D’Agosta.
D’Agosta unfolded it. Written in Pendergast’s elegant hand was an address:
214 Mechanic Street
Rockland, Maine
“What’s this?” D’Agosta asked.
“The past, Vincent—the address where
she
grew up. That is your next task. My own… lies here.”
14
Penumbra Plantation
W OULD YOU CARE FOR ANOTHER CUP OF TEA , sir?”
“No thank you, Maurice.” Pendergast regarded the remains of an early dinner—succotash, field peas, and ham with redeye gravy—with
as much complacency as he could muster. Outside the tall windows of the dining room, dusk was gathering among the hemlocks
and cypresses, and somewhere in the shadows a mockingbird was singing a long and complex dirge.
Pendergast dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a white linen napkin, then rose from the table. “Now that I’ve eaten, I
wonder if I couldn’t see the letter that arrived for me this afternoon.”
“Certainly, sir.” Maurice stepped out of the dining room into the hall, returning shortly with a letter. It was much battered,
and had been re-addressed more than once. Judging by the postmark, it had taken almost three weeks to ultimately reach him.
Even if he hadn’t recognized the elegant, old-fashioned handwriting, the Chinese stamps would have indicated the sender: Constance
Greene, his ward, who was currently residing at a remote monastery in Tibet with her infant son. He slit the envelope with
his knife, pulled out the single sheet of paper within, and read the note.
Dear Aloysius,
I do not know precisely what trouble you are in, but in dreams I see that you are—or soon will be—in great distress. I am
very sorry. As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport.
I am coming home soon. Try to rest easy, everything is under control. And what isn’t, soon will be.
Know that you are in my thoughts. You are in my prayers, as well—or would be, if I prayed.
Constance
Pendergast re-read the letter, frowning.
“Is there something wrong, sir?” Maurice asked.
“I’m not sure.” Pendergast seemed to consider the letter a moment longer. Then he put it aside and turned toward his factotum.
“But in any case, Maurice, I was hoping you could join me in the library.”
The elderly man paused in the act of clearing the table. “Sir?”
“I thought perhaps we could have a postprandial glass of sherry, reminisce about the old days. I find myself in a nostalgic
frame of mind.”
This was a most unusual invitation, and the look on Maurice’s face implied as much. “Thank you, sir. Let me just finish clearing
away here.”
“Very good. I’ll head down to the cellar and find us a nice moldy bottle.”
The bottle was, in fact, more than nice: a Hidalgo Oloroso Viejo VORS. Pendergast took a sip from his glass, admiring the
sherry’s complexity: woody and fruity, with a finish that seemed to linger forever on the palate. Maurice sat on an ottoman
across the old Kashan silk carpet, very erect and stiff in his butler’s uniform, almost comically uncomfortable.
“Sherry to your liking?” Pendergast asked.
“It’s very fine, sir,” the butler replied.
“Then drink up, Maurice—it will help drive out the damp.”
Maurice did as requested. “Would you like me to place another log on the fire?”
Pendergast shook his head, then looked around again. “Amazing, how being back here brings on such a flood of memories.”
“I’m sure it must, sir.”
Pendergast pointed at a large freestanding globe, set into a wooden framework. “For example, I recall having a violent argument
with Nurse over whether Australia was a continent or not. She insisted it was only an island.”
Maurice nodded.
“And the exquisite set of Wedgwood plates that used to sit on the top shelf of that bookcase.” Pendergast indicated the spot
with a nod. “I remember the day that my brother and I were reenacting the Roman assault on Silvium. The siege engine Diogenes
built
D’Agosta unfolded it. Written in Pendergast’s elegant hand was an address:
214 Mechanic Street
Rockland, Maine
“What’s this?” D’Agosta asked.
“The past, Vincent—the address where
she
grew up. That is your next task. My own… lies here.”
14
Penumbra Plantation
W OULD YOU CARE FOR ANOTHER CUP OF TEA , sir?”
“No thank you, Maurice.” Pendergast regarded the remains of an early dinner—succotash, field peas, and ham with redeye gravy—with
as much complacency as he could muster. Outside the tall windows of the dining room, dusk was gathering among the hemlocks
and cypresses, and somewhere in the shadows a mockingbird was singing a long and complex dirge.
Pendergast dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a white linen napkin, then rose from the table. “Now that I’ve eaten, I
wonder if I couldn’t see the letter that arrived for me this afternoon.”
“Certainly, sir.” Maurice stepped out of the dining room into the hall, returning shortly with a letter. It was much battered,
and had been re-addressed more than once. Judging by the postmark, it had taken almost three weeks to ultimately reach him.
Even if he hadn’t recognized the elegant, old-fashioned handwriting, the Chinese stamps would have indicated the sender: Constance
Greene, his ward, who was currently residing at a remote monastery in Tibet with her infant son. He slit the envelope with
his knife, pulled out the single sheet of paper within, and read the note.
Dear Aloysius,
I do not know precisely what trouble you are in, but in dreams I see that you are—or soon will be—in great distress. I am
very sorry. As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport.
I am coming home soon. Try to rest easy, everything is under control. And what isn’t, soon will be.
Know that you are in my thoughts. You are in my prayers, as well—or would be, if I prayed.
Constance
Pendergast re-read the letter, frowning.
“Is there something wrong, sir?” Maurice asked.
“I’m not sure.” Pendergast seemed to consider the letter a moment longer. Then he put it aside and turned toward his factotum.
“But in any case, Maurice, I was hoping you could join me in the library.”
The elderly man paused in the act of clearing the table. “Sir?”
“I thought perhaps we could have a postprandial glass of sherry, reminisce about the old days. I find myself in a nostalgic
frame of mind.”
This was a most unusual invitation, and the look on Maurice’s face implied as much. “Thank you, sir. Let me just finish clearing
away here.”
“Very good. I’ll head down to the cellar and find us a nice moldy bottle.”
The bottle was, in fact, more than nice: a Hidalgo Oloroso Viejo VORS. Pendergast took a sip from his glass, admiring the
sherry’s complexity: woody and fruity, with a finish that seemed to linger forever on the palate. Maurice sat on an ottoman
across the old Kashan silk carpet, very erect and stiff in his butler’s uniform, almost comically uncomfortable.
“Sherry to your liking?” Pendergast asked.
“It’s very fine, sir,” the butler replied.
“Then drink up, Maurice—it will help drive out the damp.”
Maurice did as requested. “Would you like me to place another log on the fire?”
Pendergast shook his head, then looked around again. “Amazing, how being back here brings on such a flood of memories.”
“I’m sure it must, sir.”
Pendergast pointed at a large freestanding globe, set into a wooden framework. “For example, I recall having a violent argument
with Nurse over whether Australia was a continent or not. She insisted it was only an island.”
Maurice nodded.
“And the exquisite set of Wedgwood plates that used to sit on the top shelf of that bookcase.” Pendergast indicated the spot
with a nod. “I remember the day that my brother and I were reenacting the Roman assault on Silvium. The siege engine Diogenes
built
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