’s teeth and a devil’s tail.
He removed a shallow Tupperware container from the equipment bag and placed the object inside, nestling it inside Bubble Wrap he had brought for just such a purpose. Then he slipped it back into the bag along with the map and the rest of the equipment, straightened up, checked his watch, wiped his hands, and proceeded back to the boat.
He found Sergeant Gavin looking fretful and impatient.
“Find anything?” the man asked.
Pendergast took his place in the bow of the boat. “Indeed I did.”
“What?”
Pendergast removed the Tupperware container from the bag, opened it, and displayed the object in its nest of Bubble Wrap.
Gavin stared, his face going white. “What the fuck?”
“What the fuck indeed,” came the laconic reply.
25
Constance had the hired car stop in Exmouth’s main street, well short of the Inn, to consider her options. It had been her intention to sit at the bar, as Pendergast had requested, and listen for useful gossip. She had not been in the mood to do so the night before. But now, she felt rather drained from her trip to Salem. Perhaps an interval in the Chart Room would prove less vexatious.
There was a rap on her window. Constance lowered it to see Carole Hinterwasser.
“Constance!” the woman said. “I thought that was you. My shop’s just there. Would you care to come in for a late-afternoon tea?”
Constance hesitated. “I had rather planned on returning to the Inn.”
“Just a quick cup. Come on, it would be nice to chat. I’ll have the Inn send their car for you.”
“Very well.”