“Because the Bonaventure Cemetery, where Custis was accosted, is almost four miles from the location on Taylor Street where our friend Ingersoll tripped over Custis’s body. Given the narrow streets, urban congestion, and geographical impediments between the two locations, it’s impossible to drive that distance in less than sixteen minutes—I’ve checked all possible routes. But Custis, or rather his corpse, made it in just four minutes. This is why I say, Commander, that he was dropped. Because the only possible conclusion is that he flew from one spot to the other—or rather, was flown.”
“Flown?” Delaplane protested in a high, incredulous voice. After a moment, comprehension dawned on her face. “Oh. Oh, shit.”
38
ANOTHER BISCUIT?” FELICITY FROST asked, holding out the plate of chocolate digestives.
“No, thank you,” replied Constance, dabbing her lips with a damask napkin.
“Hell,” the elderly woman said with feigned annoyance. “That means I can’t have one, either.” And she put the plate back on a silver tray that sat on the tea table between them. The china, Constance noted, was from an antique set of Haviland Limoges, understated but exquisite. But then, she thought, that was characteristic of Frost herself: antique, discreet, and with far more depth than a superficial glimpse would suggest.
Frost had sent Constance a note earlier that day, asking if she would like to have tea that evening at nine. And so Constance, accepting, had spent over an hour in the woman’s company. Miss Frost had proven to be an excellent conversationalist, knowledgeable about a number of topics—especially antiquarian. She had shown Constance three rooms of the penthouse: a library-cum-museum, a music room, and the drawing room in which they now sat. There were clearly others, but Frost had not invited her to tour them and Constance had not asked. In any case, these three were sufficient to provide her with a sense of Frost’s interests and personality. The rooms contained many beautiful things: first editions of neglected nineteenth-century novelists; a Steinway Model O from 1923, the final year of original production; and an impressive collection of art that ran the gamut from John Marin watercolors to several of Piranesi’s Carceri etchings. True, the rugs were not the hand-knotted Kashan or Isfahan pieces of Pendergast’s Riverside Drive mansion, and the Duncan Phyfe furniture was not original—but the reproductions were tasteful. Everything spoke of a woman of discernment who—though her wealth was not unlimited—had accumulated and curated many beautiful things.
In addition to the collections of firearms and pens, there was, curiously, a museum-in-miniature of cipher machines and pieces from the early history of computing. Several large display cases contained, Frost had explained, a Fialka M-125 Soviet cipher device, an Enigma machine, a set of gears of Charles Babbage’s Difference Engine, a relay and rotary switch from Harvard’s Mark I, and a pair of printed circuit boards from the landmark early supercomputer Cray-1. Frost’s knowledge of computers was remarkable, and it struck Constance this must be a significant link to her mysterious past—whatever that was.
“It’s almost eleven,” Frost said, glancing at a grandfather clock on the far wall. She was sitting on a chaise longue across from Constance. A well-thumbed paperback, which Constance had noticed on her first visit, was at her side, a constant companion. “I think something stronger than tea is called for—don’t you?”
Constance reminded herself that, because of the woman’s nocturnal habits, cocktails were apparently served half a dozen hours later than usual. “If you’d like.”
“I would like indeed. At my age, self-medication is practically the only vice left to me.” She stood up with effort, then walked over to a sideboard arrayed with numerous bottles. “Would you care to, ah, smother a parrot with me?”
“No, thank you,” said Constance, a little more sharply than she intended.
“In that case, name your own poison.”
“Campari and soda, please, if it’s at hand.”
“It is. And it will be in your own in a jif.” The old woman fussed around for a few minutes, then returned with two glasses—one pink within, the other a pallid, milky green.
“A votre santé.” And, lifting her glass, Frost toasted Constance.
They drank a moment in silence.
“Campari,” Frost mused. “An interesting choice for one of your age.”
“Perhaps I could say the same of you and absinthe.”