Blue Labyrinth

Pendergast looked slowly around, as if committing the sights to memory: the Grecian columns; the covered porch; the cypress groves and extensive gardens. Then he turned back to Bartlett. “Let us just say that the estate had become a… nuisance.”

“No doubt! These old plantation houses are a black hole of maintenance! Well, all of us at Southern Realty Ventures thank you for putting your trust in us.” Bartlett fairly burbled. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his damp face with it. “We’ve got wonderful plans for the estate — wonderful plans! In twenty-four months or so, all this will have been transformed into Cypress Wynd Estates. Sixty-five large, elegant, custom-built houses — mansionettes we call them — each situated on its own acre of land. Just think!”

“I am thinking of it,” Pendergast said. “I am imagining it rather vividly.”

“I hope you might even consider picking up a Cypress Wynd mansionette of your own — far more carefree and convenient than this old house here. It comes with a golf membership, too. We’ll give you a hell of a deal!” Beau Bartlett gave Pendergast a friendly nudge with his shoulder.

“How generous of you,” said Pendergast.

“Of course, of course,” Bartlett said. “We’ll be good stewards of the land, I promise you. The old house itself can’t be touched — being on the National Register of Historic Places and all that. It will make a hell of a fine clubhouse, restaurant, bar, and offices. Cypress Wynd Estates will be developed in an environmentally sound ma

“No doubt.”

“You shall be my honored guest on the links at any time. So… next week, you’ll begin moving the family plot?” asked Bartlett.

“Yes. I will handle all the details. And expenses.”

“Very good of you. Respectful of the dead. Commendable. Christian.”

“And then, there’s Maurice,” said Pendergast.

At the mention of Maurice — the elderly manservant who had maintained Penumbra for countless years — Bartlett’s perpetually su

“Yes. Maurice.”

“You will keep him on here, in the position of wine steward, for as long as he desires to stay.”

“So we’ve agreed.” The developer looked up again at the massive façade. “Our attorneys will be in touch with yours about setting the final date for the closing.”

Pendergast nodded.

“Very good. Now, I’ll leave you and… the lady… to pay your final respects, and please take your time!” Bartlett took a courteous step away from the house. “Or do you need a ride into town? You must have come by taxi — I don’t see a car.”

“A ride won’t be necessary, thank you,” Pendergast told him.

“Ah. I see. In that case, good afternoon.” And Bartlett shook the hands of Pendergast and the young woman in turn. “Thank you again.” And then, with a final dab of his handkerchief, he returned to his car, started up the motor, and drove away.

Pendergast and Constance Greene climbed the ancient boards of the covered porch and stepped inside. Producing a small key ring from his pocket, Pendergast opened the main door of the mansion and ushered Constance in before him. The interior smelled of furniture polish, aged wood, and dust. Silently, they walked through the various first-floor spaces — drawing room, saloon, dining room — gazing here and there at the various accoutrements. Everything in view had been tagged with the names of antiques dealers, estate agents, and auction houses, ready to be picked up.

They paused in the library. Here Constance stopped at a glass-fronted bookcase. It contained a king’s ransom: a Shakespeare First Folio; an early copy of the Duc de Berry’s illuminated Très Riches Heures; a first edition of Don Quixote. But what Constance was most interested in were the four enormous volumes at the far end of the bookcase. Reverently, she drew one out, opened it, and began slowly turning the pages, admiring the incredibly vivid and life-like depictions of birds they contained.

“Audubon’s double elephant folio edition of The Birds of America,” she murmured. “All four volumes. Which your own great-great-great-grandfather subscribed to from Audubon himself.”

“Hezekiah’s father,” said Pendergast, his voice flat. “As such, that is one edition of books I can keep, along with the Gutenberg Bible, which has been in the family since Henri Prendregast de Mousqueton. Both predate Hezekiah’s taint. Everything else here must go.”

They retraced their steps to the reception area and mounted the wide stairs to an upper landing. The upstairs parlor lay directly ahead, and they entered it, passing the pair of elephant tusks that framed the doorway. Inside, along with the zebra rug and the half dozen mounted animal heads, was a gun case full of rare and extremely expensive hunting rifles. As with the downstairs possessions, a sales tag had been fixed to each rifle.

Constance stepped up to the case. “Which one was Helen’s?” she asked.

Pendergast reached into his pocket, withdrawing the keyring again. He unlocked the case and pulled out a double-barreled rifle, its side plates intricately engraved and inlaid with precious metals. “A Krieghoff,” he said. He gazed at it for some time, his eyes growing distant. Then he took a deep breath. “It was my wedding present to her.” He offered it to Constance.

“I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you,” she said.

Pendergast returned the gun and relocked the case. “It is past time I let go of this rifle and all associated with it,” he said quietly, as if to himself.

They took seats at the parlor’s central table. “So you’re really selling it all,” Constance said.

“Everything that was, either directly or indirectly, acquired with money from Hezekiah’s elixir.”

“You’re not saying you believe Barbeaux was right?”

Pendergast hesitated before answering. “Until my, ah, illness, I never faced the question of Hezekiah’s fortune. But Barbeaux or no, it seems that divesting myself of all my Louisiana holdings, purging myself of the fruit of Hezekiah’s work, is the right thing to do. All these possessions are now like poison to me. As you know, I’m putting the funds into a new charitable foundation.”

“Vita Brevis, Inc. An apt name, I assume?”

“It’s quite apt — the foundation has a most unusual, if appropriate, purpose.”

“Which is?”

A ghost of a smile appeared on Pendergast’s lips. “The world shall see.”

Rising, they made a brief tour of the mansion’s second story, Pendergast indicating various points of interest. They lingered a little in the room that had been his as a child. Then they descended again to the first floor.

“There’s still the wine cellar,” Constance said. “You told me it was magnificent — the consolidation of all the cellars from the various family branches, as they died out. Shall we tour it?”

A shadow crossed Pendergast’s face. “I don’t think I’m quite up to that, if you don’t mind.”

A knock came at the front door. Pendergast stepped forward, opened it. In the doorway stood a curious figure: a short, soft man wearing a black cutaway set off by a white carnation. An expensive-looking briefcase was in one hand, and in the other — despite the clear day — a fastidiously rolled umbrella. A bowler hat sat on his head, at an angle just shy of being rakish. He looked like a cross between Hercule Poirot and Charlie Chaplin.