Corrie had let the man vent, and then given the bastard a royal licking of her own, telling him what a despicable human being he was, that she hoped his wife took every penny he had, and concluding with a speculation on the relationship between the failure of his marriage and the inadequate size of his dick. The man had become inarticulate with rage, which gave Corrie a certain satisfaction as she hung up at the start of yet another foulmouthed rant. The satisfaction was short-lived once she considered the problem of where she was going to stay. She couldn’t even go back to Basalt, because of the closed road, and one more night in the Hotel Sebastian—or any hotel in town, for that matter—would bankrupt her. What was she going to do?
The one thing she did know was that she was not leaving Roaring Fork. Was she afraid of the bastards who’d shot at her, who’d killed her dog? Of course she was. But nobody was going to drive her out of town. How could she live with herself if she allowed that to happen? And what kind of law enforcement officer would she be if she backed down in the face of these threats? No: one way or another, she was going to stay right here and help catch the people responsible.
Stacy Bowdree was already seated with a big mug of coffee in front of her when Corrie entered the breakfast room. Stacy looked awful, with dark circles under her eyes, her auburn hair unkempt. Corrie took a seat and picked up the menu. Three dollars for an orange juice, ten for bacon and eggs, eighteen for eggs Benedict. She put the menu down: she couldn’t even afford a cup of coffee. When the waitress came over she ordered a glass of tap water. Stacy, on the other hand, ordered the Belgian waffles with a double side of bacon and a fried egg. And then pushed her coffee mug forward. “Go ahead,” she said.
With a grunt of thanks, Corrie took a sip, then a big drink. God, she needed caffeine. She drained the mug, pushed it back. She didn’t quite know where to start.
Luckily, Stacy started it for her. “We need to talk, Corrie. About this scumbag threatening your life.”
Okay. If you want to start there, fine
. “It makes me sick what they did to Jack.”
Stacy laid a hand on hers. “Which is why this is no joke. The people who did this are bad,
bad
people, and they aren’t fooling around. They see you as a huge threat. Do you have any idea why?”
“I can only assume I dug up a hornet’s nest somewhere in my research. Came close to something somebody wants to keep hushed up. I wish I knew what.”
“Maybe it’s the Heights Association and that bitch Kermode,” said Stacy. “She looks like she’s capable of anything.”
“I don’t think so. All that’s been resolved, the new location of the cemetery has been approved, they’re busy tracking down various descendants and getting permission—and most important, you’re not insisting any more on having your ancestor reburied in the original Boot Hill.”
“Well then, do you think it might be the arsonist?”
“Not the same M.O. at all. The key is for me to figure out what information I have, or almost got, that spooked them so badly. Once I know that, maybe I’ll be able to identify them. But I don’t really think they’re going to kill me—or they would’ve done it already.”
“Corrie, don’t be naive. Anyone who would decapitate a dog is totally capable of killing a person. Which is why, from now on, I’m not leaving your side. Not me or…” Stacy patted the place where she carried her .45.
Corrie looked away.
“What’s wrong?” Stacy said, looking at her anxiously.
Now Corrie saw no reason to hold back. “I saw you with Ted last night. The least you could do was tell me you were going to date him. Friends don’t do that to friends.” She sat back.
Stacy sat back herself. An unreadable expression crossed her face. “Date him?”
“Well, yeah.”
“
Date
him? Jesus Christ, how the hell could you even think such a thing?” Stacy had raised her voice.
“Well, what was I supposed to think, seeing you two go into that restaurant—”
“You know why we went into that restaurant? Because Ted asked me to dinner to talk about
you
.”
Corrie looked at her, astonished. “Me?”
“Yes, you! He’s totally smitten with you, says he might be in love with you, and he’s worried he’s doing something wrong, thinking that he rubbed you the wrong way. He wanted to ask me about it—we spent the whole damn evening talking about you and nothing else. Do you think I enjoyed getting out of bed and driving into town, with a pounding head, to listen to some man spend the night talking about another
woman
?”
“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.
T
he 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.
The Adventure of Aspern Hall
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
outré
elements—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
ennui
that all too frequently led him to indulge his habit of cocaine hydrochloride.
Just at that moment, I heard a knock at the front door.
“Are you expecting company, Holmes?” I asked.
His only reply was a curt shake of the head. Moving first to the decanter on the sideboard, then to the gasogene beside it, he mixed himself a brandy and soda, then sprawled into an armchair.
“Perhaps Mrs. Hudson is entertaining,” I said, reaching for the pipe-rack.
But low voices on the stairs, followed by footfalls in the passage, put the lie to this assumption. A moment later there came a light rap on the door.
“Come in,” cried Holmes.
The door opened and Mrs. Hudson appeared. “There’s a young lady to see you, sir,” she said. “I told her it was late, and that she should make an appointment for tomorrow, but she said it was most urgent.”
“By all means, show her in,” Holmes replied, rising once again to his feet.
A moment later, a young woman was in our sitting room. She was wearing a long travelling coat of fashionable cut, along with a veiled hat.
“Pray have a seat,” Holmes said, ushering her towards the most comfortable chair with his usual courtesy.
The woman thanked him, undid her coat and removed her hat, and sat down. She was possessed of a pleasing figure and a refined carriage, and a decided air of self-possession. The only blemish of which I was aware was that her features seemed rather severe, but that may have been the result of the anxiety that was present in her face. As was my custom, I tried to apply Holmes’s methods of observation to this stranger, but was unable to notice anything of particular value, aside from the Wellington travelling boots she wore.
I became aware that Holmes was regarding me with some amusement. “Other than the fact that our guest comes from Northumberland,” he told me, “that she is a devoted horsewoman, that she arrived here by hansom cab rather than the Underground—and that she is engaged to be married—I can deduce little myself.”