“Just gossip,” said Knott.
Pendergast reached into his suit coat and removed an envelope. “The Tufts geologist who prepared this report back in 1956… Was he a gossip? I wonder what would happen if this were to fall into the hands of Mayfield? Say, this very afternoon?”
Knott’s jaw dropped. “You—”
“Oh, he’d no doubt learn of it eventually — surveys, engineering studies, and the like. But this way, he’d learn about it before he has a contract with you.” Pendergast shook his head. “And then, Mr. Knott, your luck would change — very fast.” He paused. “You see, between ourselves I’d really much prefer not to have to wait forty-eight hours to obtain that warrant.”
There was a long, freezing silence.
“What do you want to know?” Knott asked in a very low voice.
Pendergast settled back and made himself comfortable in the chair, taking his time, removing a notebook, turning the pages to find a blank one. “When did your lodger take possession of the cottage?”
“Three or four days after you came into town.”
“Did he ask for a particular cottage?”
“Yes. The one with the best view of Skullcrusher Rocks.”
“And when did he leave?”
“The day after the—” Knott stopped abruptly, and his mouth worked silently for a few seconds. “The day after everything went to hell,” he finally said, lowering his eyes.
“Is this the man?” And Pendergast held out a police photo of Diogenes.
“No.”
“Take a closer look.”
Knott leaned in, squinting at the picture. “It really doesn’t look like him.”
Pendergast was not surprised. “This renter. Did he tell you why he was here?”
“Don’t know. You’d have to ask his lady friend.”
“Lady friend?”
“The one who lived with him.”
A terrible feeling suddenly overwhelmed Pendergast. Is it even possible…? No, it wasn’t; he had to get a better grip on himself.
“Could you please describe the woman?”
“Blond. Young. Short. Athletic.”
“What can you tell me about her?”
“Got a couple jobs in town. Before the two left so suddenly, that is.”
“What jobs were those?”
“Waitress in the Chart Room. Also worked part-time as an assistant in that tourist shop, A Taste of Exmouth.”
For a moment, Pendergast went quite still. He knew this woman by sight — quite well, in fact. She had waited on him more than once at the Inn. So Diogenes had an accomplice — an assistant — a helper? This had never occurred to him before.
He was roused by Knott shifting irritably before him. “Anything else?” the man said.
“Just one more thing. I’d like to spend an hour or two in the cottage they rented — alone and undisturbed.”
When Knott didn’t move, Pendergast extended a hand, palm upward, in anticipation of receiving the key. “Thank you,” he said. “You’ve been most helpful.”
43
Constance rose just before dawn, in time to watch the sun burst over the distant sea horizon and climb into a clear blue sky. She slept with the windows open, and it had been a cool night. She shed her nightdress and felt the sun on her body, warm and inviting. Turning, she went into the bathroom. It was spacious and white, with an old-fashioned slipper tub and a shower. She ran the water in the tub and went back into the bedroom, arranging a few of her possessions on the bureau. The infusion had been disappointingly uneventful, and she felt no different this morning than she had before. But Diogenes had warned her it might take a day or two to feel the effects, which he assured her would be quite dramatic, invigorating, and energizing.
When she emerged from the bath, she could smell coffee brewing. She descended the back stairs, which ended in a small hallway leading to the conservatory; a short walk brought her to the kitchen. Diogenes was seated at a table in a breakfast nook, in a bow window looking out over the gardens. His lean frame was wrapped in an elegant silk morning gown, his ginger hair combed back; he looked fresh, trim, self-assured, and attractive. The likeness to his dead brother was undeniable. The bicolored eyes added an almost dashing touch. Again she had that queer feeling of strangeness, as if she’d fallen out of her own life and onto an alien planet.
“What will you have for breakfast?” he asked.
“Do you have kippers?”
“Indeed we do.”
“Well, then, if it isn’t too much trouble, kippers, two soft-boiled eggs, rashers, and toast.”
“A hearty breakfast. I approve. Coffee or espresso?”
“Espresso, thank you.”
He brought her a demitasse and busied himself at the stove while she drank the coffee. Her breakfast was soon placed in front of her, and he served himself the same. They ate in silence. Diogenes was one of those rare people, Constance thought, who was not disturbed or made anxious by long silences. For this she was grateful. A talker would have been intolerable.
At last, Diogenes put down his empty cup. “And now — a tour?”
He rose, took her hand, and led her out onto the back veranda and down the stairs to the white sand. The path, lined on both sides by rich beds of flowers, meandered past a picturesque palapa, outdoor fireplace, and stone patio with an old brick grill and an arrangement of weather-beaten teak furniture. From there the path wandered through a grove of buttonwood to emerge at a long, white beach. Gurumarra’s cottage was just visible through the foliage. The sun glittered off the water, which whispered and lapped on the sand.
Diogenes had fallen silent, but his light step and graceful way of moving, and the glow in his eyes, told her how precious this place was to him. She felt awkward in her long, old-fashioned dress.
At the end of the beach, a cluster of mangroves blocked their way along the shore and the trail cut inland, winding up the low, sandy bluff, over the top, and partway down the other side; and there, suddenly, a most unusual structure appeared, hidden by the curve of the bluff, looking over the beach and out to the Gulf. It was built of weathered, dark marble and looked like a small, circular temple, but in between the columns were tall, mullioned windows, each pane a mysterious, dark-gray color, almost black.
It was so surprising a vision that Constance involuntarily halted.
“Come,” said Diogenes in hushed tones, leading her around the structure. He grasped the bronze knob of a tall door, and it whispered open, disclosing the spare interior. He handed her inside and closed the door behind.
Constance felt overwhelmed. It was utterly simple, with a black marble floor, gray marble columns, and a domed roof. But it was the mullioned windows and the quality of light that made the interior unworldly. The panes were of some sort of smoked, glassy substance, infused or inflected with billions of little shimmerings of light, depending on how one moved one’s point of view. The light that came through them had a strange, attenuated quality that rendered the interior absolutely colorless. And as she looked at Diogenes, and the rapt expression on his face, she saw that he and herself were both rendered in black-and-white tones, all the color sucked out of the air. It was a most uncanny phenomenon. But rather than being disturbing, she found it serene and spiritual, as if all unnecessary adornment, all vulgar embellishment, had been stripped away, leaving only simplicity and truth. The temple was completely empty beyond a black leather divan, which occupied a space somewhat off center.
They must have stood there for several minutes, in silence, before Diogenes spoke. But he didn’t actually speak: he hummed a low melody that Constance recognized as the opening voice of Bach’s Passacaglia and Fugue in C minor. And as he hummed the tonic voice, then switched to the second voice, and the third, the temple began filling with sound building upon sound, layer upon layer, creating a contrapuntal wonder of echoes.