p&c.brimstone-第8节

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ayed　around　the　parquet　floor。　Wren　plucked　at　Pendergast's　sleeve。　〃How　is　she？〃　
　Pendergast　stopped。　〃She　is　well。　Physically。　Emotionally；　as　well　as　could　be　expected。　We're　making　slow　progress。　It's　been　so　long；　you　see。〃　
　Wren　nodded　his　understanding。　Then　he　reached　into　his　pocket　and　withdrew　a　DVD。　
　〃Here　it　is；〃　he　said；　passing　it　to　Pendergast。　〃A　plete　inventory　of　the　collections　within　this　house；　cataloged　and　indexed　to　the　best　of　my　ability。〃　
　Pendergast　nodded。　
　〃It　still　amazes　me　that　the　world's　preeminent　cabinet　of　curiosities　is　housed　under　this　roof。〃　
　〃Indeed。　And　I　trust　you　found　the　pieces　I　gave　you　from　it　payment　enough　for　your　services？〃　
　〃Oh；　yes；〃　Wren　whispered。　〃Yes；　yes；　they　were　definitely　payment　enough。〃　
　〃As　I　recall；　you　were　so　long　on　restoring　a　certain　Indian　ledger　book　I　was　afraid　the　rightful　owner　would　get　restive。〃　
　〃One　can't　hurry　art；〃　Wren　sniffed。　〃And　it　was　such　abeautiful　ledger　book。　It's　just　that　。　。　。　it's　justtime　；　you　know。　Time　bears　away　all　things；　as　Virgil　said。　It's　bearing　away　my　books　right　now；　my　lovely　books；　faster　than　I　can　restore　them。〃　Wren's　domicile　was　the　seventh　and　deepest　sub…basement　of　the　New　York　Public　Library；　where　he　held　court　over　uncataloged　legions　of　decaying　books；　their　endless　stacks　navigable　by　no　one　but　himself。　
　〃Indeed。　Then　it　must　be　a　relief　to　know　that　your　work　here　is　done。〃　
　〃I'd　have　inventoried　the　library　as　well；　butshe　seems　to　retain　everything　about　it　in　her　head。〃　And　Wren　allowed　himself　a　bitter　laugh。　
　〃Her　knowledge　of　this　house　is　remarkable；　and　I've　found　uses　for　it　already。〃　
　Wren　glanced　at　him　inquiringly。　
　〃I'm　planning　to　ask　her　to　examine　the　library's　holdings　on　Satan。〃　
　〃Satan？　That's　a　broad　topic；hypocrite　lecteur　。〃　
　〃As　it　happens；　I'm　interested　in　just　one　aspect。　The　death　of　human　beings　at　the　hand　of　the　devil。〃　
　〃You　mean；　as　in　selling　one's　soul？　Payment　for　services　rendered；　that　kind　of　thing？〃　
　Pendergast　nodded。　
　〃It'sstill　a　broad　topic。〃　
　〃I'm　not　interested　in　literature；　Wren。　I'm　interested　solely　in　nonfiction　sources。　Primary　sources。　Preferably　first…person　and　eyewitness　accounts。〃　
　〃You've　been　in　this　house　too　long。〃　
　〃I　find　it's　beneficial　to　keep　her　occupied。　And；　as　you　said　yourself；　she　knows　the　library's　holdings　so　well。〃　
　〃I　see。〃　And　Wren　let　his　gaze　stray　toward　a　set　of　doors　in　the　far　wall。　
　Pendergast　followed　his　gaze。　〃You　wish　to　see　her？〃　
　〃Are　you　surprised？　I'm　practically　her　godfather；　after　what　happened　here　this　summer。　You　forget　my　role。〃　
　〃I　forget　nothing；　and　will　always　be　in　your　debt　for　that；　if　nothing　else。〃　And　without　another　word；　Pendergast　stepped　forward　and　noiselessly　opened　the　doors。　
