As they approached, Constance also made out a scattering of sculptures in a meadow along the edges of the bluff—rough-cut granite forms with polished and somewhat sinister shapes emerging from the stone: faces, body forms, mythical sea creatures. It was a striking location for a sculpture garden.

Pendergast brought the roadster to a halt in the graveled drive alongside the house. As they got out, Percival Lake appeared in the door, then strode onto the porch.

“Welcome! Good Lord, you certainly travel in style. That’s a ’55 Spyder 550, if I’m not mistaken,” he said as he came down the steps.

“A ’54, actually,” Pendergast replied. “It’s my late wife’s car. I prefer something more comfortable, but my associate, Miss Greene, insisted on it.”

“I did not,” she interjected.

“Your associate.” Constance did not like the way the man’s eyebrows rose in ironical amusement as he looked at her. “Pleased to see you again.”

She shook his hand rather coldly.

“Let us visit the scene of the crime,” said Pendergast.

“You don’t waste any time.”

“In a criminal investigation, there is an inverse relationship between the quality of evidence and the length of time it has been awaiting examination.”

“Right.” Lake led them into the house. They passed through a front hall and parlor with sweeping views of the ocean. The old house had been immaculately kept up, airy and fresh, with the sea breeze swelling the lace curtains. In the kitchen, an attractive bleached blonde in her thirties, slender and fit, was dicing carrots.

“This is my associate, Carole Hinterwasser,” Lake told them. “Please meet Agent Pendergast and Constance Greene. They are here to find my wine collection.”

The woman turned with a smile, displaying white teeth, dried her hands on a cloth, and shook their hands in turn. “Excuse me, I’m just making a mirepoix. I’m so glad you could come! Perce is really devastated. Those wines meant a lot to him—way more than the value.”

“Indeed,” said Pendergast. Constance could see his silvery eyes darting about.

“This way,” said Lake.

At the back of the kitchen stood a narrow door. Lake opened it, flicked on a light switch. It illuminated a set of steep, rickety stairs going down into darkness. A rich, cool smell of damp earth and stone rose up.

“Take care,” he cautioned. “These stairs are steep.”

They descended into a mazelike space, with stone walls covered in niter, and a stone floor. In one alcove was a furnace and water heater, in another a finished room with a collection of air tools, sandbags, protection suits, and equipment for polishing stone.

They turned a corner and came into the largest room in the basement. One wall was covered, floor to ceiling, with empty wooden wine racks. Curling yellow labels were tacked to the wood or strewn about the floor, along with broken bottles and a heavy perfume of wine.

Pendergast picked up a piece of a broken bottle, reading the label. “Chateau Latour, ’61. These burglars were singularly careless.”

“They made a mess of the place, the cretins.”

Pendergast knelt before the closest rack, examining it with a bright LED penlight. “Tell me about the weekend of the theft.”

“Carole and I had gone away to Boston. We do that frequently, to dine, go to the symphony or a museum—recharge our batteries. We left Friday afternoon and returned Sunday evening.”

The light probed here and there. “Who knew you were gone?”

“Pretty much the whole village, I imagine. We have to drive through town on our way out, and as you can see Exmouth is a small place. Everyone knows we make frequent trips to Boston.”

“You said they broke a window. I assume the house was locked?”

“Yes.”

“Is there an alarm system?”

“No. I suppose in retrospect that seems stupid. But crime is almost nonexistent here. I can’t remember the last time there was a burglary in Exmouth.”

Now a test tube and tweezers appeared from somewhere in Pendergast’s suit. Using the tweezers, he plucked something from the wine rack and put it in the tube.

“What is the history of the house?” he asked.

“It’s one of the oldest north of Salem. As I mentioned, it was the lighthouse keeper’s place, built in 1704, and added on to at various later dates. My wife and I bought it and took our time with the renovations. As a sculptor I can work anywhere, but we found this to be an idyllic location—quiet, off the beaten track yet close to Boston. Charming and undiscovered. And the local granite is splendid. There’s a quarry just on the far side of the salt marshes. Some of the pink granite used to build the Museum of Natural History in New York came out of that quarry. Lovely stuff.”

“I should like a tour of your sculpture garden sometime.”

“Absolutely! You’re staying at the Inn, I assume? I’ll be sure to arrange a viewing.”

While Lake was praising the local granite, Constance watched as Pendergast moved about on his knees, getting his suit filthy, scrutinizing the cellar floor. “And the bottles of Braquilanges? I assume they are in that case in the far corner?”

“Yes, and thank God they missed them!”

Pendergast rose again. His pale face seemed troubled. He went over to the wine, which sat by itself in a wooden crate with the crest of the chateau stamped on it. The top was loose, and he lifted it up and peered inside. Ever so gently he reached in and removed a bottle, cradling it almost like a baby.