“I wonder how you can keep such a trim figure,” said Hinterwasser with a laugh.
Constance took a sip of tea, put down the cup. “I seem to have an overactive metabolism.”
“Ah, to be a young lady again!” said Hinterwasser, refilling Constance’s cup.
There was a tinkle of a bell and a figure came into the shop.
“A customer,” said Hinterwasser, rising. “How rare; perhaps I ought to have him stuffed and put on display!” She went over while Constance finished her tea. The customer’s sale was quickly concluded. As if on schedule, the 1936 Buick Special 8 that the Inn used as a car to ferry guests to and from town pulled up.
“Your ride,” said Hinterwasser, plucking an item from a shelf and pressing it into her hand. It was a sachet of tea bags. “Here’s a little something to take home—my Exmouth Chai blend.”
“Thanks.”
“Not at all. Thank you for stopping in.” Hinterwasser pressed her hand again. “I hope you’ll remember what I asked. About speaking to Agent Pendergast, I mean.”
26
At ten o’clock, the Chart Room had almost emptied. Constance sat at a table in the corner, across from Pendergast, the remains of two portions of Filets de Sole Pendergast before them, prepared by Reginald Sheraton, along with an empty bottle of wine. It was a brutal night, with gusts rattling the windows and shaking the walls. The distant thunder of surf below the bluffs added a dark ostinato to the wailing of the wind about the Inn.
Constance nodded at the chalkboard that held the evening’s menu. “Your sole seems to have become a restaurant favorite. I noticed it being served to at least half of the tables.”
“I have always maintained Massachusetts to be a bastion of good taste.” Pendergast rose. “Shall we retire upstairs? We have some important—and confidential—matters to discuss.”
Constance rose and followed Pendergast past the bar, where he paused and spoke to the bartender, asking him to send up a dusty bottle of Calvados—which, by a minor miracle, he had spied on the back wall—and two snifters to his room.
She followed him up the steep, creaking stairs. Pendergast’s room, which she had not yet seen, was dominated by a large Victorian four-poster bed; at the far side was a small brick fireplace, a writing table, chair, and lamp. A fire had been laid but not lit.
“Please take the chair; I’ll sit on the bed,” said Pendergast, going over to the fireplace and lighting the kindling. It flared up, casting a flickering yellow light about the room.
Constance produced from her bag the sachet of tea bags that Carole had given her earlier in the day. “Perhaps this would be more appropriate,” she said. “You know I’m not much of a drinker. We could ask for a pot of hot water.”
Pendergast took the sachet and glanced at it. “Chai?” he said, his lip curling in distaste. He tipped it into the wastebasket. “Sorry, my dear Constance—that is unfit for consumption. No: Calvados it shall be. Besides, I have little doubt that we’ll be back to our cups of King’s 403 oolong in the Riverside Drive mansion before much more time has passed.”
A moment later, a knock came at the door and Flavia, the young waitress, brought in a tray with two snifters and the bottle of Calvados. Pendergast pressed a bill into her hand, murmured his thanks, and shut and locked the door. He poured a finger into each snifter and handed one to Constance, taking a seat on the bed.
“My apologies for the size of the room,” he said. “It makes up for it in charm. I’m afraid what we must now discuss could not be mentioned in the dining room.”
She took a sip of the Calvados. It went down like a tongue of warmth.
“I hope it’s to your satisfaction.”
She nodded. She was already feeling the pleasant effects of the wine, which she normally did not indulge in; she would have to be careful.
“Constance, I first want to tell you how pleased I am with your work. You have been both steady and reliable.”
She felt herself flush at this unexpected compliment, although his emphasis on the word steady seemed a trifle backhanded. “Thank you.”
“You have also been careful to heed my warnings not to freelance, or to wander away from the Inn after dark. I appreciate that.” He paused. “This has been a peculiar investigation. We’re caught in a tangle of evidence, and we’ve reached the point where we must stop and tease out the threads. To that end, I’d like to go over what we know so far: a recap, so to speak. And to give you the benefit of my most recent discoveries.”
“Please.”
“There are two balls of twine here: the skeleton in the cellar, which I feel sure is related to the disappearance of the SS Pembroke Castle; and the lost witches’ colony. Let’s start with the skeleton. A healthy, forty-year-old African European man was tortured and walled up in the lighthouse keeper’s basement. Why? There can be only one reason: he had information. What information?”