The Language of the Dead (15 page)

“Did you know Will Blackwell?” Lamb asked.

“I didn't really, I'm afraid. I tried to talk to him when I was writing my book but he refused to speak with me. I had to rely on the testimony of others—the local folklore, if you will—in order to write the chapter on him. I'm afraid my including his story in the book upset him. I've always been sorry about that; I hadn't meant for that to happen.”

“Do you believe the story that he encountered some sort of ghost dog on Manscome Hill?”

Pembroke smiled again. “You might find this strange, Chief Inspector, but I don't believe in ghosts. When I wrote the book, I was merely interested in the occult as a natural outgrowth of the human experience with the world, of our need to explain the irrational. Not to bog us down in metaphysics, but what role, after all, does religion play in our lives save to explain the irrational?”

“Do you remain interested in the occult?”

Pembroke placed his cup on his saucer and then dabbed his lips with a napkin.

“No,” he said. “The subject was a passion of my youth. But a time eventually arrived in my life when I realized that my interest in witchcraft and the occult was just that—a fancy. I realized that I had ‘other fish to fry,' as the Americans say. The persistence of poverty and the barriers of class concern me very much. Ending those has become my central concern.”

Around them, a dozen butterflies of various hues and sizes fluttered, instinctively searching for the nectar that compelled them to take wing. Lamb needed a fag. He rummaged in his pocket and found the butterscotch. He withdrew it and, feeling sheepish, offered one to Pembroke, who declined it with a smile and said, as if he'd read Lamb's mind, “You're perfectly welcome to smoke, Chief Inspector.”

Lamb smiled. “I'm trying not to.”

Pembroke nodded. “I understand. Isn't it funny how the worst habits always are the most difficult to shed?”

“Very true.”

“Anyhow, as I was saying, what we do here is not much, in the end, but it's something,” Pembroke continued. “That, I think, is the lesson I've taken from it all—that you do what you can. There is nothing else, really. I realize, of course, that given the circumstances of my birth, I'm able to do more than most. But I'd hate for you to come away from our chat thinking that I understand the genesis of those privileges to be, at bottom, the result of anything beyond the sheer, blind luck of my birth. That said, one can be given the opportunity and resources to perform good works and waste them. I like to believe that I haven't wasted mine.”

“I understand you have a boy living on the estate who once had been one of the orphans who visited Brookings. He apparently knew Will Blackwell and occasionally spent some time with him, sketching insects. Several people in Quimby mentioned him.”

“Peter Wilkins—yes,” Pembroke said. “He first came to us five years ago, when he was in the care of the orphanage, then stayed on. He's a special case, Chief Inspector—a kind of genius, really. The medical term for people like Peter is idiot savant. They have a tremendous amount of trouble understanding and navigating the world. Peter is extremely shy and rarely speaks, for example, even to me. But these people often possess, as a kind of balance, a rare talent at something. Many of them, for example, possess musical or mathematical genius. Peter's genius is as an artist. His favorite subject—his only subject, really—is insects, which he paints and sketches in the most exquisite ways. In my opinion and in the opinion of some others, Peter's renderings of insects rival those Audubon created of birds. A publisher friend of mine in London arranged a couple of years ago to publish some of his renderings in a book, which sells quite well among lovers of insects. The problem with Peter, of course, is that he is incapable of producing any worthwhile or meaningful research or findings to accompany his work. He neither reads nor writes. It's nothing save the art, but the art is beautiful and valuable in its own right. Frankly, I didn't know that he knew Blackwell, though it doesn't surprise me that he did. He has the run of the estate and wanders off it when it suits him.”

“When does it suit him?”

“When he is searching for the subjects of his art, particularly butterflies, which are the center of his life. He makes an annual count of them in and around the estate every summer. It's all very detailed and rather obsessive. He keeps in sketchbooks excruciatingly detailed records, consisting of drawings and renderings of what he finds each year. This need to tote things up is part of his disorder. Peter is comfortable only when he is allowed to follow an ironclad routine and brooks no effort to disturb it. He can become angry if he perceives that you intend to prohibit him from following his routine.”

