VINCENT D’AGOSTA SAT ON a straw bale in the corner of the room, watching Pendergast examine the walls, door, floor, and ceiling—something he’d been doing for the past hour. D’Agosta had been locked in this cell the night before, but Pendergast had only arrived today. It seemed that—although Pendergast had been caught earlier than D’Agosta—Leng had taken his sweet time arranging transport for him and the others from his farm down to the mansion... no doubt realizing how cautious he’d have to be in doing so. Upon his arrival, Pendergast had closely questioned D’Agosta about his conversation with Humblecut, taking extreme interest in both the questions and the answers.
“We’re fucked six ways to Sunday,” said D’Agosta wearily. “There’s no way out of this iron box.”
“Your curses are as amusing as they are logistically and anatomically impossible,” Pendergast replied. He broke off his investigation and began pacing the room. His outfit—tight riding breeches and shirt, cloak, and high leather boots—made him look like some highwayman of old.
“You don’t seem all that worried.”
“I assure you, my dear Vincent, I would be extremely worried—were I merely pondering our predicament. But worry is a debilitating emotion, and so I suppress it in lieu of other things.” He paused, staring down at D’Agosta’s shoes. “Pity your footwear has been ruined.”
“Who cares?” D’Agosta said. The overwhelming emotion he felt was one of failure—failure to protect Joe and keep him safe, failure to detect Humblecut’s presence on the island, failure to escape from the boat. That last had been an interminable voyage, the two of them stuffed in the freezing, foul-smelling, almost lightless bilge. At least Joe hadn’t been affected by the seasickness that plagued D’Agosta. They had almost escaped when Joe managed to loosen some rivets in a bulkhead, but their efforts were discovered by that bastard Humblecut. As soon as they docked, a carriage with guards took them to Leng’s mansion; there, Joe had been led off elsewhere, and he, D’Agosta, had been locked in this cell under the eaves of the building. Earlier that day, Pendergast had been thrust in as well. A single candle illuminated the grim, windowless room, its floor covered in straw, a tiny, barred slot in the door presumably for meals—although they had been given only water. The four walls, ceiling, and floor were all riveted iron. Not even Pendergast, it seemed, could find a way out.
When Pendergast spoke, it was as if he’d read D’Agosta’s thoughts. “If you’re blaming yourself for getting caught, please don’t. That was part of our plan all along.”
“Our plan? What are you talking about?”
“Constance, Diogenes, and mine. You see, under the circumstances it was virtually impossible to hide you somewhere you would not be found, while still being able to reach you. No: the trick was to delay Leng’s finding you until his plans and schemes began to focus more and more on the future—and the portal we used to get here. That is why the first thing I did after you left the city was seal off all access to the portal. Whatever Ferenc told him, Leng does not know for certain whether or not we have control over it. I was confident he wouldn’t kill either Joe or Binky, because he could use them for leverage. My assignment was to find Binky—which I did—and then arrange to be captured. I felt certain Leng would return all of us here, under this roof … and as you see, he has done exactly that—including, as it turns out, Mary.”
D’Agosta looked up at him in surprise. “Mary?”
“Yes. Those ashes in the urn were just a cruel deception.”
“Christ.” D’Agosta shook his head. “So now that your plans have succeeded and we’re all under one roof, what next?”
“Now we are tortured in an attempt to force us to give up the secret—not that there’s any to give—of accessing the portal.”
D’Agosta grimaced. “In other words, we have him just where he wants us.”
“You’re forgetting that three of us put this plan together, not just me. One person’s job includes watching our alley, just in case … Well, I need not spell it out. More to the point is the third person’s assignment, which, now that we are all here, is to get Binky and Joe free.”
“You mean, Constance?”
“She knows the house better than anyone—including me and Leng. And she is extremely capable and stealthy, as you know. Although certain variables I did not consider have been introduced to the equation.”
“Such as Mary?”
“That—and precisely how clever and intuitive Leng is. I fear he may have guessed, or will guess shortly, that he has an uninvited guest.”
D’Agosta could imagine this all too well. “How nice for Binky. How nice for Joe. What about us?”
“Constance has a devilishly difficult task merely freeing her siblings.”
“I see. So it’s up to us to free ourselves.”
“Speaking of that—may I see your left shoe?”
“What?”
“Indulge me.”
D’Agosta, still struggling to absorb what he’d just heard, and in any case no longer surprised at any of Pendergast’s enigmatic demands, took off his shoe and handed it over. Pendergast turned it around in his hands, examining it. He then flipped it over and, with a jerk, removed the heel, exposing a pattern of small tacks. Another series of yanks peeled back the sole. He managed to pull out one of the tacks, which he examined with a frown.
“This won’t do,” he said.
He reseated the tack, pressed the sole back on, and reattached the heel. He stared at the shoe a bit longer. Then he unlaced it, extracting the lace and testing its strength with a few jerks.
“Better,” he murmured, weaving it inside his waistband. He handed D’Agosta back his ruined shoe. “Try not to draw attention to its condition.”
“Planning on strangling someone?”
“I fear the lace is too short for that purpose.”
“What’s it for, then?”
“Better you should not know. I’ll gladly replace the shoes with another pair when we get back.”
“If we get back,” D’Agosta said, putting the shoe back on.
“I feel, Vincent, that I owe you a rather profound apology for dragging you here.”
D’Agosta waved his hand. “Why, exactly, is Leng keeping us alive—even just for the time being? I mean, he could kill us and be rid of the problem permanently.”
“Because we’re invaluable to him. As I said, he doesn’t know the time machine might be ruined for good. He anticipates needing our help.”
“Why does he care so much about the machine?”
“Think of the questions he asked you. His goal has moved beyond the Arcanum, although that is still of intense interest. Extending his life is only a proximate goal. His ultimate ambition is to—”
D’Agosta heard the sound of a heavy tread in the corridor. They immediately fell silent.
“We’re going to open the door,” said a loud voice. “Stand in the back of the cell. We’re well armed. Don’t be stupid.”
Pendergast and D’Agosta moved back against the far wall. The door swung open and two men stepped in with rifles, taking positions on either side of the door, while a third came in bearing wrist and ankle cuffs, linked by iron chains. He tossed them across the room, where they landed with a clang at Pendergast’s feet.
“Put those on.”
D’Agosta watched as Pendergast did as ordered, latching each cuff.
“Turn around and lie facedown on the floor.”
Pendergast complied. One of the guards now walked over and tested each cuff, pulling on it to make sure it was latched. They patted him down, finding nothing.
“Stand up.”
Pendergast rose awkwardly, chains clanking. “May I ask where I’m going, all dressed up like this?”
“To the boss.”
“Will there be tea and cakes?”
“Shut your mouth, numpty.”
D’Agosta watched as Pendergast was ushered, unresisting, out the door, which was slammed shut and locked behind him. He sat down on the hay bale, putting his head in his hands, wondering if there was even the slightest chance that he’d ever see Laura again.