Now, however, it was almost midnight; the weather had turned chilly, and the heath was relatively deserted. They had already left Parliament Hill and its marvelous panorama of the City and Canary Wharf behind and were making their way northwest. Hills, ponds, and clumps of woodlands were visible as mere shadows beneath the pale moon.
“I brought a dark lantern along,” Kleefisch said, more to keep up his spirits than to be informative. He brandished the device, which he’d kept hidden beneath his heavy ulster. “It seemed appropriate to the occasion, somehow.”
Pendergast glanced toward it. “Anachronistic, but potentially useful.”
Earlier, from the comfort of his lodgings, planning this little escapade had filled Kleefisch with excitement. When Pendergast had been unable to secure permission to enter Covington Grange, he had declared he would do so anyway, extralegally. Kleefisch had enthusiastically volunteered to help. But now that they were actually executing the plan, he felt more than a little trepidation. It was one thing to write scholarly essays on Professor Moriarty, the “Napoleon of crime,” or on Colonel Sebastian Moran, the “second most dangerous man in London.” It was quite another thing, he realized, to be actually out on the heath, with breaking and entering on the agenda.
“There’s the Hampstead Heath constabulary, you know,” he said.
“Indeed,” came the response. “What’s their complement?”
“Maybe a dozen or so. Some use police dogs.”
To this there was no response.
They skirted South Meadow and passed into the heavy woods of the Dueling Ground. To the north, Kleefisch could make out the lights of Highgate.
“Then there’s the National Trust groundskeepers to consider,” he added. “There’s always the chance one of them might be loitering about.”
“In that case, I would suggest keeping that lantern well concealed.”
They slowed as their objective came into sight over the lip of a small hill. Covington Grange was sited just at the far edge of the Dueling Ground, surrounded on three sides by woods. Stone Bridge and Wood Pond lay to the right. To the north, a green lawn ran away in the direction of sprawling Kenwood House. Beyond, late-night traffic hushed along Hampstead Lane.
Pendergast looked about him, then nodded to Kleefisch and made his way forward, keeping to the edge of the wood.
The Grange itself was an archaeological enigma, as if its builder could not decide which school, or even which era, he wished it to belong to. The low façade was half-timbered and Tudor, but a small addition to one side was a bizarre bit of neo-Romanesque. The long sloping wooden roof, bristling with exposed eaves, presaged the Craftsman era by a good half century. A greenhouse clung to the far side, its glass panels now cracked and covered with vines. The entire structure was enclosed by a hurricane fence, sagging and weathered, which appeared to have been erected as a security measure decades ago and long since forgotten.
Following Pendergast’s lead, Kleefisch crept up to the front of the building, where a narrow gate in the fencing was held in place with a padlock. Beside it, a weather-beaten sign read: PROPERTY OF H. M. GOV’T. NO TRESPASSING.
“Shall we, Roger?” Pendergast asked, as calmly as if he were inviting Kleefisch in for cucumber sandwiches at the Ritz.
Kleefisch glanced uneasily around, clutched the dark lantern more closely to him. “But the lock—” he began. Even as he spoke, there was a faint clicking noise and the padlock sprang open in Pendergast’s hand.
They stepped quickly past the gate, and Pendergast closed it behind them. Clouds had drifted over the moon; it was now very dark. Kleefisch waited in the forecourt while Pendergast made a quick reconnoiter. He was aware of a variety of sounds: distant laughter; a faint staccato honk from the motorway; and — or so he imagined — the nervous beating of his own heart.
Pendergast returned, then gestured them toward the front door. This, too, yielded almost immediately to the FBI agent’s touch. The two passed inside, Pendergast shut the door, and Kleefisch found himself in utter darkness. He was aware of several additional things now: the smell of mildew and sawdust; the pattering of small feet; the low squeaking of disturbed vermin.
A voice came out of the darkness. “To aid us in our search, let us review again what we know. For over a decade, from about 1917 to 1929, Conan Doyle came here frequently, as a guest of Mary Wilkes, to further his study of spiritualism and to read his writings on the subject to like-minded friends. He died in 1930, bound for — in his words—‘the greatest and most glorious adventure of all.’ Mary Wilkes herself died in 1934. Her daughter, Leticia Wilkes, lived here — joined in the early years by her niece and nephew — until her own death in 1980, at which time she left the property to the government. It has not been lived in — indeed, it has apparently remained untouched — ever since.”
Kleefisch could add little to this, so he said nothing.
A small glow of red appeared. Pendergast was holding up a flashlight, a filter fixed to its end. The faint beam swept here and there, revealing a hallway leading back into what was obviously a furnished and, at one time, well-lived-in house, circa 1980. There were piles of books set along the wall in disorganized ranks, and various tiny gnomes and glass figurines sat on a brace of side tables, heavy with dust. The far end of the hallway gave onto a kitchen: to the left and right were openings leading to a parlor and dining room, respectively. The first floor seemed to be covered in shag carpet of a detestable orange color.
Pendergast sniffed the air. “The odor of wood rot and decay is strong. My friend at the National Trust was correct: this house is in a state of dangerous decrepitude and may be structurally unsound. We must proceed with caution.”
They moved into the parlor, pausing in the doorway while Pendergast swept his muted light around the room. It was a scene of confusion. An upright piano stood in one corner, sheet music spilling from its music stand and overturned bench onto the floor; several card tables, furry with mold, held abandoned jigsaw puzzles and half-finished games of Monopoly and Chinese checkers. Magazines were spread haphazardly across the chairs and sofas.
“It would appear Leticia Wilkes allowed her charges to run wild,” Pendergast said with a disapproving sniff.
The rest of the first floor was the same. Toys, bric-a-brac, discarded jackets, swimming trunks, and slippers — and everywhere that same odious orange carpet, lit a dreadful crimson by Pendergast’s hooded light. No wonder the National Trust had let the place fall to wrack and ruin, Kleefisch thought to himself. He could imagine some poor functionary, poking his head into the place for a minute, taking an exploratory glance around, and then closing the door again, despairing of renovation. He stared at the paisley-papered walls, at the worn and stained furniture, looking for some ghostly evidence of the enchanted cottage in which, once upon a time, Conan Doyle had worked and entertained. He was unable to find any.
The basement yielded nothing more than empty storage rooms, a cold furnace, and dead beetles. Pendergast led the way up the dangerously creaking stairs to the second floor. Six doors led off the central hallway. The first was a linen closet, its contents ravaged by time and moths. The second was a common bathroom. The next three doors opened onto bedrooms. One, in somewhat decent order, had apparently been that of Leticia herself. The others had obviously been used by her niece and nephew, as attested to by the Dion and Frankie Valli posters in the first room and the numerous issues of the Sun, all opened to page three, in the other.
That left just the single, closed door at the far end of the hall. Kleefisch’s heart sank. Only now did he realize how much he’d allowed himself to hope that, at long last, the missing Holmes story might actually be found. But he’d been a fool to believe he would succeed where so many of his fellows had already failed. And especially in this mess, which would take a week to search properly.