White Fire p-13

by Douglas Preston

  “Shit!” she screamed again. The shooter was still out there, might even be coming down the road after her. The car had stalled and the passenger side was all bashed up, but it didn’t seem to be a total wreck; she turned the key and the engine came to life. She eased the Focus back around, forcing herself to do a careful three-point turn, and drove down the road. The car still ran, but it made a nasty noise — a fender seemed to be scraping one of the tires.

  Slowly, carefully, hands trembling on the steering wheel, she guided the vehicle down the mountain and into town, heading straight for the police department.

  * * *

  After Corrie had filled out an incident report, the sergeant behind the desk promptly showed her into the chief’s office. Apparently, she was now a person of importance. She found Chief Morris behind his desk, which was heaped with three-by-five cards, photographs, string, pins, and glue. On the wall behind him was an incomprehensible chart that was no doubt related to the arson killings.

  The chief looked like death warmed over. His cheeks hung like slabs of suet on his face, his eyes were sunken coals, his hair was unkempt. At the same time, there was a severe cast to his eye that hadn’t been there before. That, at least, was an improvement.

  He took the report and gestured for her to sit. A few minutes went by while he read it, then read it again. And then he laid it on the table. “Is there any reason you can think of that someone might be unhappy with you?” he asked.

  At this Corrie, shaken as she was, had to laugh. “Yeah. Like just about everyone in The Heights. The mayor. Kermode. Montebello. Not to mention you.”

  The chief managed a wan smile. “We’re going to open an investigation, of course. But…listen, I hope you won’t think I’m trying to brush this off if I tell you we’ve been looking for a poacher up in that area for several weeks now. He’s been killing and butchering deer, no doubt selling the meat. One of his wild shots went through the window of a house just last week. So what happened to you might—might—have been a stray shot from his poaching activity. This happened early in the morning, which is when the deer — and our poacher — are active. Again, I’m not saying that’s what happened. I’m just mentioning it as a possibility…to ease your mind more than anything.”

  “Thanks,” said Corrie.

  They rose, and the chief held out his hand. “I’m afraid I’ll have to impound your car as evidence — do a ballistics analysis and see if we can recover the round.”

  “You’re welcome to it.”

  “I’ll have one of my officers drive you where you need to go.”

  “No, thanks, I’m just going around the corner for a Starbucks.”

  As Corrie sat sipping her coffee, she wondered if it really had been a poacher. It was true she had annoyed a lot of people early on, but that had blown over, especially with the start of the arson killings. Shooting at her car — that would be attempted murder. What kind of threat was she to merit that? Problem was, the chief was so overwhelmed — as was everyone else in the police department — that she had little faith he would be able to conduct an effective investigation. If the shooting was meant to intimidate her, it wasn’t going to work. She might be frightened — but there was no way she’d be frightened out of town. If anything, it would make her want to stay longer.

  Then again…it might be the poacher. Or it could be some other random crazy. It could even be the serial arsonist, switching M.O.’s. Her thoughts turned to Stacy up in the ravine, probably still asleep. She was eventually going to come into town, and she might also be in danger, get shot at, too.

  She pulled out her cell phone and dialed Stacy. A sleepy voice answered. As soon as Corrie started telling her the story, she woke up fast.

  “Somebody shot up your car? I’m going looking for the mother.”

  “Wait. Don’t do that. That’s crazy. Let the police handle it.”

  “His tracks will be out there, in the snow. I’ll follow the fucker back to whatever spider hole he crawled out of.”

  “No, please.” It took Corrie ten minutes to persuade Stacy not to do it. As Corrie was about to hang up, Stacy said: “I hope he shoots at my car. I’ve got a couple of Black Talon rounds just itching to explore his inner psyche.”

  Next, she called Rent-a-Junker. The agent went on and on about how the chief of police himself had just called, how awful being shot at must’ve been, was she all right, did she need a doctor…And would an upgrade — a Ford Explorer? — be acceptable, at no extra charge, of course?

