Murder in the Queen's Armes (8 page)

"Is that true, Paul? The outcome’s still open?"

It was Robyn who answered. "My dear Oliver," he said lighting another cigarette, "Arbuckle and I are not a couple of hit men hired to perform a character assassination. We represent, as you well know, two of the most prestigious of archaeological research organizations. Both of us, I should add, were firm supporters, in the face of some rather severe opposition, of Professor Marcus’s original application for permission and funding."

He paused to taste his sherry, then pressed his lips together, holding the glass to his temple, as if listening to it. "Quite nice," he said, "although as olorosos go, perhaps the least bit thin."

Gideon doubted that he could taste anything at all. The cigarette in his other hand was his third one.

"But," Robyn went on at his own leisurely pace, "how can we ignore the bizarre nature of his recent statements?…Well, you saw what was attributed to him in the newspaper. There are, I assure you, other even more outrageous and offensive examples." He crossed one leg over the other, first arranging an already impeccable trouser crease. "Nevertheless, I think I can speak for both of us in saying we would consider our mission successful if the man would simply give us his promise to restrain his outbursts and stick to the business of pursuing the excavation—which I must admit he does very well. Wouldn’t you agree with all that, Arbuckle?"

"What?" Arbuckle asked with a start. He had been staring into the flames. "Sorry, I guess I was thinking about my own dig."

Gideon smiled. When Paul was involved in research, his one-track mind never strayed very far from it.

"Got something interesting going in France?" Gideon asked.

"I do. I sure do." He thrust his stocky body forward, twisting his glass in stubby fingers. All at once, he was more alert, more alive, "It’s in Burgundy, near Dijon— Gideon, it’s been fluorine-dated at 220,000 b.c.—Middle Pleistocene! Just think, it’s as old as Swanscombe or Stein-hem! We’ve got Acheulian handaxes, cleavers… What are you laughing at?"

"You," Gideon said, "It’s the first time this afternoon I’ve seen you really come alive. Poor Paul; there you are in the middle of a great dig, with the chance to learn something about the earliest Homo sapiens, and you have to break it off to get involved in a minor squabble over the Bronze Age."

"Really," Robyn murmured in the manner of an actor delivering an aside, "I’d hardly call it a minor squabble."

Arbuckle looked at Gideon, but it was hard to tell what he was thinking. The firelight bouncing opaquely off his thick glasses made his never-too-mobile face look more wooden than ever. Finally he laughed, something he didn’t do often.

"You’re right. Who cares about the Bronze Age? All I want to do is get this thing over with and get back to Dijon. And don’t tell me you wouldn’t feel just the same."

"I would," Gideon said, meaning it.

"Now, see here," said Robyn. "I feel I must stand up on behalf of the Bronze Age. For myself, I’d rather deal with jeweled daggers and filigreed breastplates, and pendants of Baltic amber—all neatly tucked away for me in barrows—than go grubbing in muddy riverbeds for vulgar rock choppers and gnawed elephant bones left by coarse and unhygienic man-apes."

Gideon was about to reply when he heard the front door of the hotel open and close, and then the welcome sound of Julie’s footsteps in the entry hall. (When had he learned to recognize them?) He half rose, but Robyn was even quicker, springing lightly to his feet.

"Ah, my dear Mrs. Oliver," he said, oozing urbanity, "you are indeed a welcome sight. We’ve been discussing the most dreary sorts of things for far too long. Now I’d like to propose that you and Professor Oliver join us for dinner. I know a perfectly delightful old coaching inn at Honiton."

He smiled engagingly, the lines around his eyes folding into a fan of handsome crinkles. "I won’t take no for an answer."

   THE restaurant was as charming as Robyn had promised, and they finished two bottles of wine, so the four of them passed a reasonably pleasant evening, during which the subject of Stonebarrow Fell never arose. Robyn was witty and gallant, and Paul made polite, vague conversation. He even managed to come out of his shell in his own blinking, resolute fashion when Robyn said that since the inquiry wasn’t until Thursday, why didn’t he and Arbuckle motor to Swanscombe the next day and have a look at the famous site where England’s oldest human remains had been discovered fifty years before?

