“As I said, gibberish.”

Constance folded her arms. “I would like to know exactly what he said.”

Pendergast turned to her, his pale eyes narrowing. “You’re rather insistent this evening.”

Constance waited.

“The man spoke of flowers.”

“Lilies, by any chance?”

A hesitation. “Yes. As I have repeatedly said, it was meaningless rubbish.”

Again, Constance fell silent. Neither spoke for several minutes. Pendergast continued to play with his glass, finished it off, rose, and returned to the side table. He reached for the absinthe bottle again.

“Aloysius,” she began. “The man may have spoken rubbish — but it was not meaningless rubbish.”

Ignoring her, Pendergast began preparations for a second drink.

“There’s something I need to talk to you about — a matter of some delicacy.”

“Well, pray be about it, then,” Pendergast said, pouring the absinthe into the reservoir at the bottom of the glass and placing the slotted spoon on top.

“Where’s the bloody sugar?” he muttered to himself.

“I’ve been researching your family history. During our meeting in the gun room yesterday the name of a Dr. Evans Padgett came up. Are you familiar with that name?”

Pendergast placed the cube and began dribbling the ice water. “I’m not fond of drama. Out with it.”

“Dr. Padgett’s wife was poisoned by your great-great-grandfather’s elixir. The man in the Indio jail is suffering from the same symptoms as Padgett’s wife — and as everyone else who took Hezekiah’s patent medicine.”

Pendergast gripped the absinthe glass and took a long drink.

“The person who apparently murdered the Osteological technician at the Museum — and who attacked you — stole a long bone from Padgett’s wife. Why? Perhaps because he was working for someone who was trying to reconstruct the elixir. Clearly, there must have been residues in the bone.”

“What rot,” said Pendergast.

“I fear not. My research into the elixir has been thorough. All the victims spoke of smelling lilies at first — that was part of the elixir’s sales pitch. When they first began taking the elixir, the smell was fleeting, accompanied by a feeling of well-being and mental alertness. With time, the scent became constant. Heavier. With additional doses of elixir, the smell of lilies began to go off, as if they were rotting. The victim became irritable, restless, unable to sleep. The feeling of well-being was replaced by anxiety and manic behavior, with periods of sudden listlessness. At this point, additional doses of the elixir were useless — in fact, they only served to accelerate the victim’s suffering. Ungovernable rages became common, interspersed with periods of extreme lethargy. And then the pain set in: headaches and joint pain, until it became almost impossible to move without excruciating suffering. In—” Constance hesitated. “In the end, death was a release.”

As she was speaking, Pendergast put down the glass and stood up. He began pacing about the room. “I’m well aware of my ancestor’s wrongdoing.”

“There’s another thing: the elixir was administered in vapor form. You didn’t take it as pills or drops. It had to be inhaled.”

More pacing.

“Surely you can see where this is headed,” said Constance.

Pendergast brushed this away with a dismissive gesture.

“Aloysius, for God’s sake, you’ve been poisoned with the elixir. Not only that — but by what was evidently a very concentrated dose!”

“You are growing shrill, Constance.”

“Have you begun to smell lilies?”

“It is a common enough flower.”

“After our conference yesterday, I asked Margo to do a follow-up investigation. She discovered that somebody — no doubt using a false name — did research into Hezekiah’s elixir at both the New York Public Library and the New-York Historical Society.”

Pendergast halted. He sat back down in the armchair and picked up his glass. Leaning back in the chair, he took a quick swig before setting it down.

“Forgive my being blunt. But somebody has taken revenge on you for your ancestor’s sins.”

Pendergast did not seem to hear. He tossed the last of the absinthe down and began to prepare another one.

“You’ve got to get help now, or you’ll end up like that man in California.”

“There is no help for me,” said Pendergast with sudden savagery, “save what I can do for myself. And I will thank you not to interfere with my investigations.”

Constance rose from the piano bench and took a step toward him. “Dear Aloysius. Not so long ago, in this very room, you called me your oracle. Allow me to play that part. You’re growing ill. I can see it. We can help you — all of us. Self-delusion will be fatal—”

“Self-delusion?” Pendergast issued a peal of harsh laughter. “There’s no self-delusion here! I’m acutely aware of my condition. Don’t you think I’ve tried my utmost to find a way to remedy the situation?” He snatched up the pile of papers and dashed them into a corner of the room. “If my ancestor Hezekiah, whose own wife was dying as a result of his elixir, could not find a cure… then how can I? What I cannot abide is your meddling. It’s true, I did call you my oracle. But now you’re becoming my albatross. You’re a woman with an idée fixe, as you demonstrated so dramatically when you precipitated your late paramour into the Stromboli volcano.”

A change came over Constance. Her body went rigid. Her fingers flexed — once only. Sparks flashed in her violet eyes. The very air darkened around her. The change was so abrupt, and with such an undercurrent of menace, that Pendergast, in raising his glass for another sip, was startled and inadvertently jostled his arm, slopping the drink onto his hand.

“If any other man were to have said that to me,” she told him in a low voice, “he would not live out this night.” Then she pivoted on her heel and left the room.

There’s someone to see you, Lieutenant.”

Peter Angler, looking up from the pile of printouts that sat on his desk, raised an inquiring eyebrow at his assistant, Sergeant Slade, who stood in the doorway.

“Who is it?”

“The prodigal son,” Slade said with a thin smile as he stepped aside. A moment later, the lean, ascetic form of Special Agent Pendergast appeared in the doorway.

Angler did a good job of concealing his surprise. Wordlessly, he motioned Pendergast to a chair. There was a different look to the man today, Angler sensed; he wasn’t quite sure what it was, but he thought it had to do with the cast of the man’s eyes, which seemed unusually bright in what was otherwise a pallid face.

He leaned back in his chair, away from the printouts. He’d done enough wooing of this man; he would let the FBI agent speak first.

“I wanted to congratulate you, Lieutenant, on your inspired discovery,” Pendergast began. “It would never have occurred to me to search for an anagram of my son’s name in the passenger manifests from Brazil. It was just like Alban to make a game of it.”

Of course it wouldn’t, Angler thought; that was not the way Pendergast’s mind worked. He wondered, idly, if Alban Pendergast had perhaps been more intelligent than his father.

“I find myself curious,” Pendergast went on. “What day did Alban fly into New York, exactly?”

“It was June fourth,” Angler replied. “On an Air Brazil flight from Rio.”

“June fourth,” Pendergast repeated, almost to himself. “A week before he was murdered.” He glanced back at Angler. “Naturally, once you had found the anagram, you went back and checked earlier manifests?”

“Naturally.”

“And did you find anything else?”

For a moment, Angler considered being evasive and giving Pendergast a taste of his own medicine. But he wasn’t that kind of a cop. “Not yet. That investigation is still ongoing. There are a huge number of manifests to check, and not all of them — especially the foreign airlines — are as in order as one might wish.”