They stopped at last in front of a thick steel door, a single barred window sunk into its face. One of the forward guards unlocked the door, then stood outside with his partner while the other two guards followed Pendergast within.
They were standing in a small “quiet room” almost devoid of decoration. No pictures hung on the lightly padded walls. There was a plastic sofa, a pair of plastic chairs, a single table. Everything was bolted to the floor. There was no clock, and the sole fluorescent ceiling light was hidden behind heavy wire mesh. There was nothing that could be used as a weapon, or to assist a suicide. In the far wall stood another steel door, even thicker, without a window. Warning: Risk of Elopement was posted above it in large letters.
Pendergast took a seat in one of the plastic chairs, and crossed his legs.
The two forward attendants disappeared through the inner door. For a few minutes the small room fell into silence, punctuated only by the faint sounds of screams and an even fainter, rhythmic pounding. And then, louder and much nearer, came the shrill protesting voice of an old woman. The door opened, and one of the guards pushed a wheelchair into the room. The chair’s five-point leather restraint was almost invisible beneath the heavy layer of rubber that covered every metal surface.
In the chair, securely bound by the restraints, sat a prim, elderly dowager. She was wearing a long, old-fashioned black taffeta dress, Victorian button-up shoes, and a black mourning veil. When she saw Pendergast her complaints abruptly ceased.
“Raise my veil,” she commanded. One of the guards lifted it from her face, and, standing well away, laid it down her back.
The woman stared at Pendergast, her palsied, liver-spotted face trembling slightly.
Pendergast turned to Dr. Ostrom. “Will you kindly leave us alone?”
“Someone must remain,” said Ostrom. “And please give the patient some distance, Mr. Pendergast.”
“The last time I visited, I was allowed a private moment with my great-aunt.”
“If you will recall, Mr. Pendergast, the last time you visited—” Ostrom began rather sharply.
Pendergast held up his hand. “So be it.”
“This is a rather late hour to be visiting. How much time do you need?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
“Very well.” The doctor nodded to the attendants, who took up places on either side of the exit. Ostrom himself stood before the outer door, as far from the woman as possible, crossed his arms, and waited.
Pendergast tried to pull the chair closer, remembered it was bolted to the floor, and leaned forward instead, gazing intently at the old woman.
“How are you, Aunt Cornelia?” he asked.
The woman bent toward him. She whispered hoarsely, “My dear, how lovely to see you. May I offer you a spot of tea with cream and sugar?”
One of the guards snickered, but shut up abruptly when Ostrom cast a sharp glance in his direction.
“No, thank you, Aunt Cornelia.”
“It’s just as well. The service here has declined dreadfully these past few years. It’s so hard to find good help these days. Why haven’t you visited me sooner, my dear? You know that at my age I cannot travel.”
Pendergast leaned nearer.
“Mr. Pendergast, not quite so close, if you please,” Dr. Ostrom murmured.
Pendergast eased back. “I’ve been working, Aunt Cornelia.”
“Work is for the middle classes, my dear.
Pendergasts do not work.” Pendergast lowered his voice. “There’s not much time, I’m afraid, Aunt Cornelia. I wanted to ask you some questions. About your great-uncle Antoine.”
The old lady pursed her lips in a disapproving line. “Great-uncle Antoine? They say he went north, to New York City. Became a Yankee. But that was many years ago. Long before I was born.”
“Tell me what you know about him, Aunt Cornelia.”
“Surely you’ve heard the stories, my boy. It is an unpleasant subject for all of us, you know.”
“I’d like to hear them from you, just the same.”
“Well! He inherited the family tendency to madness. There but for the grace of God…”The old woman sighed pityingly.
“What kind of madness?” Pendergast knew the answer, of course; but he needed to hear it again. There were always details, nuances, that were new.
“Even as a boy he developed certain dreadful obsessions. He was quite a brilliant youth, you know: sarcastic, witty, strange. At seven you couldn’t beat him in a game of chess or backgammon. He excelled at whist, and even suggested some refinements that, I understand, helped develop auction bridge. He was terribly interested in natural history, and started keeping quite a collection of horrid things in his dressing room—insects, snakes, bones, fossils, that sort of thing. He also had inherited his father’s interest in elixirs, restoratives, chemicals. And poisons.”
A strange gleam came into the old lady’s black eyes at the mention of poisons, and both attendants shifted uneasily.
Ostrom cleared his throat. “Mr. Pendergast, how much longer? We don’t want to unduly disturb the patient.”
“Ten minutes.”
“No more.”