  Corrie smiled as she hung up. The chief seemed to be acquiring, at long last, a bit of backbone.

  38

  Roger Kleefisch sprawled in one of the two velvet-lined armchairs in the sitting room of his London town house, feet on the bearskin rug, his entire frame drinking in the welcome warmth from the crackling fire on the grate. Agent Pendergast sat in the other chair, motionless, his eyes gazing into the flames. When Kleefisch had let him in, the FBI agent had glanced around at the room, raising his eyebrows but making no other comment. And yet, somehow, Kleefisch felt that he approved.

  He rarely let anyone into his sitting room, and he couldn’t help but feel a little like Sherlock Holmes himself, here at home, partner in detection at his side. The thought managed to lift his spirits a little. Although, were he to be honest with himself, he should probably be assuming the role of Watson. After all, Pendergast was the professional detective here.

  At last, Pendergast shifted, placed his whisky-and-soda on a side table. “So, Kleefisch. What have you uncovered so far?”

  It was the question Kleefisch had been dreading. He swallowed, took a deep breath, and spoke. “Nothing, I’m afraid.”

  The pale eyes gazed at him intently. “Indeed?”

  “I’ve tried everything over these last twenty-four hours,” he replied. “I’ve looked back through old correspondence, read and re-read Conan Doyle’s diary. I’ve examined every book, every treatise on the man’s last years that I could find. I’ve even tried picking the brains — circumspectly — of several of our most brilliant Investitures. I’ve found nothing, not even a trace of evidence. And I must say, despite my initial enthusiasm, it doesn’t come as a surprise. All this ground had been covered so thoroughly by Irregulars in the past. I was a fool to think there might be something new.”

  Pendergast did not speak. With the firelight flickering over his gaunt features, his head bowed, an expression of intense thought on his face, surrounded by Victorian trappings, he suddenly looked so much like Holmes himself that Kleefisch was taken aback.

  “I’m truly sorry, Pendergast,” Kleefisch said, averting his gaze to the bearskin rug. “I was so hopeful.” He paused. “I fear you’re on a wild goose chase — one that I may have encouraged. I apologize for that.”

  After a moment, Pendergast stirred. “On the contrary. You’ve already done a great deal. You confirmed my suspicions about the missing Holmes story. You showed me the evidence in Queen’s Quorum. You made the connection, in Conan Doyle’s letters, to Aspern Hall. Almost despite yourself, you’ve convinced me not only that ‘The Adventure of Aspern Hall’ existed — but that it still exists. I must locate it.”

  “For an Irregular like me, a Holmes scholar, that would be the coup of a lifetime. But again I have to ask — why is it so important to you?”

  Pendergast hesitated a moment. “I have certain ideas, conjectures, that this story might confirm — or not.”

  “Conjectures about what?”

  A small smile curled Pendergast’s lip. “You — a Holmes scholar — encouraging an investigator to indulge in vulgar speculation? My dear Kleefisch!”

  As this Kleefisch colored.

  “While I normally despise those who claim a sixth sense,” Pendergast said, “in this case I feel that the lost story is at the center of all mysteries here — past and present.”

  “In that case,” Kleefisch finally said, “I’m sorry I’ve come up empty.”

  “Fear not,” Pendergast replied.
“I haven’t.”

  Kleefisch raised his eyebrows.

  Pendergast went on. “I proceeded on the assumption that the more I could learn about Conan Doyle’s final years, the closer I’d come to finding the lost story. I focused my efforts on the circle of spiritualists he belonged to in the years before he died. I learned that this group frequently met at a small cottage named Covington Grange, on the edge of Hampstead Heath. The cottage was owned by a spiritualist by the name of Mary Wilkes. Conan Doyle had a small room at Covington Grange where he would sometimes write essays on spirituality, which he would read to the group of an evening.”

  “Fascinating,” Kleefisch said.

  “Allow me to pose this question: is it not likely that, while writing his late texts on spiritualism at Covington Grange, he also wrote his final Sherlock Holmes story, ‘The Adventure of Aspern Hall’?”