　Wren　peered　through　them。　His　yellow　eyes　grew　bright。　On　the　far　side　lay　a　large　and　sumptuously　appointed　library。　Case　after　case　of　richly　bound　books　rose　to　the　ceiling；　firelight　warming　their　leather　spines。　A　dozen　small　sofas　and　wing　chairs　were　arranged　across　a　thick　Persian　carpet。　In　one　of　the　chairs；　sitting　before　the　fire；　was　a　young　woman；　paging　through　an　oversize　book　of　lithographs。　She　was　wearing　a　pinafore　over　a　white　dress　and　black　stockings；　and　as　she　turned　another　page；　the　firelight　shone　on　her　slender　limbs；　her　dark　hair　and　eyes。　On　a　low　table　nearby　sat　a　tea　service；　laid　out　for　two。　
　Pendergast　cleared　his　throat　gently　and　the　girl　looked　up。　Her　eyes　went　from　the　FBI　agent　to　Wren；　and　for　a　moment；　fear　flashed　through　them。　But　then　recognition　spread　across　her　features。　She　put　the　book　aside；　stood　up；　smoothed　her　pinafore；　and　waited　for　the　two　men　to　approach。　
　〃How　are　you；　Constance？〃　Wren　asked　in　as　soothing　a　croak　as　he　could　manage。　
　〃Very　well；　Mr。　Wren；　thank　you。〃　Constance　gave　a　small　curtsy。　〃And　yourself？〃　
　〃Busy；　very　busy。　My　books　take　up　all　my　time。〃　
　〃I　shouldn't　think　one　would　speak　grudgingly　of　such　a　noble　occupation。〃　Constance's　tone　was　grave；　but　the　faintest　of　smiles　touched　her　lips…in　amusement？　condescension？…and　was　gone　again　before　Wren　could　be　sure。　
　〃No；　no；　of　course　not。〃　Wren　tried　not　to　stare。　How；　in　such　a　short　time；　could　he　have　forgotten　that　studied　voice　with　its　quaint　constructions？　How　could　he　forget　those　eyes；　so　very　ancient；　yet　set　in　such　a　young　and　beautiful　face？　He　cleared　his　throat。　〃So　tell　me；　Constance；　how　you　pass　your　days。〃　
　〃Rather　tranquilly。　In　the　mornings；　I　read　Latin　and　Greek；　under　the　direction　of　Aloysius。　My　afternoons　are　my　own；　and　I　generally　spend　them　browsing　the　collections；　correcting　the　occasional　inaccurate　label　I　happen　to　e　across。〃　
　Wren　darted　a　quick　look　at　Pendergast。　
　〃We　have　a　late　tea；　during　which　Aloysius　generally　reads　to　me　from　the　newspapers。　After　dinner；　I　practice　the　violin。　Wretchedly。　Aloysius　suffers　me　to　believe　he　finds　my　playing　bearable。〃　
　〃Dr。　Pendergast　is　the　most　honest　of　people。〃　
　〃Let　us　say　Dr。　Pendergast　is　the　most　tactful　of　people。〃　
　〃Be　that　as　it　may；　I'd　love　to　hear　you　play　sometime。〃　
　〃I　would　be　delighted。〃　And　Constance　curtsied　again。　
　Wren　nodded；　turned　to　leave。　
　〃Mr。　Wren？〃　Constance　called　after　him。　
　Wren　turned；　beetled　eyebrows　raised　in　query。　
　She　looked　back　at　him。　〃Thank　you　again。　For　everything。〃　
　Pendergast　quietly　shut　the　doors　to　the　library　and　acpanied　Wren　back　down　the　echoing　galleries。　
　〃You　read　her　thenewspapers　？〃　Wren　asked。　
　〃Just　selected　articles；　of　course。　It　seemed　the　easiest　form　of…how　best　to　put　it？…social　depression。　We're　now　up　to　the　1960s。〃　
　〃And　her　nocturnal；　ah；　rambles？〃　
　〃Now　that　she's　under　my　care；　there's　no　need　for　foraging。　And　I've　decided　on　the　site　of　her　recuperation：　my　great…aunt's　estate　on　the　Hudson。　It's　deserted　these　days。　It　should　be　a　good　reintroduction　to　sunlight；　if　handled　gently　enough。〃　
　〃Sunlight。〃　Wren　repeated　the　word　slowly；　as　if　tasting　it。　〃It　still　seems　impossible　she　was　there　all　that　time；　after　what　happened；　in　those　tunnels　down　by　the　river　access。　I　keep　wondering　why　she　revealed　herself　to　me。〃　
