Murder in the Queen's Armes (6 page)

"No, I’m leaving tomorrow. We thought we’d drive west, spend some time in Wales, see some of Ireland, and then head back to London in a couple of weeks."

"Well, couldn’t you work it out to stop in Charmouth again on the way back? The inquiry’s November twenty-ninth."

"I don’t think—"

"Wait, don’t say no. I’m in trouble, Gid. That inquiry board is dead set against me. They’ve already made up their minds. They’ll find some way to twist—"

"I don’t buy that, Nate. Horizon and the WAS are objective, knowledgeable—"

His protest was waved away. "They’re archaeologists, like I am. What do they know about skeletons? Look, man, we could use a good physical anthropologist there; somebody without an ax to grind, someone we all trust— because we sure as hell don’t trust each other."

Gideon shook his head. "Forget it. The last thing I need is to be on a board of inquiry—into
your
conduct, no less. No, thanks."

"Listen, all I’m asking you to do is be there, maybe for an hour, when I show them what I have. You know, just be an expert resource; do your thing, give us your opinion.

Call it the way you see it."

"Nate, I’m on my honeymoon."

"Okay, let me put it this way." He looked soberly at Gideon. "I know you think I’m kidding myself, and maybe I am. But I’m not crazy, you know. And what if I’m right? What if the most important Bronze Age find of the century, maybe of any century, is about to pop? I’m asking you to be the first physical anthropologist to look at it. You’d be right there at the grand opening; you’d be the one to do the initial analysis…."

Gideon sighed, then laughed. What anthropologist could say no to that? Besides, it might give him a final chance to help Nate, to keep him from doing anything more foolish than he’d already done. "Well," he said, "when you put it that way…"

Nate laughed and reached forward to shake hands. As he did so, a cool draft from behind Gideon rustled the papers on the table.

"Oh, sorry. I didn’t know you were in conference."

Nate looked up over Gideon’s shoulder. "No problem, Randy, come on in. Gid, this is Randy Alexander, number-one contender for the world’s perennial-student title."

Laughing offhandedly, a big, coarsely good-looking man carrying a paper sack came in. He was about thirty-five, only a few years younger than Nate and Gideon, with longish, curling brown hair, a casual, loose-jointed gait, and an air about him of indolent, somewhat studied dissipation.

"Hiya, Prof. I think I heard of you."

It was certainly his day for public acclaim, Gideon thought, but even this dubious tribute, the second in an hour, was quickly retracted.

"Or," Randy said, "maybe I just heard Dr. Marcus talk about you being an old friend."

"My oldest," Nate said. "Gideon and I were chugalugging watered-down beer in the UW Rathaus fifteen years ago."

"No kidding." Randy went to a metal cabinet near the coffee paraphernalia and, whistling softly, began taking things from the sack and putting them on shelves.

"Did you get everything?" Frawley asked him.

"Yup. Coffee, notepads, mallet, chisels, string, the whole schmear."

"Well," Gideon said, rising. "I guess I’ll walk on down now."

Randy turned with surprising speed. "I’ll let you through the gate."

"Hey, Gid… ?" Nate said.

Gideon waited.

"I’m glad to hear you got married again." He smiled— the old smile Gideon remembered, shy and quick, and unexpectedly elfin in that intense, lean face. "You’re the kind of guy who needs to be married, you know that? Congratulations and best of luck. What’s her name?"

"Thanks very much, Nate. Her name is Julie." Gideon was moved; a glimmer of the old Nate had peeked through. "Nate, are you sure you wouldn’t like me to take a sort of confidential look—"

"No way, pal. Trust me. See you on the twenty-ninth."

Outside, the thick fog had moved in. The ocean, the coastline and the surrounding hills were all invisible, and on the fell everything was indistinct and gloomy.

Randy conversed with mumbling indifference as they walked past the other three students, in the pit, but as soon as he and Gideon were shielded by a small, grassy rise he stopped. "Could I talk to you, Dr. Oliver?"

"Sure."

"It’s about this Mycenaean thing. Look, if I tell you something pretty wild, will you promise to keep my name out of it?"

"No, I won’t, Randy. If you want to tell me something, go ahead. But no strings."

Randy’s sleepy eyelids lifted. It wasn’t the answer he’d expected. "It’s really serious. I mean, I think you should know."

