“Is this what they gave you?” Corrie asked. “It’s a dungeon!”

“It is what I requested. I did not wish to be disturbed, and this office is in a location where that is assured. No one comes to bother me here — no one.”

“It’s hot as Hades in here.”

“It’s no worse than a New Orleans spring. As you know, I am averse to cold.”

“Shall we go to dinner?”

“So as not to blight our meal with talk of corpses and cannibalism, perhaps we could spend a few moments catching up with your research first. Please sit down.”

“Sure thing, but can we please keep it short? I’m averse to heatstroke.” She took a seat and Pendergast did likewise.

“How are you progressing?”

“Great. I’ve finished examining four sets of remains, and they tell the same story: all victims of a gang of cannibalistic serial killers.”

Pendergast inclined his head.

“It’s unbelievable, really. But there’s no question. I did find something interesting in the last skeleton I looked at. The guy with the weird name, Isham Tyng. He was one of the first to be killed, and his bones do show extensive signs of perimortem damage from a large, powerful animal, no doubt a grizzly bear — along with the usual signs of beating, dismemberment, and cannibalism performed by human beings. I looked up the newspaper accounts of the killing, and in this case a bear was scared off the remains by the arrival of Tyng’s partners. No doubt the bear was scavenging the victim after he’d been killed by the cannibal gang. But this sighting is clearly what cemented the idea in everyone’s mind that the killer was a grizzly. A reasonable assumption — but also, sheer coincidence.”

“Excellent. The story is now complete. I assume you don’t need to examine any more remains?”

“No, four is plenty. I’ve got all the data I need.”

“Very good,” murmured Pendergast. “And when will you be returning to New York?”

Corrie took a deep breath. “I’m not going back yet.”

“And why is that?”

“I’ve…decided to expand the scope of my thesis.”

She waited, but Pendergast did not react.

“Because, I’m sorry, but the fact is the story isn’t complete. Now that we know these miners were murdered…” She hesitated. “Well, I’m going to do my damnedest to solve the murders.”

Another dead silence. Pendergast’s silver eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

“Look, it’s a fascinating case. Why not pursue it to its end? Why were these miners killed? Who did it? And why did the killings stop so abruptly? There are tons of questions, and I want to find the answers. This is my chance to turn a good thesis into a really great one.”

“If you survive,” said Pendergast.

“I don’t think I’m in any danger. In fact, since the fires I’ve been ignored. And nobody knows about my most important discovery — everyone still believes a grizzly did it.”

“Nevertheless, I am uneasy.”

“Why? I mean, if you’re worried about where I’m house-sitting, it’s miles away from the houses that were burned. And I’ve got a new roommate — Captain Bowdree, as it happens. You couldn’t ask for better protection than that. Let me tell you something: she’s got a .45 and, believe me, she knows how to use it.” She didn’t mention the footsteps she’d found circling the mansion.

“I have no doubt. But the fact is, I must leave Roaring Fork for several days, perhaps longer, and as a result I’ll be unable to give you the benefit of my protection. I fear that your looking into this case may awaken the proverbial sleeping dog. And there is an ugly dog sleeping in this rich little town, of that I am sure.”

“Surely you don’t believe the arson attacks are somehow linked to the miner killings? They were a hundred and fifty years ago.”

“I don’t believe anything — yet. But I sense deep, strong water. I’m not in favor of your remaining in Roaring Fork any longer than necessary. I advise you to leave on the first plane out.”

Corrie stared at him “I’m twenty, and this is my life. Not yours. I’m really thankful for all your help, but…you’re not my father. I’m staying.”

“I will discourage it by withdrawing my financial support.”

“Fine!” Corrie’s pent-up anger came bursting out. “You’ve been interfering with my thesis from the beginning. You can’t help interfering — it’s the way you are — but I don’t appreciate it. Can’t you see how important this is to me? I’m getting tired of you telling me what to do.”

Something flashed across Pendergast’s face — something that, had she not been so angry, she would have recognized as dangerous. “My only concern in the matter is your safety. And I must add that the risks you face are greatly augmented by your unfortunate tendency toward impetuousness and imprudence.”

“If you say so. But I’m done talking. And I’m staying in Roaring Fork whether you like it or not.”

As Pendergast began to speak again, she got up so abruptly she knocked over her chair and left the room without waiting to hear him out.

It was one of the most prominent Victorian mansions on the main drag. Ted, who was a fountain of information on Roaring Fork, had told Corrie its story. The house had been built by Harold Griswell, known as the Silver King of Roaring Fork, who made a fortune and was then bankrupted by the Panic of 1893. He committed suicide by leaping into the main shaft of the Matchless Mine, leaving behind a young widow — a former saloon dancer named Rosie Ann. Rosie Ann spent the next three decades hiring and firing lawyers and bringing countless lawsuits, trying tirelessly to recover the repossessed mines and properties; eventually, when all her legal options ran out, she boarded over the windows of the Griswell Mansion and became a recluse, refusing even to shop for basic provisions and subsisting on the kindness of neighbors, who took it upon themselves to leave food at her door. In 1955, the neighbors complained of a bad smell coming from the house. When the police entered, they found an incredible scene: the entire house was packed floor-to-ceiling with tottering stacks of documents and other bric-a-brac, much of it amassed during the woman’s endless lawsuits. There were bundles of newspapers, canvas bags full of ore samples, theater bills, broadsheets, ledgers, assay reports, mining certificates, depositions, trial transcripts, payroll records, bank statements, maps, mine surveys, and the like. They had found Rosie Ann’s wizened body buried under a ton of paper; an entire wall of documents, undermined by gnawing mice, had toppled over and pinned her to the floor. Rosie Ann Griswell had starved to death.

She died intestate with no heirs, and the town acquired the building. The hoarded documents proved a historical treasure trove of unruly proportions. Over half a century later, the sorting and cataloging process was still going on, fitfully, whenever the impecunious Roaring Fork Historical Society could scrape together a grant.

Ted had warned Corrie about the state of the collection, which was very unlike the sleek, digitized newspaper archive that he ran. But after combing through the papers for evidence of a cannibalistic gang of killers and coming up empty-handed, Corrie decided to look into the Griswell Archive.

The archivist, it seemed, came in only two days a week. Ted had warned Corrie that he was an unqualified asshole. When Corrie arrived that gray December morning, with a few flakes drifting down from a zinc sky, she found the archivist in the mansion’s parlor, sitting behind a desk, messing around with his iPad. While the parlor was free of paper, she could see, through the open doors leading off it, floor-to-ceiling metal shelves and filing cabinets packed with stuff.

The archivist rose and held out his hand. “Wynn Marple,” he said. He was a prematurely balding, ponytailed man in his late thirties, with an incipient potbelly but retaining the confident, winking air of an aging Lothario.