Shadowy Horses (17 page)

XVII

It was difficult to tell, from his expression, what he thought. He had that damned impassive Scottish face that could mask almost anything.

Taking a long drink from his newly poured pint he settled back and stretched one arm along the top of the padded bench, looking rather too large and too powerful for this small corner of the pink and pale wood dining lounge. He'd have been more in his element, I wagered, in the public bar, but the conversation drifting through the dividing glass door sounded decidedly rough, and David Fortune was nothing if not chivalrous.

He'd been in the public bar when I'd arrived, as a matter of fact, but a word from the cheerful waitress had brought him through with a half-finished plate of sausage casserole in one hand and a pint of dark beer in the other. He'd seemed almost pleased to see me. But that, of course, had been before I'd started talking.

Now his features showed nothing save a vague air of thoughtfulness. I shifted in my chair and sent him a smile that felt a little stiff.

"You think it's a silly idea," I guessed.

"No sillier than some." His voice was slow and measured.
"No, I'm just surprised you'd think of it, that's all. I thought you didn't put much faith in ghosts."

"I didn't... don't." I frowned. "Not all ghosts, anyway. Just this one."

"Robbie's Sentinel."

"Yes."

"Because it's Robbie's?"

"Yes."

"I see." He took a long draft of his beer and eyed me keenly. “And so what you're saying is, you think we ought to ask him questions."

"Well, we know he talks," I reasoned, "and we know that Robbie hears him. I assume the ghost hears Robbie, too, though of course since they're speaking different languages there's no real proof of that. But I do think," I said, setting down my glass for emphasis, "I do think it's worth a try."

"And why is that?"

"Because of Peter. He's already talking about chucking the entire excavation, did you know that?"

"Aye." He spoke the single word without surprise. "It'd not be the first time, for him. He's been chasing the Ninth Legion since afore I was born, and he doesn't waste time on a trail that's gone cold."

"But is it cold?" I challenged him. “I mean, don't you think we owe it to Peter to examine every possibility?"

His eyes met mine with patience. "We've got the coins, lass. And the potsherds. Textbook evidence, for dating ..."

“Yes, I know. But just because the Romans came—and presumably went—in Domitian's day, that doesn't mean they didn't come back later, does it?"

It was David's turn to frown. "I'm not sure I follow."

"All right." Leaning forward, I tried to explain. "Suppose you're the commander of the Ninth Legion, and you've been ordered to march north to fight the Scottish tribes."

"I'd have had more sense."

"Be serious. So anyway, you march your legion north, along the road. If there had been a vexillation fortress here," I reasoned, "then there would have been a road. The Devil's
Causeway, even—it heads up this way from York, and we don't know
really
how far north it went."

He conceded the point. "Go on."

"Well, you have to pitch camp somewhere, don't you? And if you chanced upon an old abandoned fortress ..."

"A vexillation fortress," he reminded me, "was not designed to hold a legion."

True, I thought. Only a part of the fortress held barrack blocks—the rest was given over to administrative buildings, workshops ... "But suppose the buildings were all gone. The Romans had a habit of destroying their camps, when they withdrew. That would leave you a nice level bit of ground, large enough for your legion to pitch its tents on, and protected by a lovely ditch and rampart."

"We've found no sign of later occupation."

"We've only been digging a couple of weeks," I said, defiantly. "It's a bloody big site. And a marching camp won't leave much in the way of evidence."

David settled back a moment, considering my theory. As he drained his pint he studied me above the upraised glass, as though I were a tiny item on his trowel, that defied classification.

"You're fair determined, aren't you?"

I set my jaw. "I just think we ought to make absolutely certain, before Peter packs it in."

"And we all find ourselves out of a job." His tone was lightly mocking, and I bristled.

"It's nothing to do with the job."

"Aye, in your case," he said, "I ken fine that it's not. Adrian, now, he'd miss the money, and I'd miss working where I can keep an eye on my mother, but you ..." He shook his head. "You've no such vested interest, have you, lass? I reckon it's the work itself you'd miss. And Peter."

Actually,
I longed to say,
it's
you
I'd miss.
These past two weeks I'd grown to like the sight of David walking down the field to meet me; the low pleasant roll of his voice; the strong, sure movements of his big square hands. But admitting my attraction wouldn't help. If Adrian had taught me nothing else, he'd taught me that it wasn't wise to get involved with co-workers. Doomed to failure, those affairs were ... not to mention unprofessional.

Mind you, I thought—curing myself with a dose of reality—there was no real danger of any involvement with David. The clear blue eyes that watched me now held no expression save a mild curiosity.

Pretending a fierce interest in my barely touched glass of dry white wine, I lifted my shoulders in a deliberate shrug. "Certainly I'd miss Peter. I'm very fond of him. That's why I don't like seeing him like this."

"He climbs out of his depressions," David promised me, "eventually."

"Yes, well, I'd climb out of my own rather more quickly if I could do something constructive."

"Like interview the Sentinel?" He smiled faintly. "Seems to me that you and Robbie can take care of that yourselves. You'd not need me."

I disagreed. Courage in daylight was one thing, but wandering through that field at night and looking for a ghost was not my idea of fun. I'd feel quite a bit better with David's reassuring bulk beside me, shielding me from danger. But I didn't tell him that. Instead, I said: "My Latin's rusty. I'd like somebody around who speaks it better than I do, and asking Peter is a non-starter, isn't it? I mean, if the Sentinel is a soldier of the Ninth, that's well and good, but if he isn't, I don't imagine Peter wants to know."

