'Certainly, sir.' Maurice stepped out of the dining room into the hall, returning shortly with a letter. It was much battered, and had been re-addressed more than once. Judging by the postmark, it had taken almost three weeks to ultimately reach him. Even if he hadn't recognized the elegant, old-fashioned handwriting, the Chinese stamps would have indicated the sender: Constance Greene, his ward, who was currently residing at a remote monastery in Tibet with her infant son. He slit the envelope with his knife, pulled out the single sheet of paper within, and read the note.
Pendergast re-read the letter, frowning.
'Is there something wrong, sir?' Maurice asked.
'I'm not sure.' Pendergast seemed to consider the letter a moment longer. Then he put it aside and turned toward his factotum. 'But in any case, Maurice, I was hoping you could join me in the library.'
The elderly man paused in the act of clearing the table. 'Sir?'
'I thought perhaps we could have a postprandial glass of sherry, reminisce about the old days. I find myself in a nostalgic frame of mind.'
This was a most unusual invitation, and the look on Maurice's face implied as much. 'Thank you, sir. Let me just finish clearing away here.'
'Very good. I'll head down to the cellar and find us a nice moldy bottle.'
The bottle was, in fact, more than nice: a Hidalgo Oloroso Viejo VORS. Pendergast took a sip from his glass, admiring the sherry's complexity: woody and fruity, with a finish that seemed to linger forever on the palate. Maurice sat on an ottoman across the old Kashan silk carpet, very erect and stiff in his butler's uniform, almost comically uncomfortable.
'Sherry to your liking?' Pendergast asked.
'It's very fine, sir,' the butler replied.
'Then drink up, Maurice--it will help drive out the damp.'
Maurice did as requested. 'Would you like me to place another log on the fire?'
Pendergast shook his head, then looked around again. 'Amazing, how being back here brings on such a flood of memories.'
'I'm sure it must, sir.'
Pendergast pointed at a large freestanding globe, set into a wooden framework. 'For example, I recall having a violent argument with Nurse over whether Australia was a continent or not. She insisted it was only an island.'
Maurice nodded.
'And the exquisite set of Wedgwood plates that used to sit on the top shelf of that bookcase.' Pendergast indicated the spot with a nod. 'I remember the day that my brother and I were reenacting the Roman assault on Silvium. The siege engine Diogenes built proved rather too effective. The very first volley landed directly on that shelf.' Pendergast shook his head. 'No cocoa for a month.'
'I recall it only too clearly, sir,' Maurice said, finishing his glass. The sherry seemed to be growing on him.
Quickly Pendergast made to refill their glasses. 'No, no, I insist,' he said when Maurice tried to demur.
Maurice nodded and murmured his thanks.
'This room was always the focal point of the house,' Pendergast said. 'This was where we held the party after I won top honors at Lusher. And Grandfather used to practice his speeches here--do you remember how we'd all sit around, acting as audience, cheering and whistling?'
'Like it was yesterday.'
Pendergast took another sip. 'And this was where we held the reception, after our wedding ceremony in the formal garden.'
'Yes, sir.' The sharp edge of reserve had dulled somewhat, and Maurice appeared to sit more naturally on the ottoman.
'Helen loved this room, too,' Pendergast went on.
'Indeed she did.'
'I remember how she'd often sit here in the evenings, working on her research or catching up on the technical journals.'
A wistful, reflective smile crossed Maurice's face.
Pendergast examined his glass and the autumn-colored liquid within it. 'We could spend hours here without speaking, simply enjoying each other's company.' He paused and said, casually, 'Did she ever speak to you, Maurice, of her life before she met me?'
Maurice drained his glass, set it aside with a delicate gesture. 'No, she was a quiet one.'
'What's your strongest memory of her?'
Maurice thought a moment. 'Bringing her pots of rose hip tea.'
Now it was Pendergast's turn to smile. 'Yes, that was her favorite. It seemed she could never get enough. The library always smelled of rose hips.' He sniffed the air. Now the room smelled only of dust, damp, and sherry. 'I fear I was away from home rather more frequently than was good. I often wonder what Helen did for amusement in
