At the far end of the business district, Pendergast paused long enough to glance at the rambling Victorian sea captain’s house that had, until recently, been the Captain Hull Inn. The Inn’s cheery signboard was now gone, replaced by a large, monochromatic sign bearing the name of the R. J. Mayfield Corporation and heralding the building’s imminent destruction, to be replaced by Exmouth Harbour Village, a series of “starter condos, with ocean views, priced to sell.” If, in the wake of tragedy, the town was ultimately unable to return to its roots as a fishing village, it could always become just another middlebrow vacation destination.
Nosing the big Rolls away, Pendergast turned onto Dune Road, driving slowly in order to check the numbers on the mailboxes. When he reached number 3, he stopped. The house was typical of the region: a small Cape Cod of weathered shingles, with a white picket fence around it and a small, carefully tended yard.
As he examined the house, his cell phone rang. He pulled it from his jacket. “Yes?”
“Secret Agent Man!” came the voice from River Pointe, Ohio.
“Yes, Mime?”
“Calling to give you an update. It seems that chauffeur of yours has been doing some serious traveling of his own. On November eighth, he chartered a private jet from Teterboro Airport, with no advance notice, using DebonAir Aviation. Final destination, Gander, Newfoundland. Well, that was the final destination of the charter, anyway — by poking through some private email exchanges between the DebonAir employees, I’ve learned your chauffeur wasn’t exactly a model passenger.”
“Is Proctor still in the Gander area?”
“Can’t find a trace of him. Not in the motels, not in the surrounding hamlets — nothing. That’s why I’m guessing Gander might not have been his last stop.”
“But Gander is essentially the eastern tip of North America.”
“Score one for our team! Roll the dice and play some Monopoly: where could your boy be headed?”
“Europe?” Pendergast asked softly.
“A possibility.”
“Keep on it, Mime. Use all available resources — national and international.”
“Oh, I will. International are actually better — I have lots of like-minded friends over there. And don’t forget: the meter’s running. I’ll check in when I know more.”
The line went dead. Pendergast thoughtfully replaced the phone in his pocket. He was relieved Proctor was likely alive. Once again, he had to consciously force himself to leave finding Proctor to Mime. He had to focus all his energy on the present mystery.
He sat very still, controlling his breathing, consciously lowering his heartbeat, establishing a mind-set. Then he opened the car door, walked up to the house, and knocked.
It was answered by a short, heavyset man in his late fifties, with a thin comb-over of mouse-brown hair, beady eyes, and what appeared to be an expression of permanent suspicion on his face. He looked Pendergast up and down. “Yes?”
“Thank you, I will come inside. It’s rather chilly out here.” And Pendergast slipped past the man and into a neat living room, with nautical prints on the walls and a hooked rug on the floor.
“Just a minute,” the man protested. “I didn’t—”
“Abner Knott, isn’t it?” Pendergast said, helping himself to a chair set before a low fire burning on the grate. “I heard your name mentioned in town.”
“And I know about you, too,” Knott said, his little pig eyes looking Pendergast up and down. “You’re that FBI man that was in town last month.”
“How clever of you to recognize me. If you’ll be so kind as to answer a few questions, I won’t take up more than a minute or two of your time.”
Knott walked up to a chair across from Pendergast, but he did not sit down. He stood there staring, arms folded over his chest.
“It’s my understanding you have three cottages to rent, here on Dune Road.” Pendergast had learned this — and much more — from his quiet inquiries in town that morning. He had also learned that Abner Knott was thoroughly disliked by the local citizenry. He was considered miserly and churlish, and held in almost as low esteem as R. J. Mayfield — the real estate developer undertaking the destruction of the Captain Hull Inn, and whose cheap, shabby condos were fast becoming the scourge of Cape Ann and points north.
“I own three cottages. It’s no secret. Inherited two from my parents, and built the third one myself on a piece of adjoining land.”
“Thank you. I also understand that during October, two of those cottages were empty — not surprising, being out of season — but the third was occupied. It was only occupied for about two weeks, however, which was unusual, since I understand you rent your cottages by the month.”
“Who’s been talking about me?” Knott asked.
Pendergast shrugged. “You know how few secrets there are in a small town like Exmouth. In any case, I’m interested in the temporary lodger in your cabin. Could you tell me about him?”
Knott’s expression had become more and more truculent as Pendergast spoke. “No, I can’t tell you anything about him.”
“Why is that, pray?”
“Because my renters’ business is their own, and I don’t like to spread it around. Especially not to you.”
Pendergast looked surprised. “Me?”
“You. It wasn’t until you arrived in town that all our troubles started.”
“Indeed?”
“Well, that’s how I saw it. Saw it then, and see it today. So if it’s all the same to you, I’ll ask you to kindly vacate my premises—and my property. Unless you have some sort of warrant.”
The man waited, arms crossed.
“Mr. Knott,” Pendergast said after a moment. “It’s odd you should mention a warrant. You might be unaware of this, but my sudden departure from Exmouth has resulted in a rather large FBI operation. After what I’ve learned here today, I could have just such a warrant — and within forty-eight hours.”
Knott’s expression grew, if anything, more truculent. “Go ahead.”
Pendergast seemed to digest this a moment.
“The door’s over there.”
But Pendergast made no move to stand up. “So you refuse to answer my questions without a warrant?”
“I said as much, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did. You also said I was the cause of the town’s troubles.” And here, Pendergast looked squarely at the short man standing before him. “But it hasn’t all been trouble — has it?”
Knott frowned. “What do you mean?”
“This real estate developer, R. J. Mayfield. Most of the town is very unhappy he’s planning to build condos in Exmouth — tearing down the Inn and erecting an eyesore in its place.”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” Knott said.
“But then, there are a few who feel quite differently: those people who are eager to sell land to the Mayfield Corporation. Phase two of the Exmouth Harbour Village — still in the development stages, of course — will take up some of the coastline south of the old Inn.”
Knott was silent.
“And that would include your cottages. It seems, Mr. Knott, that you stand to earn a pretty penny from Exmouth Harbour Village — a lucky thing, given how the rest of the town is faring.”
“What of it?” Knott said. “A man has a right to make money.”
“It’s just that the scuttlebutt is your section of coastline is sand and limestone that, if speculation is true, has been eaten away by receding groundwater over the last century — meaning the odd sinkhole might open up somewhere at any minute. I’ll bet that’s something you don’t tell your renters, do you?”