At the back of the kitchen stood a narrow door. Lake opened it, flicked on a light switch. It illuminated a set of steep, rickety stairs going down into darkness. A rich, cool smell of damp earth and stone rose up.
“Take care,” he cautioned. “These stairs are steep.”
They descended into a mazelike space, with stone walls covered in niter, and a stone floor. In one alcove was a furnace and water heater, in another a finished room with a collection of air tools, sandbags, protection suits, and equipment for polishing stone.
They turned a corner and came into the largest room in the basement. One wall was covered, floor to ceiling, with empty wooden wine racks. Curling yellow labels were tacked to the wood or strewn about the floor, along with broken bottles and a heavy perfume of wine.
Pendergast picked up a piece of a broken bottle, reading the label. “Chateau Latour, ’61. These burglars were singularly careless.”
“They made a mess of the place, the cretins.”
Pendergast knelt before the closest rack, examining it with a bright LED penlight. “Tell me about the weekend of the theft.”
“Carole and I had gone away to Boston. We do that frequently, to dine, go to the symphony or a museum—recharge our batteries. We left Friday afternoon and returned Sunday evening.”
The light probed here and there. “Who knew you were gone?”
“Pretty much the whole village, I imagine. We have to drive through town on our way out, and as you can see Exmouth is a small place. Everyone knows we make frequent trips to Boston.”
“You said they broke a window. I assume the house was locked?”
“Yes.”
“Is there an alarm system?”
“No. I suppose in retrospect that seems stupid. But crime is almost nonexistent here. I can’t remember the last time there was a burglary in Exmouth.”
Now a test tube and tweezers appeared from somewhere in Pendergast’s suit. Using the tweezers, he plucked something from the wine rack and put it in the tube.
“What is the history of the house?” he asked.
“It’s one of the oldest north of Salem. As I mentioned, it was the lighthouse keeper’s place, built in 1704, and added on to at various later dates. My wife and I bought it and took our time with the renovations. As a sculptor I can work anywhere, but we found this to be an idyllic location—quiet, off the beaten track yet close to Boston. Charming and undiscovered. And the local granite is splendid. There’s a quarry just on the far side of the salt marshes. Some of the pink granite used to build the Museum of Natural History in New York came out of that quarry. Lovely stuff.”
“I should like a tour of your sculpture garden sometime.”
“Absolutely! You’re staying at the Inn, I assume? I’ll be sure to arrange a viewing.”
While Lake was praising the local granite, Constance watched as Pendergast moved about on his knees, getting his suit filthy, scrutinizing the cellar floor. “And the bottles of Braquilanges? I assume they are in that case in the far corner?”
“Yes, and thank God they missed them!”
Pendergast rose again. His pale face seemed troubled. He went over to the wine, which sat by itself in a wooden crate with the crest of the chateau stamped on it. The top was loose, and he lifted it up and peered inside. Ever so gently he reached in and removed a bottle, cradling it almost like a baby.
“Who would have believed it?” he murmured.
He put it back.
Crossing the floor, feet crunching on glass, Pendergast returned to the empty wine racks. This time he examined the upper sections. He took a few more samples, shone his light along the ceiling, and then along the floor, where the racks were anchored. Suddenly, he grasped two wooden braces holding up the center part of the racks and gave a mighty pull. With a cracking and groaning of wood the rack came away, exposing the wall behind, laid with dressed stone.
“What in the world—?” Lake began.
But Pendergast ignored him, pulling more pieces of the wine rack away, until the entire central area of the mortared wall behind the rack was exposed. Now, taking out a small penknife, he inserted it between two of the stones and began to scrape and cut, wiggling free one stone and pulling it out. He laid it with care on the ground and shone his penlight through the hole he’d made. With surprise, Constance realized there was a space behind.
“I’ll be damned,” said Lake, coming forward to look.
“Step back,” said Pendergast sharply.