"No," David agreed, "it wouldn't help matters."

"Besides," I said, "I think there ought to be a few of us present, if we do this. So there isn't any question of a hoax."

"Och, you needn't worry there. I don't imagine Peter would suspect you of twisting the truth."

"No," I said, not thinking, "but you might."

Which was, I realized with a mental wince, admitting rather more than I'd have liked. After all, it shouldn't much matter to me what David thought...

He arched an eyebrow, as though surprised. But even as his eyes began to look at me more closely, I was rescued, unexpectedly and rather disappointingly, by a smooth familiar voice that spoke behind me, from the door.

"Now there's a sight one never sees," said Adrian, laconically. "A Scotsman with an empty glass."

David took the jibe without offense. "You'd best buy me another, then."

Fabia, who'd blown into the lounge at Adrian's side, shrugged her coat off carelessly. "And you can order me a coffee, while you're at it."

David shifted over on the bench to make room for her, his eyebrow lifting higher. "Only a coffee?"

"I'm driving," she explained. Sliding into the seat, she combed her fingers through her bright hair, to tidy it, and glanced across at David, half-accusingly. "Does the wind always blow like this? It nearly knocked the Rover off the road."

David assured her the wind wasn't permanent. "Sometimes," he said solemnly, "it changes and blows from the east, like."

"Oh, wonderful," said Adrian. "Something to look forward to." He joined our little group at the comer table, his hands wrapped around two dripping pints of beer. "The coffee's on its way," he said, to Fabia. "And Verity, love, I'm ashamed to have forgotten you. Are you all right with that?" He nodded at my still full glass of wine, and I nodded.

David raised his pint philosophically. "She's been too busy talking to drink it," he said.

"Ah," said Adrian, in a knowing tone. Having fetched Fabia's coffee from the bar, he took the seat beside me, stretching an arm along my chair back in an attitude of casual possession. "So, what have the two of you been talking about?"

He voiced the question lightly, but that didn't fool me for a second.
Oh hell,
I thought,
he's jealous.
Adrian, I knew from experience, could be an absolute pain when he was jealous.

"Oh, this and that," said David, who either hadn't registered the tone of voice or didn't care. He swept a shrewd eye over Fabia. "How's your Latin, lass?"

She looked up blankly. "My what?"

Adrian lowered his glass and grinned. "I didn't do well
with Latin, myself, at school. I'm lost with any language where the words are given genders. Why should
legio
be feminine, for heaven's sake? A legion is made up of men, there's nothing feminine about it. No logic, that's the problem. And I never could make sense of the declensions. Verity's rather proficient though, aren't you, darling? At least," he qualified, "she
reads
with real authority. One can only assume she understands it."

Fabia frowned prettily, still looking at David. "What difference would it make if I spoke Latin?''

"None. It's only that Verity and I," he said, glancing at me for consent before continuing, "are thinking of having a go at Robbie's Sentinel, to see if he'll talk to us."

Adrian snorted in open disbelief. "You're joking." His gaze flashed from David to me and back again. "Verity doesn't even believe in ghosts."

"Does she not." The bland Scottish voice wasn't asking a question, but Adrian answered it anyway.

"No, she doesn't. Practical from head to toe, she is. I ought to know," he reminded David, in a voice as smooth as polished steel. His smile implied he knew me head to toe in other ways as well, but if he'd hoped to produce an effect he was disappointed.

David merely shrugged. "Ask her yourself, then."

Adrian shifted his dark eyes to my face and read my expression with the ease of long practice. “My God,'' he said, "you really do believe in our little Roman friend, don't you?"

"Yes." Lifting my wineglass, I braced myself for the inevitable arguments, backed up by stories of false hauntings and invented ghosts. Fortunately, Fabia was the first to speak.

"Well, Peter certainly believes in him," she said. "Peter thinks that all our troubles with the computer system are somehow the fault of the ghost."

"Give over," said Adrian.

"No, really—he does. After all, the technician couldn't find any mechanical reason ..."

Adrian rolled his eyes heavenwards. "I'm bloody surrounded."

David smiled quietly. "Since you've no belief in ghosts, then, I assume you'd not be wanting to take part in our wee seance?"

"You assume correctly."

But the idea clearly intrigued Fabia. "Do you think you
could
talk to him?"

I nodded. "He's already tried to talk to Robbie, only Robbie didn't understand the words, you see."

Adrian's eyes sought the ceiling a second time. "Oh, please."

"Be a skeptic if you like," I invited him stoutly. "But I'm willing to give it a go."

Fabia frowned slightly, working through the logistics. "So you'd take Robbie with you then, and have him speak to the ghost, is that right?"

I nodded. "With David and me providing the Latin."

"And Peter, of course."

I glanced at David, and he stirred in his seat, adopting the voice of reason. "I don't think," he said, "that we should take Peter with us, lass. Not yet."

She considered this, then nodded, comprehending. "In case it doesn't work, you mean."

I bit my lip. "Or in case the ghost says something Peter wouldn't want to hear. Our Sentinel might be from the wrong legion, after all..."

Adrian slid incredulous eyes to mine and made a sound between a chuckle and a groan. "The ghost," he assured me, "isn't going to say a bloody thing. You
do
realize this?"

He looked across at David. "Surely you must know how asinine—"

"We'll not lose anything by trying," David calmly cut him off. "Peter will probably scrap the excavation anyway, but..."

"What?" Adrian snapped to attention.

“Aye, unless we turn up something that gives evidence of later occupation ..."

"You mean he'd just shut down completely? Sell the house?"