Murder in the Queen's Armes (11 page)

No particular surprise there. What was unusual was that
only
the deltoids had been particularly massive. Again Gideon stood quietly, thinking. What sort of activity would develop the deltoids—which rotate, flex, and raise the arms—yet not enlarge the other muscles of the shoulder girdle? Somewhere, in some recess of his mind, he already had the answer. It wouldn’t be the pitching….

Of course. The big deltoids tied right in with those three arthritic vertebrae. There was just one more thing to check. He turned the stiff, heavy body on its side so that he could get at the back of the thigh, then cut through the hamstring muscles and peeled them away. The femur, the body’s longest, strongest bone, lay exposed. Running down the back of its shaft was a well-defined muscle ridge, the linea aspera. "Rough line," it meant in Latin, and on this body it was extremely rough indeed.

It was precisely what Gideon had expected to find, and that settled it. As far as he was concerned, the examination was done. Accentuated linea aspera, enlarged deltoid pull, and premature arthritis of the lumbar vertebrae. He had seen the combination three times before, and he knew of only one thing that caused it—longtime riding of the elongated, low-slung motorcycles called "choppers."

It was the muscle strains brought on by the unnatural posture that did it; that, the bumping, and the increased buffeting by the wind that came from riding while leaning far back. This was Alexander’s body all right; coincidence was so improbable as to be out of the question. That "typical four-weeker" business was puzzling, but it would be up to Merrill to figure that out.

So Nate had been wrong after all. Randy was dead— murdered—and Gideon was more disturbed than he should have been. It was utterly irrational for him to feel any responsibility for the death, and he knew it, but there it was all the same. What if he hadn’t put Randy off? What if he’d listened to what he’d had to say, there on the hillside….

Abruptly, he stripped off the gloves and went to the sink to scrub his hands twice over with plenty of soap, and water as hot as he could stand it. Putting blame on himself made no sense at all, and he wouldn’t let himself do it. Besides, he’d just done a first-rate piece of skeletal detective work, and he had every right to be pleased with it. He sat down at an old steel desk against the wall, his back to the body, and began to write his report.

   INSPECTOR Bagshawe’s reaction was extremely rewarding. "Get away!" he shouted so vehemently that the great, curving cherrywood pipe he was about to light slipped from between his teeth and clattered onto the glass-covered top of his desk, dispersing shreds of toast-brown tobacco through the litter of papers and folders.
"A left-handed baseball pitcher who rode a motorcycle?"

Merrill’s happy laugh rang out. "That’s wonderful, Professor! How on earth did you come up with that?"

When Gideon had explained, Bagshawe said, "So you’re reasonably certain it’s Alexander, are you?" His tone was distinctly more respectful than heretofore.

"I think so. I don’t imagine baseball pitchers are too common in England."

"No, but—"

"And a cricket bowler’s motion wouldn’t have done it. Not enough elbow snap."

Nodding his head, Bagshawe retrieved his pipe, shoveled some of the scattered tobacco back into it with a massive, cupped hand, and lit it, drawing deeply. "And it’s not only baseball players one doesn’t find here. These ‘choppers,’ as I believe you call them—not very popular here; not yet. And I say, thank the Lord for that. Well, Alexander’s background is easily enough verified, and I expect it will support your conclusions." He puffed contentedly and leaned back in his creaking wooden swivel chair. His eyes returned to the report. " ‘Radial and ulnar fractures,’ " he read aloud. "Those would be arm bones, would they?"

"Forearm, yes."

"Mm-hm, I see." His large hands rummaged awkwardly in a drawer and pulled out another sheet of paper. "Mm, I don’t seem to find…yes…no…I don’t believe you mentioned that in your report, Dr. Merrill."

Merrill appeared mildly taken aback, and Gideon intervened. "It was hardly noticeable, what with the swelling and distortion. Easy to miss."

Well, not really. He had noticed before how careless pathologists could be, even knowledgeable and enthusiastic ones like Merrill (not that he’d ever known one quite as enthusiastic as Merrill). It was lack of interest in the long bones, he’d concluded years ago. There were all sorts of things to engage pathologist’s interest in the head, the trunk, and the internal organs, and they were scrupulously examined. The outlying bones were duller stuff, it appeared, and so they often escaped attention.

