D’AGOSTA COULD SMELL MRS. Cookson’S heavenly dinner rolls baking in the oven—but he could not find the housekeeper herself. It was his habit to let her know each time he went out to pick up Joe at school, despite the event being as regular as the tides on nearby Godwit’s Beach. He never bothered looking for Mr. Cookson—that scarecrow could be anywhere about the house or the outbuildings. And so he left the mansion through the servants’ main-floor passage as usual, locking the door, ducking his head against the bitter wind, and making for the Seal Harbor schoolhouse a mile and a half away.
When he arrived, he was surprised and alarmed to learn Joe was not there. He had dropped Joe off in the morning as usual, and the teachers confirmed he had been in school until the final bell—but now he was nowhere in the vicinity of the red-painted structure.
D’Agosta paused outside the schoolhouse door to look around. The last thing he wanted was to cause a fuss and draw attention. Scanning the winter landscape revealed nothing. He had not met Joe along the way. Had he gone off with some newfound friends—sledding, perhaps? Or was this some small rebellion of independence? Earlier, Joe had complained about D’Agosta walking him to school, saying it was making him look bad to the other kids.
Or could something worse have happened?
D’Agosta hurried back toward the cottage to see if Joe had turned up, setting off up the frozen lane at a faster pace than he’d come down it. But when he entered through the servants’ entrance, there was no sign of Joe—and the kitchen was full of smoke and the smell of burnt bread.
An icy foreboding gripped his heart.
“Mrs. Cookson!” he called as he walked through the back quarters of the mansion. “Joe? Joe!”
Only echoes returned.
He ran up to Joe’s room; it was as he’d left it when they’d set off for school that morning. The Cooksons’ rooms were also empty. He went back outside, scanning the horizon, now in a full-blown panic. He quickly checked the barn and carriage house—nothing there either. They had all simply disappeared.
Was it possible Leng had tracked them here? His policeman’s training reasserted itself—anything was possible. He next searched the mansion from attic to basement—maybe Joe was ghost hunting again—but the building was empty. He looked outside for fresh tracks in the snow—nothing.
Returning to the first floor, panting for breath, he considered what to do next. God damn this nineteenth century and its lack of communication. There was no way to contact Pendergast, or anyone else for that matter, beyond the slow and truncated telegraph system.
He was turning, ready to head for the back exit again, when he saw something outside the large windows of the parlor. A man, at the reins of an old wagon, its top covered and tied down with canvas, was approaching the mansion up the private lane.
In all the time he’d spent on the island, D’Agosta had never seen a stranger drive up to the cottage. Mrs. Cookson did the marketing herself, and Mr. Cookson took care of the milking and the limited livestock on the property. But nevertheless this alien wagon was coming closer by the minute, the driver holding the reins and sitting back in his seat as casually as if he were going to Sunday-morning service, wearing a well-brushed homburg and covered in a long, tailored trench coat of black leather. He must have caught sight of D’Agosta staring at him out of the window, because now he raised a hand in greeting, then gestured he was going to take the horse around to the servants’ entrance. Without bothering to wave back, D’Agosta left the parlor, checked that the front doors were bolted, took out his revolver, and went back into the heated section of the mansion.
This couldn’t be a coincidence … could it?
When he reached the servants’ entrance, he found the man had already tied his horse to a post and was approaching the door, a small oilcloth bundle draped over one shoulder. Their eyes met through the glass, and he once again raised a hand in greeting. D’Agosta unbolted the door, then stepped back several steps, bringing up his weapon and pointing it at the man. If the man noticed, it didn’t seem to faze him, because he opened the door and came in, stamping his feet against the cold, then doffing his hat.
“You’re Harrison, I presume?” he said in an accentless American voice as he replaced the hat on his head.
D’Agosta was careful not to register any surprise. “Who are you?”
“My name is Humblecut.”
“What do you want?”
“To speak with you for a bit.”
D’Agosta kept his face expressionless. He was just about to order the man to turn around and prepare to be searched when Humblecut spoke again.
“It would probably save us a lot of time if I simply told you that we have Joe. Also the housekeepers. If you cooperate, it would be better for them—and for you.” As his hand came down from arranging his homburg, it had a derringer in it. “And you could start by handing me your revolver.”
D’Agosta stared at the small weapon, astonished and dismayed at the way the man had gotten the drop on him. Here, in this strange place, on this distant island, his twenty-first-century cop instincts were of little use.
“Come now, let’s not waste time.” Humblecut twitched his gun hand slightly. “I’m not going to hurt either you or Joe—unless you force my hand. That’s not why I’m here.”
“You seem to forget I have a gun pointed at you,” D’Agosta replied.
“If you kill me, it would be the same as killing Joe. And I will get a shot into you, besides.” Keeping the derringer pointed, the man reached into his pocket and pulled out Joe’s deck of cards. He tossed them at D’Agosta’s feet. “If you care at all about Joe, put down your revolver … Mr. Harrison.”
D’Agosta hesitated, then placed his revolver on a nearby bench.
“A wise decision. Now, be kind enough to put your hands against that wall while I check you for other weapons. I hope you won’t mind my lack of trust—a necessity in this business, I’m afraid.”
The man frisked D’Agosta quickly and expertly, then pocketed his revolver. “Now,” he said, motioning again with the derringer, “shall we have our little talk?”
Keeping a safe distance to the rear, Humblecut instructed D’Agosta to walk through the scullery and the kitchen and into the rear parlor. Motioning D’Agosta to take a seat in the far corner, the man quickly locked the pocket door leading into the dining room passage, then took a seat of his own near the entrance to the kitchen. The confidence with which he did all this told D’Agosta the man was already acquainted with the interior of the house.
The man took off his homburg and laid it and his bundle on the floor, then opened the top buttons of his overcoat and pulled out a pencil and a leather notebook.
“Shall we begin?” he asked.
D’Agosta took a deep breath. The man had been sent by Leng; that much was clear. What did he want from D’Agosta? Maybe he could smoke the man out.
“I have a better idea,” he said. “Why don’t you kiss my ass?”
This was followed by a disapproving silence. “I can understand you’re annoyed by your own failings,” Humblecut said. “Nevertheless, we can still proceed like gentlemen.”
“Tell you what: I’ll loosen my pants, stand up, and turn around. That will make it easier for you to kiss my lily-white Italian moneymaker.”
Another silence. “Very well,” Humblecut said. “If you won’t act courteously, you don’t deserve courtesy in return. You will answer my questions … one way or the other.” He paused, looking D’Agosta up and down, as if considering. “Perhaps an audience will help.” And with this he reached over to the oilcloth bundle, loosened it, and—with a motion that, for D’Agosta, was ghastly in its similarity to a bocce player aiming for a pallino in Flushing Meadows Park—rolled the severed head of Mrs. Cookson out into the middle of the room. D’Agosta watched as it tumbled over and over, staring eyes glinting sunlight with each rotation, trailing a thin line of fluid, until—with a final bobble—coming to rest a few feet in front of him.