“Not exactly proof, though, is it?”
“Except that when I contacted your friend Mrs. Jobe, and enlarged on your amusing story of the Amish mother looking for her daughter, I was able to discover that our William Johnson had been captured on camera. With a little gentle persuasion she emailed me the man’s image.”
“And?”
“He was Dana Dunwoody, our deceased lawyer.”
“Good God. You have been busy.” A pause. “When was his visit to the library?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“He wouldn’t have known of the hidden security camera,” Constance said, more to herself than to Pendergast. Then she glanced toward the FBI agent. “But what’s the connection between him, the historian, and this lost witch colony?”
“I cannot say. For now, Constance, let me show you this.” From his portmanteau, Pendergast removed a sheaf of photographs and a map. “Come here, if you please.”
Constance rose from her chair and sat next to him on the bed, looking over his shoulder. The room had become warmer and she felt a faint thrumming of blood in her neck. She caught the faintest scent of Floris No. 89, his aftershave balm. She looked at the picture.
“My God.” She stared, startled. “What is that?”
“An object I retrieved from under two feet of earth in the center of the quincunx of the old witches’ settlement—the one Sutter referred to as ‘New Salem.’”
“How grotesque. And it bears the mark of Morax. Is it…genuine?”
“It appears to be. Certainly it was buried many centuries ago. Here it is in situ, and here’s another shot of it.” More shuffling. “And here is the map of the witches’ colony, showing the location. I also uncovered three medallions, buried at the points of the quincunx. I’ve temporarily put them all in a safe-deposit box here in town, for the sake of prudence. The fourth I could not find; it seems to have washed away in the cutting of a water channel.” She watched as he shuffled through the photographs. He plucked one out, which showed a warped, crudely cast medallion with a stamped mark on it.
“The mark of Forras,” said Constance.
Another photo.
“The mark of Andrealphus.”
Another photo.
“The mark of Scox. All symbols found in the Tybane Inscriptions. By the way, the Wiccan I mentioned pointed out that bane is, among other things, a word for ‘poison.’”
“Interesting—considering that this region is known for its profuse growth of deadly nightshade.” He thought a moment. “In any case, judging from your partial translation of the inscriptions, especially the part about the ‘dark pilgrimage’ and ‘wandering place,’ it suggests that the witch colony did not, as legend has it, immediately die out.”
“I’ve come to that conclusion myself. So what could have happened to it?”
“They moved.”
“Where?”
“Another good question. Southward, it would seem.” He sighed. “Eventually, we’ll find the common thread, although I remain certain that the witchcraft aspect will ultimately prove tangential to the central case. Thank you again, Constance. Your help has been invaluable; I’m glad you came.”
A silence descended. Pendergast began putting away the photographs. Constance remained seated on the bed, her heart unaccountably accelerating. She could feel the warmth emanating from his body, feel the edge of his thigh lightly touching hers.
Pendergast finished putting away the photographs and turned to her. They looked at each other for a moment, face-to-face, the silence in the room yielding to the crackling of the fire, the distant thundering of the surf, and the moaning of the wind. And then in an easy motion Pendergast rose from the bed, grasped the bottle of Calvados from the table, picked up her glass, and turned back to her.
“A final splash before you go?”
Constance got up hastily. “No thank you, Aloysius. It’s already past midnight.”
“Then I shall see you at breakfast, my dear Constance.” He held open the door and she glided past and into the dim hallway, continuing on to her own room without a backward glance.
27
At a quarter past two in the morning, Constance awoke. Unable to go back to sleep, her mind wandering uncharacteristically down strange avenues, she lay in bed, listening to the moaning of the wind and the distant surf. After a while she got up and quietly dressed. If sleep would not come, at least she could satisfy her curiosity about something.