Lake still couldn’t get over the fact that those jewels — and the body that had once contained them — had lain behind the wall of his cellar all these years.
The last few days had been such a series of shocks — one revelation after another, each more bizarre than the last — that Lake felt quite exhausted. As no doubt did many residents. And yet they had turned out, almost every single one. A sea of heads, hundreds and hundreds, stretched away from the police station steps for at least a block, all sharply defined by the brilliant sun. His gaze roamed over them, picking out familiar faces. Mark and Sarah Lillie — wearing matching outfits; old Ben Boyle; Walt Adderly, proprietor of the Inn. Somehow — despite the inflated words of Mourdock, despite the pompous speechifying and small-town politics — the ritual was, undoubtedly, a benediction. Mourdock, in his own obnoxious way, was right. A horror that had been festering in Exmouth for over a century had been identified, named, and rooted out. Now, after all that had happened, the town could heal.
The chief finally went into a rousing We-Are-the-Salt-of-the-Earth, America-Is-Great, God-Bless-Us-All finish. There was applause and cheers. And then it was over. Accompanied by the snapping of press photographs, the crowd began to disperse.
Lake caught sight of Agent Pendergast, standing on a far corner, in his usual black suit. Constance Greene was at his side, a thin, lovely specter in an old-fashioned lace dress. Her only concession to the modern world was a pair of classic Ray-Bans as protection from the sun.
“What a perfect small-town spectacle,” said Lake.
Carole laughed. “That’s what I love about this place.”
Squeezing Carole’s hand, Lake stepped away from the shopfront and made his way across the street, threading through the crowds until he reached Pendergast. The agent, who had been looking this way and that, scrutinizing the crowd with great care, fixed his eyes on him as he approached.
“You think Mourdock might have mentioned your name, if only once,” Lake said. “After all, it was you, not him, out there in the dark last night.”
“I dislike publicity,” Pendergast said. “Let the chief have his moment in the sun — literally.”
“It still seems like a miracle to me — that Dana and Joe had a brother, hiding out in the marshes all these years.”
“The Dunwoody brothers came from a dysfunctional family, going way back. The youngest brother, Dunkan, was born mentally and emotionally disadvantaged. He was not only unloved — he was his parents’ shame. They kept his birth a secret, never sent him to school. From what I can tell, he returned his parents’ dislike. As soon as he was old enough, he ran away. In time, he returned ‘home’ — in a manner of speaking. He had been living in those marshes for many years, grudgingly helped by his brothers... who then ultimately found a use for him — as a killer.”
“How in the world did you discover his identity?”
Pendergast shrugged. “A process of elimination. I’d written off every suspect in town — including you.”
“Me?”
“It’s not uncommon to stage a crime in your own home and then feign interest in the investigation in order to put yourself above suspicion. But your reactions during our stroll in your sculpture garden — and, more particularly, in our later talk in the lighthouse — convinced me you truly had nothing to do with the theft. Besides, despite your pedigree you’re not an Exmouth native. Only a local could know about the old crimes, and thus have perpetrated the new one. But in looking around the town, all my suspects were eliminated. That left an unknown third party — someone like Dunkan. The Dunwoodys had already attracted my interest. In the days before Dana’s death, I’d noticed a small piece of bright-colored sweater material, similar to the garish outfits he favored, clinging to a shrub far out in the marsh. And when I made a reference to The Hound of the Baskervilles and the food missing from the Inn’s kitchen, his reaction was telling. His murder, of course, was a temporary setback. But then, I noticed his brother Joe’s tense demeanor — although he had an ironclad alibi and didn’t seem capable of fratricide in any case. The Dunwoody family had deep roots in the town, and indeed in the nineteenth century there were many more of them. But again, it was the regularly pilfered food from the Chart Room kitchen that sealed my interest. So I laid a trap for Joe last night at the bar... and he took the bait.”
“A feral brother. He must have been behind all those local legends of a Gray Reaper.” Lake shook his head. “Well, all I can say is that when I came to see you about the theft of my wine, I never expected it would lead to all this.” He handed over the shopping bag. “By the way, here’s that bottle of the Haut-Braquilanges. I recall saying you could have your pick of the case — and you still can, if you’d like — but this one seemed to be the best-preserved.”
Pendergast took the bag. “I’m sure it will be more than satisfactory, thank you very much.”
Lake hesitated just a moment. “Who actually carried out the theft? From my cellar, I mean.”
“Joe and Dana.”
“You’ve interrogated Joe, I take it?”
“Yes. He’s talking quite freely now.”
Lake was almost afraid to ask the next question. “Do you know what... what he did with all the wine?”
“I’m afraid he took it out to sea in his boat and dumped it overboard.”
Lake clapped a hand over his mouth.
“It took him three trips, late at night, to dispose of it all.”
“Oh, my God,” Lake said in a strangled voice.
“I know,” Pendergast replied grimly.
Now Constance spoke for the first time. “I have observed,” she said in a low and even voice, “that there are some crimes for which the death penalty does not seem a sufficiently severe sentence.”
41
In typical New England fashion, the day, which had dawned warm and sunny, soon darkened in the hours following the ceremony, and a fresh storm rolled in. Glancing out the windows of Pendergast’s room at the Inn, Constance could see the branches of nearby trees twisting in the wind. Although it was the night of a full moon, it was hidden behind layers of massive storm clouds that were even now throwing fat droplets against the panes of glass.
“A classic nor’easter,” said Pendergast.
Constance turned back toward him. The small crowd of reporters that had come to cover the ghoulish story were gone, and the atmosphere of the town had fallen into a hum of excited relief. Following dinner, Pendergast had invited her up to his room to share the bottle of Haut-Braquilanges. Constance was of two minds: On the one hand, she was flattered that he would share such a princely bottle with her. But she also remembered the effects that the glass of Calvados had had on her the last time she was in his room, and she did not want to lose control like that again.
“Are you sure you want to drink it now?” she asked.
“Carpe diem. Who knows what tomorrow might bring? And what a fine setting we have: the storm outside, the fire within, and our own good company.”
Handling the bottle with care, Pendergast removed the capsule, withdrew the cork, set it aside, and, using a candle to see through the wine, decanted it. He immediately poured a tiny taste, swirled, and downed it. The expression on his face, eyes closed, head back, was one Constance had never seen before — pure sensual pleasure.
“What about me?” she asked after a moment.
His eyes sprang open. “Ah, Constance, I was just making sure it hadn’t turned to vinegar. To spare you a shock. I’m happy to say it has not.”