  Kleefisch felt a quickening of excitement. It made sense. And this was an avenue that had never, to his knowledge, been explored by a fellow Irregular.

  “Given its incendiary nature, isn’t it also possible that the author might not have hidden it somewhere in that little room he used for writing, or somewhere else in the Grange?”

  “Might he not indeed!” Kleefisch rose from his chair. “My God. No wonder the manuscript was never found at Windlesham! So what’s next, then?”

  “What’s next? I should have thought that obvious. Covington Grange is next.”

  39

  Teacup in hand, Dorothea Pembroke stepped back into her tidy alcove at the Blackpool headquarters of the National Trust for Places of Historic Interest or Natural Beauty. It was past ten forty-five, and Miss Pembroke was almost as serious about her elevenses as she was about her position, about which she was very serious indeed. A cloth napkin, placed daintily upon the desktop; a cup of Harrisons & Crosfield jasmine tea, one lump; and a wheatmeal biscuit dipped twice — not once, not three times — into the cup before being nibbled.

  In many ways, Ms. Pembroke felt, she was the National Trust. There were more important jobs than hers in the nonprofit association, of course, but nobody could boast a finer pedigree. Her grandfather, Sir Erskine Pembroke, had been master of Chiddingham Place, one of the more impressive stately homes in Cornwall. But his company had failed, and when the family realized they couldn’t maintain either the taxes or the upkeep of the mansion, they entered into talks with the National Trust. The building’s foundations and general fabric were restored, its gardens expanded, and ultimately Chiddingham Place was opened to visitors, while the family stayed on in modest rooms on the top floor. A few years later, her father had taken a position with the National Trust, as a development manager. As soon as she was out of school, Miss Pembroke had joined the Trust herself, rising over the past thirty-two years to the position of deputy administrator.

  All in all, a most satisfactory rise.

  As she put away the teacup and was folding the napkin, she became aware that a man was standing in the doorway. She was much too well bred to show surprise, but she paused just a moment before giving the napkin a final fold and placing it away in her desk. He was a rather striking-looking man — tall and pale, with white-blond hair and eyes the color of glacial ice, dressed in a well-cut black suit — but she did not recognize him, and visitors were usually announced.

  “Forgive me,” he said in an American accent — southern — accompanied by a charming smile. “I don’t mean to intrude, Ms. Pembroke. But the secretary in your outer office was away from her desk, and, well, we did have an appointment.”

  Dorothea Pembroke opened her book and glanced at the current day’s page. Yes, indeed: she did have an eleven fifteen appointment with a Mr. Pendergast. She recalled that he had particularly asked to see her, as opposed to an administrator — most unusual. Still, he had not been announced, and she did not hold with such informality. But the man had a winning way about him, and she was prepared to overlook this breach of propriety.

  “May I sit down?” he asked, with another smile.

  Miss Pembroke nodded toward an empty seat before her desk. “What, may I inquire, do you wish to speak with me about?”

  “I wish to visit one of your properties.”

  “Visit?” she said, allowing the faintest tinge of disapproval to color her voice. “We have volunteers out in front who can assist you with that.” Really, it was too much, her being bothered with such a trivial request.

  “I do apologize,” the man replied. “I don’t wish to take up your valuable time. I spoke about the matter with Visitor Services, and they referred me to you.”

  “I see.” That did put another spin on things. And, really, the man had the most courtly manners. Even his accent spoke of breeding — not one of those harsh, barbarous American drawls. “Before we get started, we have a little regulation here. We require visitor identification, if you please.”

  The man smiled again. He had beautifully white teeth. He reached into his black suit and removed a leather wallet, which he laid open upon the table, exposing a brilliance of gold on top with a photo ID card below. Miss Pembroke was startled.

  “Oh! Goodness! The Federal Bureau of Investigation? Is this…a criminal matter?”