"I think you’re talking to the wrong man. You probably know a lot more about the Bronze Age than I do."

"But this whole Mycenaean thing, it’s all screwed up—"

"Randy, have you talked to Nate? His bark’s a lot worse—"

Randy laughed. "Oh, sure, talk to Marcus about it. You don’t know how funny that is."

"Frawley, then?"

He shook his head impatiently. "He wouldn’t do anything about it. It’s crazy….Dr. Oliver, I know you can do something about it before anyone gets into real trouble…. I don’t know, I just feel like I can trust you, you know?"

Gideon felt the same sort of ambivalence he’d had in the flower-child days when someone you’d never seen before would walk up to you with a smile, thrust a daisy into your hand, and energetically tell you to have a good day. Was Randy being as honest as he was trying to appear, or was this a put-on for his own amusement? Still, the gray eyes, on a level with Gideon’s own, were imploring, waiting for a signal to continue. It seemed to Gideon he had been dancing and sidestepping all morning to stay out of the morass of Stonebarrow Fell, but now, reluctantly, he nodded.

"Okay, but no strings. If I can keep your name out of it, I will, but I can’t promise."

"Uh-uh," Randy said, "no deal. If—" He stopped abruptly, his eyes focused beyond Gideon.

"Private discussion?" Nate asked dryly. He had just come over the rise.

"Nope," said Randy with smooth nonchalance, "just talking shop."

"Well, I was looking for you. When you’re finished, come on over to the dig. Now that everyone’s here, I want to go over our problems with level three. I think we need to talk about pseudostratigraphic indicators."

"Will do, chief; my favorite subject."

He was uncommunicative while he walked with Gideon down to the gate, and when they got there, he glanced behind them. There was Nate at the top of the crest, looking after them, almost hidden in the mist.

Randy unlocked the gate. "Okay, you win," he said hurriedly. "Can I talk to you later? Where are you staying?"

Gideon let out a long breath. He’d thought he’d managed to wriggle his way off the hookwith honor reasonably intact. "The Queen’s Armes, but we’re taking off tomorrow."

"How about tonight? Five o’clock?"

"Okay," Gideon said resignedly, "I’ll be there."

   AT 5:45 p.m. Gideon snapped shut the Ngaio Marsh novel he’d borrowed from the hotel library and tossed it irritably onto the low table.

"Let’s go get some dinner."

Julie looked up from her own book. "I thought you said he really seemed to have something on his mind."

"He did, but he was pretty coy about it. I think he just changed his mind."

"What do you suppose it was about?"

"I don’t know, but to tell you the truth, I’m just as glad not to hear it. There are some very funny dynamics going on up there."

"Maybe something held him up at the dig. Why not give him a few more minutes?"

"It’s been dark for over an hour. They shut down long ago. Besides, I thought you wanted me to stay out of academic squabbles."

"I do, but you made it sound important. Do you know where he’s staying?"

"No, and anyway, why the hell should I go chasing after him? He’s the one who wants to talk to me, isn’t he?"

Julie got up and came over to him. She leaned over the back of the big leather armchair and kissed his cheek. "Poor baby. He gets grumpy when he’s hungry, doesn’t he?"

Laughing, he stood up and hugged her. "I do, don’t I? Come on, let’s go get some honest English roast beef and ale. If something’s held him up, he can call and leave a message.

"Oh, by the way," he said, as they shrugged into their coats, "speaking of academic squabbles that I’m so skillful at staying out of, there’s this inquiry on November twenty-ninth…"

   THEY arrived back in Charmouth on November 27, after a full morning’s drive over country roads. Gideon, cramped after all that time in the car, went for a long walk on the beach while Julie, hungry for some modern American fiction, left in search of a bookstore.

It was a good, muscle-loosening walk, made even more enjoyable when he found a small, perfectly coiled fossil ammonite among the pebbles. The wind began to sharpen after an hour, however, and the afternoon was fading rapidly to a dirty, sleet-spattered gray, so that by the time he got back to the Queen’s Armes he was cold through and glad to close the wooden door of the old inn behind him. He was happy, too, to see the ruddy flicker on the wall of the long entryway opposite the Tudor Room. That meant that a fire had been laid in the snug, ancient chamber that served as a resident’s lounge.

