“And where is his bicycle?”
“Found on the corner of Abercorn and East Macon.”
“Isn’t that quite some distance from here?”
“Just a dozen blocks or so.”
“Where did he live?”
“On Liberty, not far from where his bicycle was found. Chances are he was on his way home when he was accosted.”
Pendergast rose, stripped off the gloves, and dropped them in a nearby trash container. Coldmoon followed suit.
“Shall we retire into the house?” Pendergast asked.
Delaplane said simply “Of course,” and turned to lead the way.
7
C?OMMANDER DELAPLANE BROUGHT THEM all back into the cool confines of the mansion, where Pendergast went directly into the elegant living room and took a seat in a grandly stuffed and gilded chair as easily if he were in his own home. “My partner and I have been traveling since daybreak. Would it be possible to have tea?” He threw one leg over the other and looked about inquiringly.
“Well, I don’t know,” said Delaplane. “This is a museum.”
But a thin, unsmiling man who had been hovering in the background stepped forward. “I think that can be arranged.”
“Splendid!”
“I’m Armand Cobb, director of the Owens-Thomas House museum,” the man said. “Which, if you didn’t know already, is this house.”
Pendergast nodded languidly. “Forgive me if I don’t rise. I find myself terribly fatigued from the case we just completed down in Florida.”
The museum director stepped back, and Pendergast turned his eyes to the commander. “Lovely to make your acquaintance, Commander Delaplane. Thank you for your cooperation.”
“Of course,” said Delaplane. “And this is homicide detective Sergeant Benny Sheldrake, in charge of the case.”
The detective came forward, and Pendergast took his hand. “How do you do?”
Another man, newly arrived, appeared out of the shadows. “Gordon Carracci, FBI liaison supervisor,” he said. “Just seeing the evidence samples off to Atlanta.”
“Very pleased to meet you,” said Pendergast.
Coldmoon was amazed to see how this had developed: Pendergast sitting like some pasha on his throne, receiving obeisance as various people came forward, one after the other.
“Now, Mr. Cobb,” Pendergast said. “Excuse me—or is it Doctor?”
“It’s Doctor,” the man said stiffly.
“Dr. Cobb, I understand you found the body.”
“Yes.”
“The body isn’t on the way to your office, is it?” Pendergast asked. “How did you happen to come upon it?”
“I like to come in early from time to time to do work before the museum opens. I always do a quick walk-through.”
“Why?”
“It’s a habit. The house is beautiful. It refreshes me. Besides, this being a museum…well, it’s always good to check on things.”
“Naturally. So you saw the body: what then?”
“I immediately checked to see if he was still alive. He was cold to the touch. I backed away so as not to disturb anything and called the police. I then waited for them in my office.”
“I see.” Pendergast turned to Delaplane. “A general question, if I may, Commander: have you had any recent reports of animals being killed or mutilated, unusual signs or symbols painted on the street, or anything else that might suggest cult activity—or the presence of Satanists?”
“God, yes,” said Delaplane. “Savannah draws those people like magnets. We look into them, of course, if we have good reason to think a crime has been committed. We have to be careful, though: those activities can be considered to fall under the religious freedom laws.” She paused. “You think this might be something like that?”
“I refrain from thinking at the beginning of an investigation, Commander.”
“What do you do in place of thinking?” Delaplane asked drily.
“I become a receptacle for information.”
Delaplane gave Coldmoon a pointed glance, raising her eyebrows. Coldmoon shrugged. It was just Pendergast being Pendergast.
Pendergast stared at the floor for a long moment, and then he turned abruptly to Cobb. “Can you kindly tell us a bit about the history of this house?”
“I’d be glad to. But I’m not sure it’s relevant.”
“Right now, nothing is irrelevant.”
Cobb launched into what was obviously a well-rehearsed lecture. “The Owens-Thomas House was built in 1819 by the English architect William Jay, in the Regency style, for Richard Richardson and his wife, Frances. Richardson had made his fortune in the slave trade. He found a profitable niche in shipping enslaved children who’d been forcibly separated from their parents or orphaned from Savannah to New Orleans, where they would be sold.”