The Cabinet of Curiosities

himself had broken—and by none other than his old nemesis, Bryce Harriman.

It was his own head that would be on a platter.

SIX

NORA TURNED OFF Canal Street onto Mott, moving slowly through the throngs of people. It was seven o’clock on a Friday evening, and Chinatown was packed. Sheets of densely printed Chinese newspapers lay strewn in the gutters. The stalls of the fish sellers were set up along the sidewalks, vast arrays of exotic-looking fish laid out on ice. In the windows, pressed duck and cooked squid hung on hooks. The buyers, primarily Chinese, pushed and shouted frantically, under the curious gaze of passing tourists.

Ten Ren’s Tea and Ginseng Company was a few hundred feet down the block. She pushed through the door into a long, bright, orderly space. The air of the tea shop was perfumed with innumerable faint scents. At first she thought the shop was empty. But then, as she looked around once more, she noticed Pendergast at a rear table, nestled between display cases of ginseng and ginger. She could have sworn that the table had been empty just a moment before.

“Are you a tea drinker?” he asked as she approached, motioning her to a seat.

“Sometimes.” Her subway had stalled between stations for twenty minutes, and she’d had plenty of time to rehearse what she would say. She would get it over with quickly and get out.

But Pendergast was clearly in no hurry. They sat in silence while he consulted a sheet filled with Chinese ideographs. Nora wondered if it was a list of tea offerings, but there seemed to be far too many items—surely there weren’t that many kinds of tea in the world.

Pendergast turned to the shopkeeper—a small, vivacious woman—and began speaking rapidly.

“Nin hao, lao bin liang. Li mama hao ma?”

The woman shook her head. “Bu, ta hai shi lao yang zi, shen ti bu hao.”

“Qing li Dai wo xiang ta wen an. Qing gei wo yi bei Wu Long cha hao ma?”

The woman walked away, returning with a ceramic pot from which she poured a minuscule cup of tea. She placed the cup in front of Nora.

“You speak Chinese?” Nora asked Pendergast.

“A little Mandarin. I confess to speaking Cantonese somewhat more fluently.”

Nora fell silent. Somehow, she was not surprised.

“King’s Tea of Osmanthus Oolong,” said Pendergast, nodding toward her cup. “One of the finest in the world. From bushes grown on the sunny sides of the mountains, new shoots gathered only in the spring.”

Nora picked up the cup. A delicate aroma rose to her nostrils. She took a sip, tasting a complex blend of green tea and other exquisitely delicate flavors.

“Very nice,” she said, putting down the cup.

“Indeed.” Pendergast glanced at her for a moment. Then he spoke again in Mandarin, and the woman filled up a bag, weighed it, and sealed it, scribbling a price on the plastic wrapping. She handed it to Nora.

“For me?” Nora asked.

Pendergast nodded.

“I don’t want any gifts from you.”

“Please take it. It’s excellent for the digestion. As well as being a superb antioxidant.”

Nora took it irritably, then saw the price. “Wait a minute, this is two hundred dollars? ”

“It will last three or four months,” said Pendergast. “A small price when one considers—”

“Look,” said Nora, setting down the bag. “Mr. Pendergast, I came here to tell you that I can’t work for you anymore. My career at the Museum is at stake. A bag of tea isn’t going to change my mind, even if it is two hundred bucks.”

Pendergast listened attentively, his head slightly bowed.

“They implied—and the implication was very clear—that I wasn’t to work with you anymore. I like what I do. I keep this up, I’ll lose my job. I already lost one job when the Lloyd Museum closed down. I can’t afford to lose another. I need this job.”

Pendergast nodded.

“Brisbane and Collopy gave me the money I need for my carbon dates. I’ve got a lot of work ahead of me now. I can’t spare the time.”

Pendergast waited, still listening.

“What do you need me for, anyway? I’m an archaeologist, and there’s no longer any site to investigate. You’ve got a copy of the letter. You’re FBI. You must have dozens of specialists at your beck and call.”

Pendergast remained silent as Nora took a sip of tea. The cup rattled loudly in the saucer when she replaced it.

“So,” she said. “Now that’s settled.”

Now Pendergast spoke. “Mary Greene lived a few blocks from here, down on Water Street. Number 16. The house is still there. It’s a five-minute walk.”

Nora looked at him, eyebrows narrowing in surprise. It had never occurred to her how close they were to Mary Greene’s neighborhood. She recalled the note, written in blood. Mary Greene had known she was going to die. Her want had been simple: not to die in complete anonymity.