　〃Perhaps　she'd　grown　to　trust　you。　She'd　watched　you　at　work　long　enough；　over　the　summer。　You　clearly　loved　the　collections；　which　are　precious　to　her　as　well。　Or　perhaps　she　had　just　reached　the　point　where　human　contact　was　necessary；　no　matter　what　the　risk。〃　
　Wren　shook　his　head。　〃Are　you　sure；　really　sure；　she's　only　nineteen　years　old？〃　
　〃That　question　is　more　difficult　than　it　sounds。　Physically；　her　body　is　that　of　a　nineteen…year…old。〃　
　They　had　reached　the　front　door；　and　Wren　waited　for　Pendergast　to　unlock　it。　〃Thank　you；　Wren；〃　the　FBI　agent　said；　opening　the　door。　Night　air　rushed　in；　carrying　with　it　the　faint　sounds　of　traffic。　
　Wren　stepped　through　the　door；　paused；　turned　back。　〃Have　you　decided　what　you're　going　to　do　about　her？〃　
　For　a　moment；　Pendergast　did　not　reply。　Then　he　nodded　silently。　
　　　
　8　
　
　The　Renaissance　Salon　of　the　Metropolitan　Museum　of　Artwas　one　of　the　museum's　most　remarkable　spaces。　Taken　piece　by　piece；　stone　by　stone；　from　the　ancient　Palazzo　Dati　of　Florence　and　reassembled　in　Manhattan；　it　re…created　in　perfect　detail　a　late　Renaissancesalone。　It　was　the　most　imposing　and　austere　of　all　the　grand　galleries　in　the　museum；　and　for　this　reason；　it　was　chosen　for　the　memorial　service　of　Jeremy　Grove。　
　D'Agosta　felt　like　an　idiot　in　his　cop's　uniform；　with　its　Southampton　P。D。　patch　in　gold　and　blue　and　its　lowly　sergeant's　stripes。　People　turned　toward　him　quickly；　stared　as　if　he　was　some　kind　of　freak；　and　then　just　as　quickly　dismissed　him　as　hired　help　and　turned　away。　
　As　he　followed　Pendergast　into　the　hall；　D'Agosta　was　surprised　to　see　a　long　table　groaning　with　food；　and　another　sporting　enough　bottles　of　wine　and　liquor　to　lay　low　a　herd　of　rhinos。　Some　memorial　service。　More　like　an　Irish　wake。　D'Agosta　had　been　to　a　few　of　those　during　his　NYPD　days　and　felt　lucky　to　have　survived　them。　They'd　obviously　set　this　whole　thing　up　with　remarkable　speed…Grove　had　been　dead　only　two　days。　
　The　room　was　crowded。　There　were　no　chairs：　people　were　meant　to　mingle；　not　sit　reverentially。　Several　television　crews　had　set　up　their　gear　near　a　carpet…covered　stage；　which　was　bare　save　for　a　small　podium。　A　harpsichord　stood　in　a　far　corner　of　the　salon；　but　it　was　barely　audible　over　the　noise　of　the　crowd。　If　there　was　anybody　shedding　tears　over　Grove；　they　were　hiding　it　pretty　well。　
　Pendergast　leaned　over。　〃Vincent；　if　you　are　interested　in　any　estibles；　now　is　the　time　to　act。　With　a　crowd　like　this；　they　won't　last　long。〃　
　〃estibles？　You　mean　that　food　on　the　table？　No；　thanks。〃　His　dalliance　with　the　literary　world　had　taught　him　that　events　like　these　served　things　like　fish　eggs　and　cheese　that　smelled　so　bad　it　encouraged　you　to　check　the　bottom　of　your　shoes。　
　〃Then　shall　we　circulate？〃　Pendergast　began　moving　sylphlike　through　the　crowd。　Now　a　lone　man　mounted　the　stage：　impeccably　dressed；　tall；　hair　carefully　groomed　back；　face　glistening　with　a　professional　makeup　job。　The　cro