He briefly mentioned her shocking death in the jaws of a man-eating lion, which elicited audible gasps from the audience. And then — at the gentle prodding of the coroner — he talked about the events leading up to Pendergast’s death: the hunt on the moors; the discussion of which stag to try for; the stalking on the Foulmire; the rising fog; his own disorientation; the sudden, bounding entrance of the stag and his instinctive shooting; the frantic attempt to rescue his former brother-in-law; and the man’s sinking into the quickmire. As Esterhazy spoke of these last events, and of his desperate trek back to Kilchurn Lodge, his veneer of calm broke and he became visibly upset, his voice cracking. The onlookers shook their heads, clearly moved and sympathetic. Ainslie’s face, Balfour noted with approval, remained as mournfully skeptical as always. He had a few questions about minor particulars — the timing of certain events, Esterhazy’s medical opinion of Pendergast’s wound — but beyond that, nothing. Esterhazy’s testimony was over in fifteen minutes. All in all, a remarkable performance.
Performance. Now, why had he chosen that word?
Because, despite everything, Balfour continued to find himself deeply suspicious of Esterhazy. It was nothing he could put his finger on. All the evidence added up. But if Balfour had wanted to kill someone, and make it look like an accident, he would have gone about it precisely as Esterhazy had.
His mind was occupied with these thoughts while a string of minor witnesses cycled through. He glanced at Esterhazy. The man had taken great pains to come across as ingenuous, frank, simple to a fault — the typical bumbling American. But he wasn’t bumbling, and he clearly wasn’t stupid. He had both a medical degree and a doctorate — Balfour had checked.
Ainslie’s dry voice went on. “As I mentioned earlier, the purpose of this inquest is to establish if there was a death. The evidence is as follows. It is the testimony of Dr. Esterhazy that he accidentally shot Aloysius Pendergast; that in his medical opinion the wound was mortal; and that he witnessed, with his own eyes, Pendergast’s submergence in the mire. It is the testimony of Inspector Balfour and others that the scene of the accident was fully investigated, and that the scant evidence found on the site was consistent with Dr. Esterhazy’s testimony. The inspector also testified that no body or effects were recovered either from the mire or from the surrounding moorlands. It is Inspector Balfour’s further testimony that, despite an exhaustive search of the neighboring villages, no trace of Mr. Pendergast has been found, and no witnesses to either his living or dead person have come to light.”
He glanced around the common room. “Under the circumstances, there are two possible verdicts that could be delivered consistent with the facts presented: involuntary culpable homicide, or an open verdict. Involuntary culpable homicide is adjudged to be homicide, save for the fact that the
He paused and scoured the courtroom again with a pair of cynical eyes. “Based on the testimony and evidence presented here today, I declare an open verdict in this case.”
“Excuse me, sir!” Balfour found that he was suddenly on his feet. “I must protest that verdict.”
Ainslie looked toward him, frowning. “Inspector?”
“While—” Balfour hesitated, tried to collect himself. “While the act in question may not have been murder, it was nevertheless caused by improper conduct. That argues strongly for a verdict of involuntary culpable homicide. We have Dr. Esterhazy’s own testimony to support that verdict. Negligence was clearly the overwhelming factor in this death. There isn’t a scrap of evidence the victim survived the shooting and overwhelming evidence he did not.”
“We do have that testimony,” Ainslie said. “But let me remind you, Inspector: we have no body. We have no corroborative evidence. All we have is the statement of a single eyewitness. And thus we have no independent evidence that anyone was actually killed. Therefore, this inquest has no choice but to render an open verdict.”
Balfour remained standing. “If there’s an open verdict, I have no legal recourse for keeping Dr. Esterhazy in Scotland.”
“If there is an objection,” the coroner went on, “you can always request a judicial review in divisional court.”
A low muttering began to rise from the assembly. Balfour shot another glance at Esterhazy. There was nothing he could do.
“If that is all,” Ainslie said, looking around sternly, “I declare this inquest to be concluded.”
CHAPTER 11
THE LONE BICYCLIST PEDALED WITH EVIDENT effort up the narrow, winding road. The black three-speed was fitted with a special rack over the rear fender, and it currently held leather panniers, kept in place with bungee cords. The rider was dressed in a dark gray windcheater and dove-colored corduroy trousers, and together with the black bicycle he formed a curiously monochromatic figure, set against the gorse and heather of the Scottish hills.
At the top of the hill, where a series of weathered boulders reared fang-like from the green furze, the road divided at a T-intersection. Here the rider stopped, dismounted, and — by all indications grateful for the rest — pulled a map from beneath his jacket, smoothed it over the seat, and began to study it leisurely.
But inside, Judson Esterhazy felt anything but leisurely. He had lost his appetite; it was an effort to force down food. He constantly had to fight the urge to look over his shoulder. He couldn’t sleep nights: every time he closed his eyes he saw Pendergast, mortally wounded, staring up at him from the mire, eyes glittering with implacable intensity.
For the thousandth time he bitterly reproached himself for leaving the FBI agent in the Foulmire. He should have waited until the muck had totally consumed him. Why hadn’t he? It was those eyes; he couldn’t bear to look into those narrow silver eyes for one more second, staring back at him with the intensity of a scalpel. A pathetic and inexcusable weakness had overwhelmed him at the very moment of truth. Esterhazy knew that Pendergast was transcendentally resourceful.
What a curse it was not knowing.
As he stood there beside the bicycle, pretending to regard the map, the chill damp breeze tugging at his trouser cuffs, he reminded himself that the wound was fatal — it had to be. Even if Pendergast had somehow managed to extricate himself from the mire, they should have discovered his corpse in their days and nights of careful searching. The most likely reason dragging the mire had failed was because Pendergast had somehow escaped the first mire, only to die in some thicket or get sucked down into another, distant bog.
But he didn’t know — not for sure, and that was driving him mad. He
After the inquest he had departed Scotland — in as high-profile a manner as he could manage, being driven to Glasgow by a disgruntled Inspector Balfour himself. Now, a week later, he was back. He’d cut his hair short and dyed it black; he was wearing thick tortoiseshell glasses; he’d purchased a high-quality stage mustache. In the unlikely event that he ran into Balfour or any of his men, the chance of being recognized was virtually nil. He was simply another American tourist, enjoying a late-year bicycle tour of the Highlands.
Nearly three weeks had passed since the shooting. The trail, if there ever was one, was now cold. But it couldn’t be helped: before the inquest he’d been kept under close observation, prevented from making private inquiries. He’d have to move as quickly as he could now, make sure no time was wasted. He had to prove to his own satisfaction that Pendergast had not survived, had not crawled out of the Mire. If he could do that, then perhaps he could find peace.
At last he turned his attention to the map. He located his own position; located the peak of Beinn Dearg and the Foulmire; located Cairn Barrow, the largest village of the region. With a fingertip on the spot where he’d shot Pendergast, he examined the surrounding area closely. The nearest village was Inverkirkton, about three miles from