"I see." Bagshawe nodded again, clearly not convinced. "Well, then, back to the good professor’s report." He puffed at his pipe and read aloud very slowly. " ‘Fresh radial and ulnar fractures’ "—Gideon almost expected him to begin pushing a bulky forefinger from word to word— " ‘which appear to be antemortem…’ " He put the report on the desk and looked thoughtfully at Gideon.

"Now, what I can’t help wondering is, how can you know that? How can you be sure the arm was broken before he died? That’s what I ask myself. How do you know he wasn’t killed, then pushed off a cliff into the sea so he broke those bones in the fall? Or that they didn’t break weeks afterward, when he washed up against a pier or a rock? That’s what
I’d
like to know." Through a rising veil of smoke, he peered keenly at Gideon.

"I don’t
know.
Naturally, it’s an inferential conclusion."

"Ah, inferential conclusions," Bagshawe said sadly. "Now, speaking for myself, I admire inferential conclusions tremendously. However, courts of law don’t always share my admiration."

Gideon laughed. "I’ve noticed the same thing myself." He had, as a matter of fact, spent some harrowing moments of his own on the stand as an expert witness. ("Now,
Doctor
Oliver, do you
really
mean to imply that you can, ah, ‘infer’ from a
single,
tiny bone, a
finger
bone…")

"Really, Inspector," Merrill said stuffily, taking offense on Gideon’s behalf, "I can assure you that if Gideon Oliver says those fractures were antemortem, they were. You may rely on his opinion without reservation."

Low in his throat, Bagshawe made a good-humored sound. "Well, I’ll just tell them you said that, Doctor, and I’m sure we won’t have any problem." He turned smiling to Gideon. "Still…"

"All right," Gideon said, "I have three reasons for thinking the bones were broken before death." Lists of three, he had found, as had many a professor before him, were almost mystically persuasive, especially if counted on the fingers.

"One"—he ticked it off with his forefinger—"there are no other fractures, aside from the bone and cartilage in the throat, and no signs of the kind of injuries that bouncing down a cliff face or being tossed against a pier might produce. Two"—two fingers rapped Bagshawe’s desk—"the existence of an antemortem nightstick fracture fits in with the probable facts, because it explains how someone might have stood in front of a husky, healthy Randy Alexander and strangled him. And three"—both of the other men watched Gideon’s hand to see him tick it off, which it did—"three, the upper and lower segments of the broken bones overlap in exactly the way they would be expected to if jerked out of position by a spasm of the flexor digitorum profundis, the flexor pollicis longus, and the pronator quadratus."

He might have said "forearm muscles," but he had shifted into a sort of pedantic high gear for the moment, and he let it pass. "Had he been dead already, the muscles would have lacked tonus, and they wouldn’t have pulled the bones out of place." Gideon paused to catch his breath.

"Excellent," Merrill said. "Clear thinking."

Bagshawe pulled ruminatively at his pipe and said, "Umm, umm."

"Of course," Gideon went on, "we can’t absolutely exclude the possibility that the bones
could
have been broken later and somehow gotten shifted into those positions, but it’s pretty unlikely. I think the fractures occurred before death—just before death—and the arm must have swelled quickly and been wedged into position inside his sleeve. He was wearing a leather jacket, wasn’t he?"

"Yes, a leather jacket," Bagshawe murmured. "Well, well, that tells us quite a lot about our victim. Now all we need to do is to find out about our murderer."

"For starters," Gideon said, "we know that he was lefthanded—like Randy."

"Why, that’s right," Merrill interjected. "The fractures. I see. Of course."

"Well, I don’t see," Bagshawe rumbled.

"The nightstick fractures," Gideon said. "They were in his right arm. And if he threw up his right hand to protect his head, then almost certainly he was warding off a blow delivered with his assailant’s left hand."

"Ah, I see," said Bagshawe. "Yes, that could be. Unless, of course, the assailant delivered a
back
-handed blow— with his right arm. Or unless Alexander was attacked from behind, say, and just happened to twist to his own left to look around when he heard someone behind him. Then, of course, it would be his own left hand that was flung up in any event, would it not?"

"No, Inspector," Merrill said. "I’ll have to support Professor Oliver on this. I do see your point, but I’d say that nine out of ten times—I speak from my own experience, you understand—a nightstick fracture of the right arm indicates a left-handed attacker, and vice versa."