  The man gave a most winning smile. “Oh, no, don’t be the slightest bit alarmed. This is a personal matter, nothing official. I would have shown you my passport, but it’s in the hotel safe.”

  Miss Pembroke allowed her fluttering heart to subside. She had never been involved in a criminal matter and looked on such a possibility with abhorrence.

  “Well, then, Mr. Pendergast, that is reassuring, and I am at your service. Please tell me the property you’d like to visit?”

  “A cottage named Covington Grange.”

  “Covington Grange. Covington Grange.” Miss Pembroke was not familiar with the name. But then again, the Trust had hundreds of properties in its care — including many of England’s greatest estates — and she could not be expected to remember all of them.

  “Half a moment.” She turned to her computer, moused through a few menus, and entered the name into the waiting field. Several photos and a long textual entry appeared on the screen. As she read the entry, she realized she did have a faint recollection of the site. No wonder the people at Visitor Services recommended the man speak to an administrator.

  She turned back. “Covington Grange,” she said again. “Formerly owned by Leticia Wilkes, who died in 1980, leaving it to the government.”

  The man named Pendergast nodded.

  “I’m very sorry to tell you, Mr. Pendergast, that a visit to Covington Grange is out of the question.”

  At this news, a look of devastation crossed the man’s face. He struggled to master himself. “The visit needn’t be a long one, Ms. Pembroke.”

  “I’m sorry, it’s quite impossible. According to the file, the cottage has been shut up for decades, closed to the public while the Trust decides what to do with it.”

  Poor man — he looked so desolated that even Dorothea Pembroke’s hard and ever so correct heart began to soften. “It’s suffered serious damage from the elements,” she said, by way of explanation. “It is unsafe and requires extensive conservation before we could ever allow anyone inside. And at present, our funds — as you might imagine — are limited. There are numerous other properties, more important properties, that also need attention. And, to be frank, it is of marginal historical interest.”

  Mr. Pendergast looked down, clasping and unclasping his hands. Finally, he spoke. “I thank you for taking the time to explain the situation. It makes perfect sense. It’s just—” And here, Mr. Pendergast looked up again, meeting her gaze— “It’s just that I am Leticia Wilkes’s last remaining descendant.”

  Miss Pembroke looked at him in surprise.

  “She was my grandmother. Of the family line, only I remain. My mother died of cancer last year, and my father was killed in a train accident the year before. My…sister was killed just three weeks ago, in a robbery gone bad. So, you
see…” Mr. Pendergast paused a moment to collect himself. “You see, Covington Grange is all I have left. It is where I spent my summers as a boy, before my mother took us to America. It contains all the happy memories I have of my lost family.”

  “Oh, I see.” This was a heartbreaking story indeed.

  “I just wanted to see the place one last time, just once, before the contents go to wrack and ruin. And…in particular, there’s an old family photo album I remember paging through as a boy, put up in a cupboard, which I’d like to take — if that’s all right with you. I have nothing, nothing, of the family. We left everything behind when we went to America.”

  Miss Pembroke listened to this tragic story, pity welling up in her heart. After a moment she cleared her throat. Pity was one thing, duty quite another.

  “As I’ve said, I’m very sorry,” she said. “But for all the reasons I’ve told you, it’s simply out of the question. And in any case all the contents belong to the Trust, even the photographs, which might hold historic interest.”

  “But they’re just rotting away! It’s been over thirty years and nothing’s been done!” Pendergast’s voice had taken on a wheedling tone. “Just ten minutes inside? Five? Nobody would have to know besides you and me.”

  This insinuation — that she might be privy to an underhanded scheme unbeknownst to the Trust — broke the spell. “That is out of the question. I am surprised you would make such an overture.”

  “And that’s your final word?”

  Miss Pembroke gave a curt nod.

  “I see.” The man’s air changed. The forlorn expression, the faint tremor in the voice, vanished. He sat back in his chair and regarded her with quite a different expression than before. There was suddenly something in the expression — something Miss Pembroke could not quite put a finger on — that was ever so faintly alarming.