“He sounds difficult,” Lamb said. “Was it his genius, then, that prompted you to adopt him?”

“I haven't adopted him. He is merely a resident on the estate. When I first met Peter I could see that he was special but that his disorder would not allow him to make his way in the world. At the time, I discussed his situation with the director of the orphanage and we agreed that he might do best here, on the estate, rather than cooped up with the other children. He doesn't relate to other children—or most people, really. He is sixteen now and comes and goes pretty much as he pleases. He lives in what was once a small summerhouse on the estate, by the sea, which I had converted for his use. He lives there and has his studio there, though he comes and goes from the house, as he needs. I'm afraid he will never be able to go out into the world as a normal person would.”

“Do you intend to keep him here, then?”

“If he wants to stay, yes. If he doesn't, I'm confident he will make that known to me. At that time, we'll have to make other arrangements for him. But he seems happy here. Allowing him to stay is no burden; Peter is no burden, despite his handicaps. In fact, he is probably less of a burden than a normal sixteen-year-old boy would be. Mostly, he dwells in his own private world.”

“Do you find it unusual that he struck up a friendship with Blackwell? Apparently, he sometimes sat with Blackwell as Blackwell worked in the fields around the village.”

“It does surprise me, yes, though I suppose it's possible that Peter found Blackwell less threatening than he finds most people. From what I knew of him, Blackwell was a loner and a bit of an outcast. His quiet nature might have made Peter feel at ease. When most people meet Peter, they normally try either to assist or bully him, depending on the quality of their character. Either way, they demand something of him, which Peter resists. But I suppose Blackwell might have merely accepted Peter's presence.”

“Is Peter now in the midst of one of his butterfly counts?”

“Yes.”

Lamb produced the drawing of the spider and the bird he'd found at Blackwell's cottage. “Is this Peter's work?” he asked.

Pembroke studied the drawing. “Yes,” he said. “The quality of it is unmistakable.” He looked at Lamb. “Where did you get this, if I may ask?”

“I found it in a toolshed behind Blackwell's cottage, lying on what I believe was a kind of black-magic altar—an apple crate upended upon which someone had burned some candles. I also found a chicken with its throat cut lying nearby. A local man claims the chicken was stolen from him.”

Pembroke nodded, a grave look in his eyes. “I see,” he said.

“Have you any idea what the chicken was supposed to represent?”

“Well, it sounds like voodoo, some kind of blood sacrifice.”

“To who—or what—exactly?”

“I'm afraid I couldn't say.”

“Can you venture a guess as to the meaning of the drawing?”

Pembroke looked again at the sketch. “I don't know, Chief Inspector,” he said. “I wish I could be more help. I can tell you, though, that Peter doesn't often draw spiders. Though as you can see, he can draw them beautifully.”

“Blackwell apparently liked birds and even told his niece that he was able to communicate with them. Is it possible that the bird represents Blackwell?”

“It might,” Pembroke said. “But it might be anything, really.”

“Is Peter capable of subduing a man such as Blackwell?”

Surprise animated Pembroke's face. “Certainly you don't believe that Peter might have hurt Blackwell?” he said.

“I'm not ruling out anything at the moment.”

“I don't know,” Pembroke said quietly. “I suppose that Peter is strong enough to subdue a man of Blackwell's age.” He looked at Lamb. “But I simply can't see it—especially the manner in which Blackwell was killed. Violence frightens Peter.”

“And yet you just said that he resists any effort to change his routine. Perhaps Blackwell upset that routine in some way.”

Pembroke was silent.

Lamb leaned forward. “What if Peter saw something related to Blackwell's killing? Is it likely that he would fail to exhibit evidence of that—that he could be upset but have buried his distress?”

“Peter is very difficult to read, though a few people, including myself, have been able to reach him, at least to a degree.”

“Might it be possible for me to speak with Peter?”

Pembroke hesitated before answering. “I suppose it would be all right,” he said. “But I can't guarantee that he's even around the estate at the moment. When he's off on his census I don't see him for days. And I should warn you that, even if we do manage to track him down, he probably wouldn't speak to you. He is not mentally retarded. He knows what has happened to Blackwell and he knows what policemen do.”