"Well," Bagshawe muttered, "I expect you’re right. Still, in my opinion, it’s a bit premature to rule out other possibilities." He cocked his head slowly to one side. "Something’s just occurred to me…Do you suppose there’s any merit in this? Since he was wearing a leather jacket, I wonder if there might not be some sign of the weapon on his sleeve: an imbedded fragment of wood or metal, perhaps, or an indentation that shows the shape of the object. What do you think?"

"It’s been in the water for weeks," Gideon said. "Would there be anything after all that time?"

"Probably not," Bagshawe said with a sigh. "Still, I think I’ll suggest the forensic lads have a look. No stone unturned, you know. Well, well." He put his pipe down and stood up. "Thank you, Professor, it’s been most enlightening. I’ll go up to the excavation this afternoon and tell them about poor Alexander. Until then, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep all this to yourself."

Gideon nodded and got up, too, and was afforded the novel sensation of seeing his own sizable hand engulfed in an even larger one.

"May I send you back?" Bagshawe asked.

"No, no," Merrill said, jumping up. "My pleasure."

"Fine," Bagshawe said. "Fine. Oh, Professor, while you’re here…I understand from Sergeant Fryer that Mr. Alexander made an appointment to tell you something but that he never kept it. Would you mind going over the particulars once more?"

Head down, arms folded, leaning against his desk, he listened closely while Gideon described the incident. "And," he said, "did anyone overhear him make this appointment with you?"

"I don’t think so. We were out in the open, and no one was around. Well, Nate Marcus saw us talking—he came looking for Randy—but he couldn’t have heard what we were saying. At least I don’t think so."

"And what was his reaction.?"

"None, as far as I remember. Or, on second thought, maybe he seemed a little irritated. He asked if it was a private discussion."

"Ah. And did anyone else overhear you?"

Gideon thought for a moment. "We walked by the trench together. I suppose that any of the three of them— Sandra, Barry, Leon—could have seen us, or maybe heard us. But we were just chatting at that point. Randy waited until we were out of sight before he got serious."

"As if he didn’t want anyone else to hear?"

"That was the impression I got."

"And Professor Frawley? Where was he during all this?"

"We left him in the shed. He couldn’t have heard us."

"Ah," Bagshawe said again, with more relish. "So of them all, only Professor Marcus might have overheard, and he seemed…irritated, I believe you said?"

"Wait a minute, Inspector. Nate sounds irritated most of the time. You’re not implying that he killed Randy to keep him from telling me something, are you?"

"Implying?" Bagshawe pointed incredulously to himself with the stem of his pipe. "Me? No, no, just collecting data. Implications come later. As in anthropology, no doubt." He smiled. "By the way, you wouldn’t happen to remember if Professor Marcus is left-handed, I suppose?"

Was he? Were any of them? Gideon couldn’t remember.

"No matter," Bagshawe said kindly. "I’ll just have to look into it myself."

"Look, Inspector Bagshawe, I’m not trying to protect Nate. I don’t think for a minute he did it, but whoever did, I’m as interested in seeing him caught as you are. I guess I feel, well…"

Responsible was what he felt, like it or not. And guilty. He had self-righteously put Randy off with conditions that were no more than ploys to keep himself out of the Stonebarrow mess, and now Randy was dead, killed that very day, it appeared.

"Well, personally involved," he concluded weakly. "But are you saying that Nate is a serious suspect?"

Bagshawe stopped in the process of relighting his pipe. He took it from his mouth, tipped his big head, and grinned, showing square, complacent teeth. "Now what sort of copper would I be if I answered that?"

THE resolutely amicable Andy Hinshore served Julie and Gideon a plentiful late lunch of roast chicken and fried potatoes while Gideon gave Julie a nongraphic summary of his morning’s experiences at the mortuary, having decided that Bagshawe’s proscription did not apply in her case.

He was just concluding when the telephone in the reception hall rang. After a few seconds they heard Hinshore shouting into it. "I’m sorry, I didn’t understand you…. Could you speak a little slower? Sir…?"

The conversation continued in this vein, and then, as Gideon was pouring more tea from the pot on the table, Hinshore’s voice caught his attention more sharply.