“I’m sorry, Stacy. I guess I was jumping to conclusions.”
“You’re goddamn right!” Suddenly, Stacy was on her feet, her face a mixture of reproach and betrayal. “It’s the same old bullshit! Here, I befriend you, protect you, look after your best interests at the expense of my own — and what’s my reward? Fucking accusations of two-timing with your boyfriend!”
Stacy’s sudden upwelling of anger was scaring Corrie. The few other diners in the room were turning their heads. “Look, Stacy,” Corrie said in a calming voice. “I’m really, really sorry. I guess I’m kind of insecure about my relationships with guys, and you being so attractive and all, I just—”
But Stacy didn’t let her finish. With a final, blazing glance, she turned on her heel and stalked out of the restaurant — leaving her breakfast unfinished and unpaid for.
46
The familiar, silken voice invited her in. Corrie took a deep breath. He’d agreed to see her; that was a good first step. She’d been telling herself that he hadn’t contacted her since leaving Roaring Fork only because he was too busy; she’d fervently hoped that was the case. The last thing she wanted to do, she now realized, was allow her relationship with Pendergast to be damaged by her own impetuousness and shortsightedness.
And now he was back just as abruptly as he had left.
That afternoon, the basement was, if possible, even stuffier than the last time Corrie had visited Pendergast’s temporary office. He sat behind the old metal desk, which was now swept clear of the chemistry apparatus that had cluttered it before. A thin manila file was the only thing that lay on the scarred surface. It must have been eighty-five degrees in the room, and yet the special agent still had his suit jacket on.
“Corrie. Please take a seat.”
Obediently, Corrie sat. “How did you get back into town? I thought the road was closed.”
“The chief kindly sent one of his men in a snowcat to pick me up in Basalt. He was, it seems, rather anxious to have me back. And in any case there is talk of the road being reopened — temporarily, at any rate.”
“How was your trip?”
“Fruitful.”
Corrie shifted uncomfortably at the small talk and decided to get to the point right away. “Look. I wanted to apologize for the way I acted the other day. It was immature, and I’m embarrassed. The fact is, I’m incredibly grateful for all you’ve done for me. It’s just that…you sort of overshadow everything you get involved in. I don’t want my professors at John Jay saying, Oh, her friend Pendergast did it all for her.” She paused. “No doubt I’m overreacting, this being my first big research project and all.”
Pendergast looked at her a moment. Then he simply nodded his understanding. “And how did things go while I was gone?”
“Pretty well,” said Corrie, avoiding his direct gaze. “I’m just finishing up my research.”
“Nothing untoward happened, I hope?”
“There was another awful fire, right up on the hill behind town, and a road-rage killing out on Highway 82—but I suppose the chief must’ve told you all about that.”
“I meant untoward, directed at you.”
“Oh, no,” Corrie lied. “I couldn’t make any headway solving the crimes, so I’ve decided to drop that. I did stumble over a few interesting tidbits in my research, but nothing that shed light on the killings.”
“Such as?”
“Well, let’s see…I learned that Mrs. Kermode is related to the Stafford family, which owned the old smelter back during the silver boom and is still the force behind the development of The Heights.”
A brief pause. “Anything else?”
“Oh, yes, something that might intrigue you — given your interest in Doyle and Wilde.”
Pendergast inclined his head, encouraging her to continue.
“While digging through some old files at the Griswell Archive, I came across a funny letter about a codger who buttonholed Wilde after his lecture and, it seems, told him a story that almost made him faint. I would bet you anything it was the man-eating grizzly tale.”
Pendergast went very still for a moment. Then he asked: “Did the letter mention the old fellow’s name?”
Corrie thought back. “Only a surname. Swinton.”
Another silence, and then Pendergast said: “You must be low on funds.”
“No, no, doing fine,” she lied again. Damn it, she was going to have to get a temporary job somewhere. And find another place to live. But no way was she going to take any more money from Pendergast after all he’d done for her already. “Really, there’s no reason for you to worry about me.”
Pendergast didn’t respond, and it was hard to read his expression. Did he believe her? Had he heard anything from the chief about the shot through her windshield or the dead dog? Impossible to tell. Neither had been covered in the local paper — everything was still about the serial arsonist.
“You haven’t told me anything about your trip,” she said, changing the subject.
“I accomplished what I set out to do,” he said, his thin fingers tapping the manila folder. “I found a lost Sherlock Holmes story, the last ever written by Conan Doyle and unpublished to this day. It is most interesting. I recommend it to you.”
“When I have time,” she said, “I’ll be glad to read it.”
Another pause. Pendergast’s long fingers edged the file toward her. “I should read this now, if I were you.”
“Thanks, but the fact is I’ve still got a lot on my plate, finishing things up and all.” Why did Pendergast keep pushing this Doyle business? First The Hound of the Baskervilles, and now this.
The pale hand reached out, took the edge of the folder, and opened it. “There can be no delay, Corrie.”
She looked up and saw his eyes, glittering in that peculiar way she knew so well. She hesitated. And then, with a sigh of acquiescence, she took out the sheaves of paper within and began to read.
47
Of the many cases of Sherlock Holmes for which I’ve had the privilege to act as his Boswell, there is one I have always hesitated to put to paper. It is not because the adventure itself presented any singularly grim or outréelements — no more so than Holmes’s other investigations. Rather, I believe it due to the ominous, indeed baneful air that clung to every aspect of the case; an air that chilled and almost blighted my soul; and that even today has the power to vex my sleep. There are some experiences in life one might wish never to have had; for me, this was one. However, I will now commit the story to print, and leave it to others to judge whether or not my reluctance has merit.
It took place in March of ’90, at the beginning of a drear and comfortless spring following hard on the heels of one of the coldest winters in living memory. At the time I was resident in Holmes’s Baker Street lodgings. It was a dark evening, made more oppressive by a fog that hung in the narrow streets and turned the gaslights to mere pinpricks of yellow. I was lounging in an armchair before the fire, and Holmes — who had been striding restlessly about the room — had now placed himself before the bow window. He was describing to me a chemical experiment he had undertaken that afternoon: how the application of manganese dioxide as a catalyst accelerated the decomposition of potassium chlorate into potassium chloride and, much more importantly, oxygen.
As he spoke, I silently rejoiced at his enthusiasm. Bad weather had kept us very much shut in for weeks; no “little problems” had arisen to command his attention; and he had begun to exhibit the signs of ennuithat all too frequently led him to indulge his habit of cocaine hydrochloride.