He presented the key to Pendergast. “In his note, he said the Bible would be found in the library, on a rectory table — a large book with a silver clasp.”
“I recall it well,” said Pendergast, taking the key. “The very same Bible he read to us as part of our lessons.” He slipped the key into his pocket. “Thank you, Father, for giving me the message.”
“Think nothing of it. Gaspard was a good churchgoing soul, there every Sunday without fail. He did harbor some odd ideas, and naturally one heard rumors, but at base he was a good Christian. Besides, this is New Orleans, after all.”
With a final handshake and a blessing the priest went off, and Pendergast turned to Constance.
“Another house fire?” she asked, scattering stray drops of rain with a shake of her mahogany hair.
Pendergast nodded. “A man as old as Father Fazande would be familiar with the history of New Orleans — including the destruction of Rochenoire.”
Constance said nothing. She recalled the strange story of how the Maison de la Rochenoire, the Pendergast family mansion, had burned to the ground many years before, when Pendergast had been away at boarding school. The blaze had taken the lives of his parents.
“Monsieur Bertin was one of those who, with several of the servants, escaped the burning house,” Pendergast murmured as he glanced around.
“Indeed?” Constance had not known this. “How did that happen, exactly?”
“Some of that day’s details remain a mystery to me still.” Pendergast’s roving eyes fastened on something. “Ah, there she is. Come. I should like to speak to the mysterious mourner in black.”
The woman in question was trundling along one of the cemetery lanes, using a cane for support, her garments drooping from the damp. Pendergast walked quickly toward her, Constance following.
They drew alongside and Pendergast stopped, covering her with his umbrella and giving her an ingratiating smile. “May I introduce myself? Aloysius Pendergast.” He took her hand and gave a little bow.
The lady drew aside her veil to reveal a well-lined but still handsome face. Curls of white hair framed bright blue eyes, and a smile exposed two chipmunk-like teeth.
“How do you do, young man?”
“Well, very well. And this is my ward, Constance Greene.”
“I am Madame Brissot. Delighted to meet you.”
The old lady paused to examine Constance more closely, her expression becoming curious. But Constance was used to scrutiny by now, and nodded in return.
“Monsieur Bertin was my tutor as a child,” said Pendergast. “Since you are the only other person I saw at his funeral, naturally I wanted to introduce myself to you.”
She looked back at him and pressed his hand. “Gaspard was a dear old friend. He was one of the few left who had the gift.”
“The gift?” Constance asked.
The woman smiled and nodded, without explaining.
“He gave me a gift once,” Pendergast said, smoothly altering the course of conversation. “It was my first pet, a little piebald mouse. I named it Incitatus, after the favorite horse of the emperor Caligula.”
“Is that the one your brother, ah, killed?”
Once again, Pendergast looked surprised. “Did Monsieur Bertin tell you about that?”
“He certainly did. He loved those mice of his. He often spoke of you, Mr. Pendergast, and the time he spent in your family’s house on Dauphine Street.” She tut-tutted. “He could never understand why that mob showed up.”
“Indeed,” murmured Pendergast, now changing the subject in earnest. “Did Monsieur Bertin have any particular enemies?”
Madame Brissot’s gaze sharpened. “Why do you ask?”
“Mere curiosity.”
“Well now, Gaspard was involved in...” Here the old woman moved in and lowered her voice. “In the old ways. The darker arts, so to speak, although of course he was extremely discreet.”
“Naturally,” Pendergast said.
Madame Brissot’s gaze relaxed. “That’s why no one showed up at the funeral. At least publicly, so as not to be marked as a... follower of the John the Conqueror root. I know you understand.”
Pendergast nodded.
“His clientele came from old New Orleans society, as did he. Publicly, they scoff at the old ways. But when they got into a real fix, or their luck took a bad turn, or somebody wished them ill, they knew they could count on his talents — and his silence. But he gave all that up years ago.” She paused, as if struck by a new thought. “If you’re wondering if his death was caused by something unnatural...” She paused at the word. “I shouldn’t think so. Who would wish harm on an eighty-one-year-old recluse?”
“He was ailing at the end, I understand.”
“It was a steady decline. He had a bad heart.”
“He spoke to you of that?”
“Yes. He said he sometimes took those gunpowder pills for it.”
“You mean nitroglycerin?”
“I knew it was something explosive.”
“Of course.” Pendergast took her hand and bowed again. “It was delightful to meet a friend of Bertin’s, especially someone with the courage to show up at his funeral.”
“At my age, I’ve got nothing to lose but my eternal soul.”
“Can we bring our car around for you, Madame?” Pendergast asked. “It’s still some ways to the parking lot.”
“Oh, no. I adore walking. It is what has kept me alive these past ninety-nine years. Surely you would understand, my dear?” And she fixed Constance with a most unsettling expression.
“Ah yes, walking,” Pendergast repeated quickly.
“Plain old simple walking. With a little protection against muggers and falls.” She patted what appeared to be an invisible pocket in her dress. “Gaspard gave me a mojo bag forty years ago. Very special, he said. Very rare. And it hasn’t failed me yet.”
At this she gave a strangely girlish giggle, then set off, cane thumping the ground in vigorous syncopation with her footsteps.
Monsieur Bertin’s house was on Governor Nicholls Street, a three-story Creole town house in brick, with stacked balconies and elaborate cast-iron railings. It looked neglected: the second-floor shutters hung awry, the balconies sagged, and the bricks were cracked and in need of repointing.
Pendergast inserted the key in the door and it opened easily into a long foyer. The first-floor shutters were closed and the interior was dim, but its salient features were nevertheless evident.
“The gentleman was a hoarder,” Constance said, gazing around.
“So it would appear.”
She glanced at him. “Do you mean to say this is your first time in his house?”
“This is the first time I’ve received an invitation — even indirectly.” And he held up the key.
Through the open door on the left, leading into the front parlor, Constance saw a mountain of books, papers, and magazines, along with other bric-a-brac, piled almost to the ceiling, leaving a narrow alley to the next room. A mouse scampered into the middle of the floor and stopped to stare at them with curiosity, joined by two others.
“Oh dear,” said Constance drily.
Pendergast reached out and flicked on the lights, which did little to dispel the gloom. “In houses like this, the library was usually down the hall to the left, behind the parlor.”
They passed the central staircase. Even the treads were stacked with clutter, barely leaving room for going up and down. They passed through a door and went through an equally overstuffed passageway, barely navigable, that ended in a library. This room, oddly enough, was clear, and it appeared it was where Bertin spent his waking hours in reading — along with esoteric studies, if the mortar and pestle, test tubes, and various bottles of dried insects, frogs, spiders, and roots were any indication. Constance was aware of a mixture of familiar smells: formaldehyde, ether, alcohol, as well as a sweetish herbal odor she couldn’t immediately place. At the far end of the room stood an elaborate marble fireplace, covered with carved wooden statues and strange ornaments that reminded Constance of certain decorations she had seen in the funeral home. To the right of the fireplace was the table mentioned by the old priest. Both ends were stacked with books, but the center was bare save for a massive leather-bound Bible, heavily tooled with silver studs and a chased-silver clasp.