The little Queen’s Armes Hotel was reputed to be over five hundred years old, and although the outside had been stuccoed and modernized many times through the years, the Tudor stonework and age-blackened woods inside gave credence to the reputation. Its owner, Andy Hinshore—a wiry, nervous, darting man, though affable and gregarious—had welcomed Julie and Gideon back as if they were his best and oldest clients.

At the moment, they were his only clients, and the absence of other guests had pleased them. Having the time-weathered old Tudor lounge to themselves, with glasses of sherry at their sides and a fire crackling in the great stone fireplace, had promised the most delightful way imaginable of spending a few wintry evenings in the quiet heart of the English countryside.

It was therefore with a sense of being disagreeably intruded upon that Gideon now heard voices coming from the lounge. Glancing in as he passed by, he saw two men in business suits sitting in armchairs—the very ones he’d had in mind for himself and Julie—near the fireplace. One was a spare man of forty in a flawlessly tailored gray suit, an elegant, long-limbed man with stylishly molded, graying hair and a lean-fleshed, aristocratic face. The other, hunch-shouldered and lumpy in an old tweed jacket, had his back to Gideon. They looked unpleasantly settled in, as if they meant to stay awhile.

Grumpily, Gideon climbed the stairs and opened the door to his room. On the bed was a note from Julie.

Dear Husband (What fun!):
Do mufflers fall off cars? Something fell off ours and it looks suspiciously like one. Mr. Hinshore recommended a garage in Taunton, so I’ve driven over there to see if they can stick it back on again.
Curses, we’re not alone after all. A couple of archaeologists have moved in and one of them (I forget his name*) says he knows you. They told me to tell you they’d be in the Tudor Room this afternoon and would like you to come by. One of them is a sexy, interesting Englishman who looks like Sherlock Holmes (Razzle Bathbone, I mean), but the other one (the one who knows you) is kind of a dud, I’m afraid.
I should be back by 5:30, I hope.
I love you! I love you! I love you!
With sincere regards,
(Mrs.) Julene T. Oliver
*Barkle? Arkle? Carbuncle?
P.S. I was thinking about making love to you on the Tudor Room hearth tonight. Do you suppose your friends would mind?
P.P.S. See page 2 of newspaper for more on Stonebarrow Fell.

Holding the note in his hand, Gideon frowned apprehensively. She hadn’t driven alone in England before. Would she remember that you drove on the wrong side? She’d be coming back on slippery roads after dark; he didn’t like that. And where the hell was Taunton? He found himself gnawing his lower lip with concern, smiled, and put the letter down. She was a perfectly competent women of thirty, a former senior parkranger who had once coolly rescued
him
in the depths of Olympic National Park. She had gotten along just fine without him all her life, and to worry now because she was driving alone was nothing but a reprehensible, condescending, and atavistic sexual chauvinism, to be discouraged before it got started. Never mind that it felt so good.

A copy of the
West Dorset Times
was on a corner of the bed. Gideon turned to page two and found the brief article at the top of the page.

STONEBARROW FELL AGAIN
The controversy-plagued archaeological excavation at Stonebarrow Fell continues to be the focus of interest in another matter: the mysterious disappearance of Mr. Randall Alexander, a staff member. Mr. Alexander has not been seen or heard from since November 13. Fears of foul play are mounting, and Chief Constable Kevin Blackmore yesterday requested the assistance of New Scotland Yard in the matter. It is understood that Detective Inspector Herbert T.M. Bagshawe is already on the scene.

He sat down on the bed with a queer, uneasy sense of misgiving. Randy had never shown up that night and had failed to leave a message, so that he and Julie had left the next day—November 14, was it?—without hearing from him. Gideon had been a little concerned at the time, but he’d forgotten about it before the day was out. But now he suddenly felt… responsible? Guilty? As if by being more receptive to Randy he might have prevented… what? The thought, ill-formed and obscure, skittered away from him.

He got up and went to the dark window, staring out but seeing only his own reflection, with the comfortable room behind him. Absently tossing and catching the small, heavy fossil he’d found on the beach, he tried to sort out his thoughts.

"Do I think he’s been murdered, is that it? Is that what’s bothering me? That someone killed him—Frawley? Nate, even?—flung him from the cliffs to keep him from telling me whatever secret he was going to reveal at five o’clock?" He said it aloud to see what it sounded like, and it sounded silly. There were a lot of explanations to sift through before getting to that one. Not that it was his responsibility to do any sifting. Still…