When they got back to the hotel, Arbuckle was, in fact, loosened up enough to suggest they have after-dinner drinks in the lounge, where Hinshore had kept the fire going for them. Gideon declined, and he and Julie went up to their room, leaving the two men sprawled (Robyn even managed to sprawl elegantly) in the big chairs, each with a brandy snifter at his elbow.

"Whew!" Julie sighed the moment they’d shut the door. She flung herself into his arms, driving him back against the wall with a thump. "I
love
you," she said, and pulled his face down to kiss him firmly on the lips. "You neat, attractive man!" She put her head against his shoulder and hugged him hard.

"Hey," he said, delighted. "What’s all this about?"

"I haven’t had you alone almost all
day!
Do you realize this is the first time that’s happened since we’ve been married?"

"Well, the magic has to end sometime," he said lightly, but he hadn’t liked it either. He liked this very much better. He put his lips to her hair, fresh-smelling despite Robyn’s endless smoking.

Julie slipped her arms under his sport coat and pressed her palms flat against his back, pulling him against her. He could feel how warm her hands were through the thin cloth of his shirt. She was wearing a blouse with a wide, square-cut neckline, and he placed his hands gently along her throat. Under the heavy, dark hair, the nape of her neck was lusciously long and curved. And naked. He let his fingers move to her shoulders under the border of the blouse and felt her flesh respond to his touch.

"Besides, I was worried about you," she murmured, scarcely audible against the tweed of his jacket. "I kept worrying that you’d go climbing on those stupid cliffs and fall off. Or get run over by a car on your way back because you’re absentminded and you’d forget they drive on the other side of the street. Isn’t that silly?"

"Yes," he said. "Ridiculous." He kissed her hair again and stroked the firm, soft flesh of her shoulders.

"And then," she said, her cheek still against him, "when we were finally able to have dinner together, we had to spend it with those boring people." She began to finger the buttons of his shirt.

"Boring? I thought Robyn was supposed to be sexy and interesting."

She shook her head. "He smokes too much. And his hair’s too perfect. He looks like a salesman in a clothing store, or a TV actor. And he doesn’t have any hair on his chest. And he’s too sure of how fantastically attractive he is."

Gideon laughed. "And just how do you happen to know he doesn’t have any hair on his chest?"

Her fingers began to work at his shirt buttons. "Oh," she said, "you can tell. He’s just not the type. Not enough of that hairy male hormone, whatever you call it. He’s got a flat, white, hairless chest without those what-do-you-call-them muscles."

"Pectoralis major. And testosterone."

"Yes," she said, and undid a couple of the buttons.

"And you don’t like hairless white chests."

"No. I like them like yours. For when my nose itches." She rubbed her nose briskly against his chest. He bent suddenly and lifted her off her feet. It struck him as astonishing that he had never done it before in almost three weeks of marriage.

"Gideon!" she said, caught by surprise. "I’m too heavy!"

"Is that right?" he said, cradling her easily in his arms, showing off, feeling pleasantly powerful and in command. And full of testosterone. When he opened the door and stepped abruptly out into the hall with her, she jerked in his arms.

"Gideon! What are you doing?"

"I thought you wanted to make love on the hearth," he said.

"There are people down there!" she whispered urgently.

"Oh, I asked them about it. They said they wouldn’t mind. Paul said he’s never seen it done before, and he wants to take notes."

"Gideon, put me down! Somebody might come along. Take me back inside!"

"Turnabout," he muttered. "Spoilsport." He carried her back into the room, shoving the door shut behind them with his shoulder.

"You didn’t
really
ask them, did you?"

"You asked me to."

"Gideon!"

He laughed and squeezed her. "Of course not, dopey."

"Well, it’s just that I really don’t know you that well yet. I don’t know when you’re joking and when you’re serious. Are you ever going to put me down?"

"I don’t know. You feel awfully good." He hefted her up to kiss her, and the lush, warm curve of her hip rode up against him. His knee jostled accidently against a low table on which sat an electric teapot and flowered china cups and saucers. The saucers rattled. "What would you say," he said, "if I told you that what I’d like most in the world right now was a nice, hot piece of tea? Oops."

They both laughed, and she said, "I’d say you weren’t serious."

