At this, Great-Aunt Cornelia stopped speaking and began to laugh, quite softly, under her breath. It went on for a long time. Dr. Ostrom, growing alarmed, frowned at D'Agosta and pointed to his watch.
"When did you last see Diogenes?" D'Agosta asked quickly.
"Two days after the fire," the old woman replied.
"The fire," D'Agosta repeated, trying not to make it sound like a question.
"Of course, the fire," Great-Aunt Cornelia said, her voice suddenly agitated. "When else? The dreadful, dreadful fire that destroyed the family and convinced my husband to bring me and the children up to this drafty mansion. Away from New Orleans, away from all that."
"I think we're done here," Dr. Ostrom said. He nodded to the guards.
"Tell me about the fire," D'Agosta pressed.
The old woman's face, which had gone almost fierce, now took on a look of great sorrow. Her lower lip trembled, and her hands twitched beneath the restraints. Despite himself, D'Agosta couldn't help but marvel at the suddenness with which these changes overtook her.
"Now, listen," Dr. Ostrom began.
D'Agosta held up his hand. "One minute more. Please." When he looked back at Great-Aunt Cornelia, he found she was staring directly at him.
"That superstitious, hateful, ignorant mob. They burned our ancestral home, may the curse of Lucifer be on them and their children for all eternity. By that time, Aloysius was twenty and away at Oxford. But Diogenes was home that night. He saw his own mother and father burned alive. The look on his face when the authorities pulled him from the basement, where he'd gone to hide…" She shuddered. "Two days later, Aloysius returned. We were staying with relatives by then, in Baton Rouge. I recall Diogenes taking his older brother into another room and closing the door. They were only inside for five minutes. When Aloysius came out, his face was dead white. And Diogenes immediately walked out the front door and disappeared. He didn't take anything, not even a change of clothing. I never saw him again. The few times we heard from him, it was either by letter or through family bankers or solicitors, and then nothing. Until, of course, the news of his death."
There was a moment of tense silence. The sorrow had left the old woman's face, leaving it calm, composed.
"I do believe it's time for that mint julep, Ambergris." She turned sharply. "John! Three mint juleps, well chilled, if you please. Use the icehouse ice, it's so much sweeter."
Ostrom spoke sharply. "I'm sorry, your guests have to go."
"A pity."
An orderly arrived with a plastic cup of water. He handed it gingerly to the old woman, who took it in her withered hand. "That's enough, John. You are dismissed."
She turned to D'Agosta. "Dear Ambergris, you're leaving an old woman to drink alone, shame on you."
"It was nice seeing you," D'Agosta said.
"I do hope you and your lovely bride will come again. It's always a pleasure to see you… brother." Then she abruptly bared her teeth in what seemed half-smile, half-snarl; raised a spotted hand; and drew the black veil down over her face once again.
SEVEN
Somewhere, a clock chimed midnight, its deep, bell-like tones muted by the plush drapes and hanging tapestries of the library in the old mansion at 891 Riverside Drive.
D'Agosta sat back from the table and stretched in the leather armchair, fingertips working the kinks out of the small of his back. This time the library felt a lot more cheery: a fire was crackling atop wrought-iron firedogs, and light from half a dozen lamps threw a mellow glow into the remotest corners. Constance was sitting beside the fire, sipping tisane from a china cup and reading Spenser's Faerie Queene. Proctor, who had not forgotten D'Agosta's own taste in beverages, had drifted in a few times, replacing warm, half-finished glasses of Budweiser with chilled ones.
Constance had produced all the materials Pendergast saved concerning his brother, and D'Agosta had spent the evening poring over them. Here, in this familiar room, with its walls of books and its scent of leather and woodsmoke, D'Agosta could almost imagine Pendergast at his side, helping him take up the long-cold trail, pale eyes glittering with curiosity at the onset of the chase.
Except there was precious little here to chase. D'Agosta glanced over the documents, clippings, letters, photographs, and old reports that littered the table. Pendergast had clearly taken his brother's threat seriously: the collection was beautifully organized and annotated. It was almost as if Pendergast knew that, when the time ultimately came, he might not be around to face the challenge; that the task might be left to others. He'd saved every scrap of information, it seemed, that he had been able to obtain.
Over the last several hours, D'Agosta had read everything on the table two and, in some cases, three times. After Diogenes had severed his connection with the Pendergast clan following the death of his mother and father, he had gone largely into hiding. For almost a year, there was no word at all. Then a letter arrived from a family lawyer, asking that a sum of $100,000 be wired to a Zurich bank for Diogenes's benefit. This was followed a year later by another, similar letter, demanding that $250,000 be wired to a bank in Heidelberg. The family rejected this second request, and it prompted a response from Diogenes. That letter now sat on the table, sealed between two panels of clear Lucite. D'Agosta glanced once again at the spidery, meticulous script, so curiously inappropriate for a boy of seventeen. There was no date or location, and it was addressed to Pendergast:
Ave, frater-
I find it disagreeable to write you on this subject, or any other for that matter. But you force my hand. For I have no doubt you are the one behind the denial of my request for funds.
I need not remind you I will come into my inheritance in a few years. Until that time I shall now and then require certain trifling sums such as I requested last month. You will find it in your best interests, and in the best interests of others you may or may not know, to honor such requests. I should have thought our final discussion in Baton Rouge would have made that clear. I am very much preoccupied at present with various lines of research and study and have no time to earn money in the conventional manner. If forced to do so, I will obtain the funds I need-in a manner amusing to myself. If you do not wish to see my attentions diverted in this way, you will honor my request with all haste.
The next time I write you, it shall be on a matter of my own choosing, not yours. I will not bring this up again. Good-bye, brother. And bonne chance.
D'Agosta put the letter aside. Records showed that the money was promptly sent. The following year, a similar sum was wired to a bank in Threadneedle Street, London. A year later, another sum was sent to a bank in Kent. Diogenes surfaced briefly on his twenty-first birthday to claim his inheritance-eighty-seven million dollars. Two months later, he was reported to have been killed in an automobile accident in Canterbury High Street. Burned beyond recognition. The inheritance was never found.
D'Agosta turned the bogus death certificate over in his hands.
I am very much preoccupied at present with various lines of research and study. But what, exactly? Diogenes certainly didn't say, and his brother was silent on the matter. Or almost silent. D'Agosta let his eye fall on a pile of news clippings. They had been taken from a variety of foreign magazines and newspapers. Each had been labeled with an attribution and a date, and those in foreign languages had translations attached-once again, Pendergast thinking ahead.
Most of these clippings dealt with unsolved crimes. There was an entire family in Lisbon, killed by botulism, yet without any trace of food found in their stomachs. A chemist at the University of Paris, Sorbonne, was discovered with radial arteries of both wrists severed and the body carefully exsanguinated. Yet there was no blood at the murder scene. Files on several of the chemist's experiments were found to be missing. Additional clippings described still other deaths, more grisly, in which the corpses seemed to have been victims of various tortures or experimentation-the bodies were too badly damaged to be certain. And yet other clippings were mere obituaries. There seemed to be no logic or pattern to the deaths, and Pendergast did not leave any commentary on what it was that he had found interesting.