Cold Vengeance - Lincoln Child [39]
Speed’s Catherine Street residence had been just around the corner from Water Street. And on an inside page, the Times had printed one of the elaborate pencil sketches from Speed’s journal-in-progress—a sketch that included a detailed neighborhood map of two streets, Catherine and the adjoining Water. Until this very morning, nobody alive knew precisely, on a building-by-building basis, what shops those streets had consisted of during the 1870s.
The moment Felder had read the article at the breakfast table earlier that morning, he’d been struck with an idea. It seemed crazy, of course—he was really doing little more than indulging Constance, encouraging her delusions—but here was a perfect opportunity to check on her information. In the face of truth—the real layout of 1870s Water Street—perhaps Constance could be persuaded to begin leaving her fantasy-world behind.
Standing in the corridor, Felder scrutinized the image in the newspaper carefully, struggling to parse the antique handwriting scrawled across the diagram. Then he went rigid. There was the tobacconist. And two buildings away, Huddell’s Chemists. Across the street was the haberdasher London Town, and on the corner, Mrs. Sarratt’s Academy for Young Children.
He closed the folder slowly. The explanation was obvious, of course. Constance had already seen today’s paper. A mind as inquisitive as hers would want to know what was going on in the world. He set off down the hall toward reception.
As he drew close to the receiving station, he noticed Ostrom standing in an open doorway, speaking with a nurse.
“Doctor?” Felder asked, with some hurry.
Ostrom glanced back at him, eyebrows raised in inquiry.
“Constance has seen the morning paper, right? The Times?”
Ostrom shook his head.
Felder froze. “No? You’re sure about that?”
“I’m positive. The only newspapers, radios, and televisions that are patient-accessible are in the library. And Constance has been in her room all morning.”
“Nobody has seen her? No staff, no nurses?”
“Nobody. Her door hasn’t been unlocked since last night. The log states it quite clearly.” He frowned. “Is something the matter?”
Felder realized he’d been holding his breath. He exhaled slowly. “Nothing. Thank you.”
And he walked out of the lobby, into bright sunlight.
CHAPTER 20
CORRIE SWANSON HAD PUT OUT A ROUTINE Google alert for “Aloysius Pendergast.” At two AM, as she fired up her laptop and collected her e-mail, she saw she’d gotten a rare hit. It was an obscure document, a transcript of an inquest held in a place called Cairn Barrow, Scotland. The inquest was dated some weeks before, but it had just been posted online today.
As she read the dry, legalistic language, a sense of complete disbelief took hold. Without commentary or analysis or even a conclusion, the transcript was nothing more than a record of the testimony of various witnesses relating to a shooting incident on some Highland moor. A terrible, utterly unbelievable incident.
She read through it again, and again, and yet again, each time feeling an increase in the sense of unreality. Clearly, this strange tale was only the tip of some iceberg, with the real story submerged beneath the surface. None of it made sense. She felt her emotions morphing—from disbelief, to unreality, to desperate anxiety. Pendergast, shot dead in a hunting accident? Impossible.
Hands trembling slightly, she fished out her notebook and looked up a telephone number, hesitated, then swore softly to herself and dialed the number. It was D’Agosta’s home number and he wouldn