“I understand,” Lamb said. “I've no wish to upset him.”

“Very well, then.” Pembroke rose. “I'll take you myself to his cottage. If you went alone he would run for certain the instant he saw you.”

Pembroke led the way out of the butterfly garden to the sweeping lawn.

From where they walked, Lamb could see far out into the Channel. He just made out, along the horizon, a convoy of ships slowly heading west. In the first days of the battle for Britain, the Germans had concentrated their efforts on dive-bombing British shipping in the Channel, resulting in stupendous dogfights that were visible from the coast.

“I had quite a show out here for a bit in the beginning,” Pembroke said as they walked. “The Germans came nearly every day. As much as I hate to admit it, it struck me as rather like watching a play. I could see everything clearly, and yet they were so far off that it didn't seem real. I never felt afraid.”

Before they reached the cliffs above the sea, Pembroke led them to the right, through another arch in the hedge that gave onto a path laid in fieldstone. This path led, in switchback fashion, down the side of a bluff, toward a glen. Lamb noticed that Pembroke's portion of the coast contained no barriers against attack, though nearly all of the southern and eastern coast of England bristled with barbed wire, bunkers, and mines designed to stop a German invasion from the sea.

“I see that you're not fortified here,” Lamb said as they descended the trail.

“No need for it,” Pembroke said. When they made it to the glen, he turned toward the sea. “Allow me to show you something.” He led Lamb to the cliffs. Thirty feet below, the sea crashed against jagged rocks and a slender spit of sand.

“You see, Chief Inspector,” Pembroke said. “No one in their right mind would attempt to land there.”

Lamb wasn't so sure. He stepped back from the precipice before vertigo overcame him. He'd never been comfortable looking down from heights.

“Well, I suppose we should see if Peter is in,” Pembroke said. He turned and led Lamb back toward the glen, which gave onto a clearing in which stood a small, white, wood-shingled cottage. “This is it,” Pembroke said. Lamb followed him to the cottage's front door.

Pembroke knocked. “Peter?” he said. “Are you home?”

No sound came from the house. “Peter?”

He turned to Lamb. “He doesn't appear to be in, though we can try the back.”

He led the way to the back of the cottage, which faced a wooded hill. A dirt path led up the hill, at the top of which stood a dead tree, its branches crooked and barren. The tree resembled a lone sentry
guarding whatever lay beyond the crest of the hill. As they rounded the side of the cottage, Pembroke gently took Lamb's arm. “There,” he said. Lamb at first thought Pembroke was turning his attention to some animal, perhaps a fox or badger.

About twenty yards distant, he saw a sleeping boy, his back against the trunk of a tree and his chin fallen toward his chest. A leather-bound notebook lay in his lap and a butterfly net at his feet.

“Can we wake him?” Lamb asked.

“We can try. But the experience of coming awake in the presence of a stranger might be more than he's willing to countenance.” He turned to Lamb. “I'll wake him. Once he's on his feet and sentient and I've explained that he has a visitor, I'll signal for you. In the meantime, it might be best if you kept out of sight.”

Lamb moved behind the edge of the cottage as Pembroke approached Peter. He peered around the corner to watch Pembroke gently shake Peter awake. Peter stood immediately, as if the sudden interruption of his sleep had frightened him. He had straw-colored hair that came to his shoulders and wore a simple khaki-colored cotton shirt and shorts and a pair of brown boots. His face was fine-featured and he looked to Lamb younger than sixteen, though he was nearly six feet tall. His arms and legs were sinewy and tautly muscled, like those of a long-distance runner. Even from his slightly compromised vantage point, Lamb could see an animal-like wariness in Peter's eyes and believed him easily capable of thrusting a pitchfork into someone's neck.

Pembroke stood very close to Peter and spoke to him, though Lamb could not hear what Pembroke said. Pembroke then stepped back and looked in Lamb's direction. Lamb took this as his cue and moved around the corner of the cottage into Peter's view.