D'Agosta got out of the car and shoved the groaning gate open a little farther, then got behind the wheel again and headed down the drive. He could see where the other car or cars had gone, flattening the weeds in two vague stripes. The drive wandered through an ancient beechwood forest, massive warped tree trunks rising on both sides, until at last it broke out into sunlight-a meadow dotted with wildflowers that had once evidently been a lawn. At the far end of the meadow rose a gaunt stone mansion: shaded by elms, shuttered tight, its roofs topped by at least twenty chimneys, a real haunted pile if ever there was one. D'Agosta shook his head slowly. Then, glancing at the directions Pendergast had given him, he followed the carriageway around the massive house and turned onto another road that led on through ancient gardens toward a stone millhouse on the banks of a stream. Pendergast's Rolls was parked here and he pulled in beside it. Pendergast's chauffeur, Proctor, was arranging something in the car's trunk; as D'Agosta got out of the car and approached, he bowed politely, then nodded in the direction of the stream.
D'Agosta began following a stone path that led down from the road. Farther ahead now, he could see two figures strolling along the path, dappled in shade, intent in conversation. One had to be Pendergast-the black suit and slim bearing gave him away. The other, who was wearing a sunbonnet and holding a parasol, could only be the girl staying in Pendergast's house. What was her name again? Constance.
As he approached the stream, he could hear the purling of water, hear the birds rustling in the beechwood. Pendergast turned and waved him over. "Vincent, you made it. Very good of you to come."
Constance turned, too, smiling gravely and holding out her hand. D'Agosta took it, mumbling a greeting. For some reason she made him eager to be on his best behavior, just the way his grandmother had done when he was a child. Her unusual eyes were concealed by a pair of very dark sunglasses.
He glanced down the shade-dappled path. The mill was no longer turning, but the shunt of water had been directed into a curious series of stone sluice tanks. "What is this place?"
"The estate belongs to my great-aunt Cornelia, who, alas, is not well and is confined to a home. I've begun bringing Constance up here to take the air."
"To complete my rehabilitation," said Constance with a faint smile. "Mr. Pendergast thinks I'm in delicate health."
"Quite a spread," D'Agosta said.
"The mill here was converted into a trout farm in the late nineteenth century," Pendergast replied. "Every year they stocked Dewing Brook with thousands of trout and kept the forest full of wild turkey, deer, pheasant, grouse, quail, and bear. Come Sunday there was quite a massacre around these parts, as my relations and their sporting friends took to the field."
"A hunting preserve. I'll bet the fishing was fantastic." D'Agosta looked at the brook purling over its cobbled bed, with deep pools and holes no doubt still thick with trout. Even as he watched, several fish, rising to a hatch, dimpled the surface.
"I never cared for fishing," Pendergast said. "I preferred blood sport."
"What's wrong with fishing?"
"I find it quotidian in the extreme."
"Quotidian. Right."
"After the sudden death of Aunt Cornelia's husband and children, most of the staff quit. Shortly thereafter, my aunt was obliged to leave. And now Ravenscry lies empty, decaying. In any case," Pendergast went on more briskly, "I asked you to come so we may take stock of the case in surroundings conducive to contemplation. Frankly, Vincent, the case is baffling. Normally by this stage I'd have found a piece of thread leading into the tangle. But this is different."
"It's a tough one," D'Agosta said. He glanced at the girl, wondering how much to say.
"We may speak freely in front of Constance."
The girl smiled with mock gravity. They strolled back through the dappled shade in the direction of the cars.
"Let us review what we know. We have two murders, each with inexplicable features, including the heating of the body and the various Mephistophelean appurtenances. We know that the two victims must have been connected with each other and to Bullard in some way. But I have not been able to find that connection."
"Hayward's been helping me with that end of things. We've pulled their telephone bills, credit card transactions, T&E records going back ten years. Nada. It doesn't look like they ever met. As for Bullard, most of the folders on that computer we seized are encrypted too strongly to break. I did get one nugget of interesting information from Hayward, though: they found a reference to the name Ranier Beckmann in a temporary Internet directory on the computer. Seems Bullard was trying to locate him, too."
"And yet you said Bullard denied knowing Beckmann when you questioned him at the Athletic Club. It's evident Bullard is concealing a great deal. He's angry, he's defensive. I might even say he's frightened. Of what?"
"Of arrest. As far as I'm concerned, Bullard is suspect number one. He doesn't have a good alibi for the Grove murder, either. He said he was on his yacht, cruising the sound that night. Without a crew. He could've been cruising the Atlantic side instead, slipped up on the beach at Southampton, done the job."
"Possible. But the fact that he has no alibi for either night, in my view, is actually a strike in his favor. Besides, what's Bullard's motivation? Why kill Grove and Cutforth? And why make it look like the devil?"
"He's got a macabre sense of humor."
"On the contrary, the man appears to have absolutely no sense of humor at all, apart from a kind of gangsterish schadenfreude. Somebody playing a mere joke would not take such a dangerous risk."
"He wants to send a message, then."
"Yes, but to whom? For what purpose?"
"I don't know. If it isn't Bullard, it might be some fundamentalist nutcase who wants to bring back the Inquisition. Somebody who thinks he's doing God's work."
"A second possibility."
There was a short silence. Then Pendergast added, "Vincent, you haven't mentioned the other possibility."
D'Agosta felt his gut tighten. Pendergast wasn't serious-was he? He found himself unconsciously fingering his cross.
"Where's Bullard now?" Pendergast asked.
"He left on his yacht this morning, heading to the open ocean."
"Any idea where?"
"Looks like Europe. At least he's heading east, at full speed. Better than full speed, in fact-the yacht must have a specially modified power plant. In any case, Hayward's got someone on it. We'll know where and when he lands-unless he evades customs and immigration, which seems improbable with a yacht like that."
"The admirable Hayward. Is she still upset?"
"You could say that."
Pendergast smiled thinly.
"So what's your theory?" D'Agosta asked.
"I am doing my best not to have a theory."
D'Agosta heard the crunching of tires on gravel, the slamming of doors, the distant chatter of voices. He glanced back across the meadows and spotted the new arrivaclass="underline" a long, old-fashioned limousine, its top down. A huge wicker basket was lashed across the rumble seat with leather straps.
"Who's this?" D'Agosta asked.
"Another guest," Pendergast said simply.
Now someone came around the side of the car: an enormous figure, grossly out of proportion to its surroundings but moving with a remarkable fluidity and ease. It was Fosco, who, it seemed, had somehow made the transition from witness to acquaintance.
D'Agosta looked over. "What's he doing here?"
"It seems he is in possession of some information of great value that he's most eager to pass on. And since he's expressed an interest in viewing what passes for antiquity here in America, I thought I'd invite him to Ravenscry. I owed him a return for an interesting night at the opera."
The figure came striding swiftly down the path, waving his arm in greeting long before he arrived.