Pendergast went on. “I proceeded on the assumption that the more I could learn about Conan Doyle’s final years, the closer I’d come to finding the lost story. I focused my efforts on the circle of spiritualists he belonged to in the years before he died. I learned that this group frequently met at a small cottage named Covington Grange, on the edge of Hampstead Heath. The cottage was owned by a spiritualist by the name of Mary Wilkes. Conan Doyle had a small room at Covington Grange where he would sometimes write essays on spirituality, which he would read to the group of an evening.”
“Fascinating,” Kleefisch said.
“Allow me to pose this question: is it not likely that, while writing his late texts on spiritualism at Covington Grange, he also wrote his final Sherlock Holmes story, ‘The Adventure of Aspern Hall’?”
Kleefisch felt a quickening of excitement. It made sense. And this was an avenue that had never, to his knowledge, been explored by a fellow Irregular.
“Given its incendiary nature, isn’t it also possible that the author might not have hidden it somewhere in that little room he used for writing, or somewhere else in the Grange?”
“Might he not indeed!” Kleefisch rose from his chair. “My God. No wonder the manuscript was never found at Windlesham! So what’s next, then?”
“What’s next? I should have thought that obvious. Covington Grange is next.”
39
Teacup in hand, Dorothea Pembroke stepped back into her tidy alcove at the Blackpool headquarters of the National Trust for Places of Historic Interest or Natural Beauty. It was past ten forty-five, and Miss Pembroke was almost as serious about her elevenses as she was about her position, about which she was very serious indeed. A cloth napkin, placed daintily upon the desktop; a cup of Harrisons & Crosfield jasmine tea, one lump; and a wheatmeal biscuit dipped twice — not once, not three times — into the cup before being nibbled.
In many ways, Ms. Pembroke felt, she wasthe National Trust. There were more important jobs than hers in the nonprofit association, of course, but nobody could boast a finer pedigree. Her grandfather, Sir Erskine Pembroke, had been master of Chiddingham Place, one of the more impressive stately homes in Cornwall. But his company had failed, and when the family realized they couldn’t maintain either the taxes or the upkeep of the mansion, they entered into talks with the National Trust. The building’s foundations and general fabric were restored, its gardens expanded, and ultimately Chiddingham Place was opened to visitors, while the family stayed on in modest rooms on the top floor. A few years later, her father had taken a position with the National Trust, as a development manager. As soon as she was out of school, Miss Pembroke had joined the Trust herself, rising over the past thirty-two years to the position of deputy administrator.
All in all, a most satisfactory rise.
As she put away the teacup and was folding the napkin, she became aware that a man was standing in the doorway. She was much too well bred to show surprise, but she paused just a moment before giving the napkin a final fold and placing it away in her desk. He was a rather striking-looking man — tall and pale, with white-blond hair and eyes the color of glacial ice, dressed in a well-cut black suit — but she did not recognize him, and visitors were usually announced.
“Forgive me,” he said in an American accent — southern — accompanied by a charming smile. “I don’t mean to intrude, Ms. Pembroke. But the secretary in your outer office was away from her desk, and, well, we didhave an appointment.”
Dorothea Pembroke opened her book and glanced at the current day’s page. Yes, indeed: she did have an eleven fifteen appointment with a Mr. Pendergast. She recalled that he had particularly asked to see her, as opposed to an administrator — most unusual. Still, he had not been announced, and she did not hold with such informality. But the man had a winning way about him, and she was prepared to overlook this breach of propriety.
“May I sit down?” he asked, with another smile.
Miss Pembroke nodded toward an empty seat before her desk. “What, may I inquire, do you wish to speak with me about?”
“I wish to visit one of your properties.”
“Visit?” she said, allowing the faintest tinge of disapproval to color her voice. “We have volunteers out in front who can assist you with that.” Really, it was too much, her being bothered with such a trivial request.
“I do apologize,” the man replied. “I don’t wish to take up your valuable time. I spoke about the matter with Visitor Services, and they referred me to you.”
“I see.” That did put another spin on things. And, really, the man had the most courtly manners. Even his accent spoke of breeding — not one of those harsh, barbarous American drawls. “Before we get started, we have a little regulation here. We require visitor identification, if you please.”
The man smiled again. He had beautifully white teeth. He reached into his black suit and removed a leather wallet, which he laid open upon the table, exposing a brilliance of gold on top with a photo ID card below. Miss Pembroke was startled.
“Oh! Goodness! The Federal Bureau of Investigation? Is this…a criminal matter?”
The man gave a most winning smile. “Oh, no, don’t be the slightest bit alarmed. This is a personal matter, nothing official. I would have shown you my passport, but it’s in the hotel safe.”
Miss Pembroke allowed her fluttering heart to subside. She had never been involved in a criminal matter and looked on such a possibility with abhorrence.
“Well, then, Mr. Pendergast, that is reassuring, and I am at your service. Please tell me the property you’d like to visit?”
“A cottage named Covington Grange.”
“Covington Grange. Covington Grange.” Miss Pembroke was not familiar with the name. But then again, the Trust had hundreds of properties in its care — including many of England’s greatest estates — and she could not be expected to remember all of them.
“Half a moment.” She turned to her computer, moused through a few menus, and entered the name into the waiting field. Several photos and a long textual entry appeared on the screen. As she read the entry, she realized she did have a faint recollection of the site. No wonder the people at Visitor Services recommended the man speak to an administrator.
She turned back. “Covington Grange,” she said again. “Formerly owned by Leticia Wilkes, who died in 1980, leaving it to the government.”
The man named Pendergast nodded.
“I’m very sorry to tell you, Mr. Pendergast, that a visit to Covington Grange is out of the question.”
At this news, a look of devastation crossed the man’s face. He struggled to master himself. “The visit needn’t be a long one, Ms. Pembroke.”
“I’m sorry, it’s quite impossible. According to the file, the cottage has been shut up for decades, closed to the public while the Trust decides what to do with it.”
Poor man — he looked so desolated that even Dorothea Pembroke’s hard and ever so correct heart began to soften. “It’s suffered serious damage from the elements,” she said, by way of explanation. “It is unsafe and requires extensive conservation before we could ever allow anyone inside. And at present, our funds — as you might imagine — are limited. There are numerous other properties, more important properties, that also need attention. And, to be frank, it is of marginal historical interest.”
Mr. Pendergast looked down, clasping and unclasping his hands. Finally, he spoke. “I thank you for taking the time to explain the situation. It makes perfect sense. It’s just—” And here, Mr. Pendergast looked up again, meeting her gaze— “It’s just that I am Leticia Wilkes’s last remaining descendant.”
Miss Pembroke looked at him in surprise.
“She was my grandmother. Of the family line, only I remain. My mother died of cancer last year, and my father was killed in a train accident the year before. My…sister was killed just three weeks ago, in a robbery gone bad. So, you see…” Mr. Pendergast paused a moment to collect himself. “You see, Covington Grange is all I have left. It is where I spent my summers as a boy, before my mother took us to America. It contains all the happy memories I have of my lost family.”