“I know. I found that out the hard way. It’s only my second day of vacation, and I guess I overdid it. That’s the way I am.”

The innkeeper shook his head. “Well, all I can say is that you’ll sleep well tonight. You’d best take it easy tomorrow.”

“I don’t think I’ll have a choice.” Another pause for breath. “By the way, I saw the pub next door — I assume it serves dinner?”

“Aye, and a fine one. And if you don’t mind I’d like to suggest the local malt, Glen—”

The man stopped talking. Esterhazy’s face had assumed a worried, pained expression.

“Is anything the matter?” the innkeeper asked.

“I don’t know,” Esterhazy replied. He allowed his voice to become strained. “I’ve got this sudden pressure — pain — in my chest.”

A look of concern crossed the other man’s face. Bustling out from behind the counter, he led Esterhazy to a small adjoining parlor and eased him into an overstuffed chair.

“It’s shooting down my arm now… oh, God, it hurts.” Esterhazy gritted his teeth, clutched at his chest with his right hand.

“Would you like me to get you a drink, then?” the innkeeper said, bending over him solicitously.

“No… call for a doctor. Quickly…” And then, slumping over, Esterhazy closed his eyes.

New York City

THE DRIVE LEADING UP TO THE PORTE COCHERE of 891 Riverside Drive looked a lot better than the first time D’Agosta had seen it. Back then, it had been filled with drifting trash, the surrounding ailanthus and sumac bushes dead or dying; the Beaux-Arts mansion itself had been shuttered and covered with gang graffiti. Now the property was clean and orderly, the four-story stone structure completely restored, its mansard roof, towers, and widow’s walk returned to period condition. And yet — as D’Agosta stared at it from the carriageway — there was something cold and strangely empty about the place.

He wasn’t sure why he was here, exactly. More than once he’d told himself to stop being paranoid, to stop acting like an old woman. But something about the visit from Corrie Swanson had stuck with him. And this time, when the impulse to stop by Pendergast’s mansion had risen yet again, he’d decided to act on it.

He stood for a minute, catching his breath. He’d taken the number 1 train to 137th Street and walked toward the river, but even that short journey had winded him. He hated this long convalescence; hated how the gunshot wound, the pig valve replacement, the subsequent gradual recovery, had sapped him of strength. The only good thing about it was that he’d initially lost weight, but now he was gaining it back, in spades. And unable for the time being to exercise it off.

After a few moments, he walked down the carriageway and stepped up to the oaken front door. He seized the brass knocker, gave it a stout rap.

Silence.

He waited a minute, then two. Nothing. He leaned in toward the door, listening, but the house was too well built for any sound to escape. He knocked a second time. What with Constance Greene in an asylum, maybe the place really was as deserted as it looked. But that made no sense — he knew Pendergast employed help both here and at the Dakota.

There was a whisper of a key turning in well-oiled tumblers, then the massive door slowly opened. The entranceway was dimly lit, but D’Agosta could make out the features of Proctor, Pendergast’s chauffeur and sometime butler. Normally expressionless and imperturbable, today Proctor looked dour, almost forbidding.

“Mr. D’Agosta, sir,” he said. “Won’t you please come in?”

D’Agosta stepped inside, and Proctor carefully locked the door behind him. “Would you care to step into the library?” the man asked.

D’Agosta had the creepy sensation he had been expected. He followed Proctor down the long, echoing gallery and into the reception hall, its dome of Wedgwood blue soaring overhead, the dim light illuminating the dozens of rippled-glass display cases and their curious contents. “Is Pendergast in?” he asked.

Proctor paused and turned back. “I am very sorry to say he is not, sir.”

“Where is he?”

The chauffeur’s cold look only wavered slightly. “He’s dead, sir.”

D’Agosta felt the room reel. “Dead? How?”

“He was on a hunting expedition, to Scotland. With Dr. Esterhazy.”

“Judson Esterhazy? His brother-in-law?”

“There was an accident. Out on the moors, while they were hunting a stag. Dr. Esterhazy shot Mr. Aloysius. He sank in the mire.”

This couldn’t be real. He had misheard. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Nearly three weeks ago.”

“So what about the funeral preparations? Where’s Esterhazy? Why wasn’t I informed?”

“There’s no body, sir. And Dr. Esterhazy has disappeared.”

“Oh, my God. You’re telling me Esterhazy accidentally shot Pendergast and there’s no body and then Esterhazy just disappeared?” He realized he was yelling and didn’t care.

Proctor’s face remained unreadable. “The local constabulary searched for days, dragging the mire, looking everywhere. No body was recovered.”

“Then why do you say he’s dead?”

“Because of Dr. Esterhazy’s own testimony at the inquest. He testified that he shot him in the chest. He saw him sink and disappear into the quicksand.”

D’Agosta felt short of breath. “Esterhazy told you this himself?”

“I learned this from a telephone call from the inspector investigating the shooting. He wanted to ask me a few questions about Mr. Aloysius.”

“And you’ve heard from nobody else?”

“Nobody, sir.”

“Where was this, exactly?”

“At Kilchurn Lodge. In the Scottish Highlands.”

D’Agosta clenched his jaw. “People don’t just disappear. Something about this whole story stinks.”

“I’m sorry, sir, that’s all I know.”

D’Agosta took a few deep, shuddering breaths. “Jesus. Okay. Thank you, Proctor. I’m sorry I’m talking like this. I’m just upset.”

“I understand. Would you care to step into the library for a glass of sherry before you go?”

“Are you kidding? I’ve got to do something about this.”

Proctor looked at him. “And what might that be?”

“I don’t know yet. But you can bet your ass I’m going to do something.”

Inverkirkton

JUDSON ESTERHAZY SAT AT THE SCUFFED BAR of the Half Moon Pub, nursing a pint of Guinness. The pub was tiny, befitting the size of the hamlet: three seats at the bar, four booths, two each built into opposite walls. Currently it was empty save for him and old MacFlecknoe, the barkeep, but it was almost five PM and that would change very soon.

He drained his glass, and MacFlecknoe bustled over. “Will you be having another, sir?” he asked.

Esterhazy made a show of considering this. “Why not?” he said after a moment. “I don’t suppose Dr. Roscommon will mind.”

The barkeep chuckled. “Sure, and it’ll be our secret.”

As if on cue, Esterhazy saw the doctor through the large round window in the front door of the pub. Roscommon walked briskly down the street, stopping at the door of his practice, which he unlocked with a deft turn of his wrist. Esterhazy watched as the man disappeared inside the building, closing the door after him.

While pretending to have a heart attack the day before, Esterhazy had a clear image in his mind of what the local doctor would look like: bluff and red-faced, aging but muscular, as accustomed to grappling with sick cows and horses as with people. But Roscommon had proved a surprise. He was thin and fortyish, with bright alert eyes and an intelligent expression. He had examined his new patient with a cool, relaxed professionalism that Esterhazy could only admire. Quickly determining that the chest pains were nothing serious, Roscommon nevertheless recommended a few days of rest. Esterhazy had expected this, and in fact welcomed it: now he had an excuse to hang around the village. And he had met the local doctor: his main purpose. He’d hoped to befriend the doctor and extract some information from him, but the man had proven the very picture of Scottish reserve, with little to say beyond what was necessary for medical advice. That might be his nature — or he might be hiding something.