But Nora admired it for only a moment. Because, looking down again, a quarter mile away and a hundred feet below, she saw — half hidden in a thick knot of woods — a cluster of grimy brick buildings, dotted with the faint twinkle of yellow lights. They sat on a flat shelf of land, perched halfway between a ragged, trash — strewn pebble beach along the Harlem River and her own vantage spot atop the ridge. It was unreachable from her cliff — in fact, she wasn't quite sure how it could be reached at all, although through the trees she could glimpse a ribbon of asphalt that, she thought, must connect to Indian Road. As she stared, she realized that the surrounding copse of trees would render the community invisible from almost any angle: from the parkway, from the riverbank, from the cliffs on the far shore. At the center of the cluster was a much larger structure, evidently an old church, which had been added on to indiscriminately, again and again, until the whole lost any architectural cohesion. This was tightly surrounded by a tangle of small, ancient timber — frame buildings, divided by deep alleyways.

The Ville: the target of Bill's most recent article. The place he believed to be the main source of animal sacrifice in the city. She stared at it in mingled dread and fascination. The huge structure at its heart looked almost as old as the Manhattan Purchase itself: extravagantly dilapidated, part brick, part chocolate — brown timber, with a squat, crudely built spire rising from behind a massive gambrel roof. While the lower windows were bricked over, the cracked glasswork of the upper stories flickered with a pale yellow glow she felt certain could only be candlelight. The place lay apparently somnolent in the silvery moonlight, now and then falling into deeper darkness as a cloud scudded past.

As she stood, staring at the flickering lights, the craziness of what she had done became clear. Why had she really come — to stare at a bunch of buildings? What could she hope to accomplish here by herself? What made her feel so certain thatthe secret lay within: the secret to her husband's murder?

The Ville remained wrapped in silence as a chilly night breeze stirred the leaves around her.

Nora shivered. Then — wrapping her coat more tightly around her — she turned and began to make her way as quickly as she could back through the dark woods toward the welcoming streets of the city.

Strange how therealways seems to be fog out here," D'Agosta said as the big Rolls hummed along the one — lane road that crossed Little Governor's Island.

"It must come from the marshes," Pendergast murmured.

D'Agosta looked out the window. The marshes did indeed stretch away into the darkness, exhaling miasmic vapors that curled and moved among the rushes and cattails, the nocturnal skyline of Manhattan rising incongruously in the background. Passing a row of dead trees, they came to a set of iron gates and a bronze plaque.

THE MOUNT MERCY HOSPITAL FOR THE CRIMINALLY INSANE

The car slowed at the little guardhouse and a uniformed man stepped out of its door. "Good evening, Mr. Pendergast," the guard said, apparently unsurprised by the late hour. "Here to see Miss Cornelia?"

"Good evening to you, Mr. Gott. Yes, thank you. We have an appointment." A rumble, and the gates began to open. "Have a good night," the guard said.

Proctor eased the car through and they approached the main house: an immense Gothic Revival building in brown brick, standing like a grim sentinel among dark, heavy fir trees, sagging under the weight of their ancient branches.

Proctor swung into the visitors' parking lot. Within minutes, D'Agosta found himself following a doctor down the hospital's long, tiled halls. Mount Mercy had once been New York's largest tuberculosis sanatorium. Now it had been converted into a high — security hospital for murderers and other violent criminals found not guilty by reason of insanity.

"How is she?" Pendergast asked.

"The same" came the terse answer.

Two guards joined them and they continued down the echoing corridors, finally stopping at a steel door with a barred window. A guard unlocked the door, and they entered the small "quiet room" beyond. D'Agosta remembered the room from his first visit here, with Laura Hayward, last January. It seemed like years ago, but the room hadn't changed an iota, with its plastic furniture bolted to the floor, its green walls devoid of pictures or decoration.

The two attendants disappeared through a heavy metal door in the rear of the room. A minute or two later, D'Agosta made out a faint creaking noise approaching, and then one of the guards pushed a wheelchair into the room. The old lady was dressed with Victorian severity, in deep mourning, her black taffeta dress and black lace rustling with every move, but D'Agosta could see underneath a white — canvas, five — point restraint.

"Raise my veil" came the querulous command. One of the attendants did as ordered. A remarkably seamed face, alive with malice, was revealed. A pair of small black eyes, which somehow reminded D'Agosta of the beady eyes of a snake, raked over him. She gave a faint smile of sardonic recognition. Then the glittering eyes fell on Pendergast.

The agent took a step forward.

"Mr. Pendergast?" came the edgy voice of the doctor. "I'm sure I don't have to remind you to respect your distance."

At the sound of the name, the old lady seemed to startle. "Why," she cried in a suddenly strong voice, "how are you, Diogenes, my dear? What acharming surprise!" She turned to the nearest attendant and rapped out in a shrill voice, "Bring out the best Amontillado. Diogenes has paid us a visit." She turned and smiled broadly, her face wrinkling grotesquely. "Or would you prefer tea, dearest Diogenes?"

"Nothing, thank you," said Pendergast, his voice cool. "It is Aloysius, Aunt Cornelia, not Diogenes."

"Nonsense! Diogenes, you bad thing, don't try to tease an old woman. Don't you think I know my own nephew?"

Pendergast hesitated a moment. "I never could fool you, Aunt. We were in the area and thought we'd drop in."

"How lovely. Yes, I see you brought my brother Ambergris with you."

Pendergast glanced over at D'Agosta briefly before nodding.

"I have a few minutes before I have to start preparing for the dinner party. You know how it is with servants these days. I should fire them all and do it myself."

"Indeed."

D'Agosta waited as Pendergast engaged his aunt in what seemed like interminable small talk. Slowly, the agent brought the conversation back to his own childhood in New Orleans.

"I wonder if you remember that, ah, unpleasantness with Marie LeBon, one of the downstairs servants," he asked at last. "We children used to call her Miss Marie."

"The one who looked like a broomstick? I never liked her. She gave me the heebie — jeebies." And Aunt Cornelia gave a delicious shudder.

"She was found dead one day, isn't that right?"

"It is most unfortunate when the servants bring scandal into the house. And Marie was the worst of the lot. Except, of course, for that dreadful,dreadful Monsieur Bertin." The old woman shook her head in distaste and muttered something under her breath.

"Can you tell me what happened with Miss Marie? I was just a child then."

"Marie was from the bayou, a promiscuous woman, like so many of the swamp folk. A mixture of French Acadian and Micmac Indian, and who knows what else besides. She got to fooling around with the groom, who was married — you remember, Diogenes, that groom with the pompadour who fancied himself a gentleman? The man was as common as dirt."