White Fire

opposed to an administrator — most unusual. Still, he had not been announced, and she did not hold with such informality. But the man had a winning way about him, and she was prepared to overlook this breach of propriety.

“May I sit down?” he asked, with another smile.

Miss Pembroke nodded toward an empty seat before her desk. “What, may I inquire, do you wish to speak with me about?”

“I wish to visit one of your properties.”

“Visit?” she said, allowing the faintest tinge of disapproval to color her voice. “We have volunteers out in front who can assist you with that.” Really, it was too much, her being bothered with such a trivial request.

“I do apologize,” the man replied. “I don’t wish to take up your valuable time. I spoke about the matter with Visitor Services, and they referred me to you.”

“I see.” That did put another spin on things. And, really, the man had the most courtly manners. Even his accent spoke of breeding — not one of those harsh, barbarous American drawls. “Before we get started, we have a little regulation here. We require visitor identification, if you please.”

The man smiled again. He had beautifully white teeth. He reached into his black suit and removed a leather wallet, which he laid open upon the table, exposing a brilliance of gold on top with a photo ID card below. Miss Pembroke was startled.

“Oh! Goodness! The Federal Bureau of Investigation? Is this…a criminal matter?”

The man gave a most winning smile. “Oh, no, don’t be the slightest bit alarmed. This is a personal matter, nothing official. I would have shown you my passport, but it’s in the hotel safe.”

Miss Pembroke allowed her fluttering heart to subside. She had never been involved in a criminal matter and looked on such a possibility with abhorrence.

“Well, then, Mr. Pendergast, that is reassuring, and I am at your service. Please tell me the property you’d like to visit?”

“A cottage named Covington Grange.”

“Covington Grange. Covington Grange.” Miss Pembroke was not familiar with the name. But then again, the Trust had hundreds of properties in its care — including many of England’s greatest estates — and she could not be expected to remember all of them.

“Half a moment.” She turned to her computer, moused through a few menus, and entered the name into the waiting field. Several photos and a long textual entry appeared on the screen. As she read the entry, she realized she did have a faint recollection of the site. No wonder the people at Visitor Services recommended the man speak to an administrator.

She turned back. “Covington Grange,” she said again. “Formerly owned by Leticia Wilkes, who died in 1980, leaving it to the government.”

The man named Pendergast nodded.

“I’m very sorry to tell you, Mr. Pendergast, that a visit to Covington Grange is out of the question.”

At this news, a look of devastation crossed the man’s face. He struggled to master himself. “The visit needn’t be a long one, Ms. Pembroke.”

“I’m sorry, it’s quite impossible. According to the file, the cottage has been shut up for decades, closed to the public while the Trust decides what to do with it.”

Poor man — he looked so desolated that even Dorothea Pembroke’s hard and ever so correct heart began to soften. “It’s suffered serious damage from the elements,” she said, by way of explanation. “It is unsafe and requires extensive conservation before we could ever allow anyone inside. And at present, our funds — as you might imagine — are limited. There are numerous other properties, more important properties, that also need attention. And, to be frank, it is of marginal historical interest.”

Mr. Pendergast looked down, clasping and unclasping his hands. Finally, he spoke. “I thank you for taking the time to explain the situation. It makes perfect sense. It’s just—” And here, Mr. Pendergast looked up again, meeting her gaze— “It’s just that I am Leticia Wilkes’s last remaining descendant.”

Miss Pembroke looked at him in surprise.

“She was my grandmother. Of the family line, only I remain. My mother died of cancer last year, and my father was killed in a train accident the year before. My…sister was killed just three weeks ago, in a robbery gone bad. So, you see…” Mr. Pendergast paused a moment to collect himself. “You see, Covington Grange is all I have left. It is where I spent my summers as a boy, before my mother took us to America. It contains all the happy memories I have of my lost family.”

“Oh, I see.” This was a heartbreaking story indeed.

“I just wanted to see the place one last time, just once, before the contents go to wrack and ruin. And…in particular, there’s an old family photo album I remember paging through as a boy, put up in a cupboard, which I’d like to take — if that’s all right with you. I have nothing, nothing, of the family. We left everything behind when we went to America.”

Miss Pembroke listened to this tragic story, pity welling up in her heart. After a moment she cleared her throat. Pity was one thing, duty quite another.

“As I’ve said, I’m very sorry,” she said. “But for all the reasons I’ve told you, it’s simply out of the question. And in any case all the contents belong to the Trust, even the photographs, which might hold historic interest.”

“But they’re just rotting away! It’s been over thirty years and nothing’s been done!” Pendergast’s voice had taken on a wheedling tone. “Just ten minutes inside? Five? Nobody would have to know besides you and me.”

This insinuation — that she might be privy to an underhanded scheme unbeknownst to the Trust — broke the spell. “That is out of the question. I am surprised you would make such an overture.”

“And that’s your final word?”

Miss Pembroke gave a curt nod.

“I see.” The man’s air changed. The forlorn expression, the faint tremor in the voice, vanished. He sat back in his chair and regarded her with quite a different expression than before. There was suddenly something in the expression — something Miss Pembroke could not quite put a finger on — that was ever so faintly alarming.

“This is of such importance to me,” said the man, “that I will go to unreasonable lengths to achieve it.”

“I’m not sure what that means, but my mind is made up,” she said with absolute firmness.

“I greatly fear that your recalcitrance leaves me no choice.” And, reaching into his pocket, the FBI agent pulled out a quire of papers and held them up.

“What is this?” she demanded.

“I have information here that might prove of interest to you.” The man’s tone of voice had changed, as well. “I understand your family used to reside at Chiddingham Place?”

“Not that it can be of any interest to you, but they still do.”

“Yes. On the fourth floor. The material I think you’ll find to be particularly interesting concerns your grandfather.” He placed the papers on her desk with a courtly motion. “I have here information— incontrovertible information — that during the final months of his business, just before he went bankrupt, he borrowed against the value of the stocks of his own shareholders in a desperate attempt to keep the company alive. To do so, he not only committed serious financial fraud, but he also lied to the bank, claiming the securities as his own.” He paused. “His criminal actions left many of his shareholders penniless, among whom were a number of widows and pensioners who, subsequently, died in abject penury. I fear the story makes highly unpleasant reading.”

He paused.

“I’m sure, Ms. Pembroke, you would not wish the good name of your grandfather — and of the Pembroke family by extension — to be sullied.” The man paused to display his white teeth. “So wouldn’t it be in your best interests to give me temporary access to Covington Grange? A small thing. I think it would work out best for everyone — don’t you?”

It was that final, cold smile — those small, even, perfect teeth — that did it. Miss Dorothea Pembroke went rigid. Then, slowly, she rose from her chair. Just as slowly, she picked up the papers the man Pendergast had left on her desk. And then, with a disdainful motion, she tossed them at his feet.

“You have the effrontery to come into my office and attempt to blackmail me?” Her voice remained remarkably calm, surprising her. “I have never in my life been subjected to such appalling behavior. You, sir, are