He carried her to the bed, put her gently down, and knelt at the bedside to run his fingers down her soft throat to the smooth hollow at its base. "I have seen many a handsome fossa jugularis in my day, but yours is by far the sweetest and sexiest." He bent to kiss the fragrant flesh and moved back to look at her face. "Julie, I didn’t think it was possible to love anyone this much."

"I know that." She lay quietly looking up at him, her hand lightly against his cheek.

Gently, Gideon undid the top button of her blouse. Julie watched his face, her black eyes enormous.

The telephone rang.

"No," Gideon said, "it wouldn’t dare."

It rang again. Loudly. It gave the unmistakable impression that it would go on ringing until it was answered.

Gideon grimaced, dipped his face quickly to kiss her, and tramped glumly to the phone.

The voice on the other end of the line was a stranger’s; hearty, aggravatingly jovial under the circumstances, and very English.

"Professor Oliver? Wilson Merrill here. Dr. Merrill. Coroner’s pathologist, Dorset Constabulary. I’d heard you were in Charmouth, and I know you’re on holiday and all, but, well, I wondered if you’d be interested in coming by the mortuary here in Bridport and looking at a body. We’d be most grateful."

The humor of the situation was not lost on Gideon. "You’d like me to look at a body?" he asked, his eyes on Julie, who now knelt on the bed, her hands clasped demurely in her lap.

"Yes, rather. It was found this morning on the shore near Seaton. I’ve done all I can with it, but I thought, inasmuch as you were nearby, that it might engage your interest. I’ve read about your work, of course, and it would be a pleasure to meet you."

"Uh, you’d like me to look at it now? Tonight?"

"Well, yes, unless it isn’t convenient." The voice hesitated. "It
is
only nine-fifteen, isn’t it? Yes, of course it is. The remains are being shipped to the forensic science laboratories in London tomorrow, and I simply thought you might want to have a go at them while they were still here. But if it can’t be managed…"

"What do you have?"

"Adult male. Greatly advanced state of decomposition, but the skeleton’s whole. Husky fellow; Caucasian, I think."

Gideon hesitated, then looked at Julie again. He shook his head firmly. "I’m afraid it’s out of the question this evening, Dr. Merrill. I’m sorry, I’d like to have helped."

"What about tomorrow morning?"

"Well, yes, I think I could do that…"

"I’ll be there for you at eight o’clock. Earlier if you like."

"No, eight’s fine. See you then."

"Righto. Thanks so much. I can’t wait to see you in action."

Gideon put the telephone down and looked up to see Julie getting off the bed.

"Hey," he said, moving to her, "where do you think you’re going?"

"Well, I thought you weren’t interested anymore. Your mind’s on other things."

"Why would you think that?" he asked, smiling. But he
was
thinking about other things. About Randall Alexander: adult male, husky, Caucasian. And missing from Stonebarrow Fell for two weeks.

"Why would I think that?" She laughed and gently poked him in the abdomen with a finger. "Because you’ve been standing there in front of me with your shirt unbuttoned, and you’ve forgotten to suck in your tummy and stick out your chest."

"Oh, no!" he exclaimed, pulling in the one and thrusting forward the other. "Now you know the awful truth about me. Another flabby-chested, pot-bellied fraud."

"You phony, you’re gorgeous and you know it. C’mere." She seized his belt and dragged him down beside her. "Mmm," she said, "I’m interested in bodies myself."

"Me too," he said, shifting his weight so they toppled gently sideways onto the bed, still embracing, their heads on the pillows. "One particular body, anyway. Now, where were we?"

   WILSON Merrill was one of those people who look just the way they sound. Gideon had pictured a squarish, energetic man of forty-five, with a ruddy face and jolly eyes, and so he was. He arrived punctually at eight, just as Gideon and Julie were finishing a gigantic breakfast in the dining room. They were alone, Robyn and Arbuckle having started early on the two-hundred mile round trip to Swanscombe.

Merrill promptly accepted Gideon’s invitation to join them for a cup of coffee and plumped himself down at their table. They passed a few minutes in pleasant enough conversation about weather and countryside, and Merrill recommended several country walks they might like, being himself a great walker. (It was not hard to imagine him striding over the downs in knickerbockers and tweed coat, with a shooting stick under his arm, if they still had such things.)