Time Enough To Die (7 page)

"Mr. March, no one knows better than a hotelkeeper what little difference that makes when a bloke finds a bird he fancies."

No one knows better than a policeman.
Gareth studied his notebook for a moment. He had veered away from his assigned topic of “Our Roman Heritage,” but Clapper seemed perfectly happy to follow. “Who do you think killed the girl, then? Off the record, of course, just your opinion."

"It was one of them layabouts they call New Age travelers,” Clapper replied. “They're after some odd jiggery-pokery in that camp."

"Illegal drugs, for example?"

"And devil-worship."

Gareth reminded himself not to show impatience. A real reporter would be sucking down that sort of rubbish. “You've seen them at it?"

"No. Some of the lads have done, though. And Emma Price what lives down the lane, there was a filthy row about her a couple of months ago."

"In February? What happened to her?"

"Silly little chit got herself in the pudding club. Said the baby's father was Nick, the bloke who's more or less the boss of the traveler's camp. Said he'd worked some sort of magic on her and the next thing she knew, poof, up the spout.” Clapper shook his head over the foolishness of women. “Nick denied it, though. Her family organized an appointment at a clinic in Macclesfield, and that was the end of it."

Gareth doubted that. “Where's Emma now?"

"She's working in some posh shop in Manchester. Hear tell she goes back to the camp every now and then, although Nick will have sod-all to do with her any more. A good thing too—he's a bad lot."

"Do you know Nick's last name?” Gareth asked.

"Velotis, or something like that."

Gareth wrote “Nick Velotis (?)” and “Emma Price” on his page and told himself not to push his luck. “Would you say, Mr. Clapper, that living in a town built on Roman ruins gives you a sense of history and heritage?"

"Sorry?"

"You've learned quite a bit about Romano-British antiquities simply by living in the neighborhood."

Clapper re-arranged his receipts. “Not as much as maybe. I'm no scholar, not like the Doc. I could tell you some good ghost stories, if you like."

"Oh?"

"Distant trumpets, marching feet, shapes in the mist. Mostly seen by people leaving my bar or the pub down the lane, mind you. Still, ghost stories bring in the tourists...."

P.C. Watkins strolled by the window. Gareth decided he needed to check with the local plod more than he needed to sit here talking supernatural rot. “Well, thank you, Mr. Clapper. All this has been very helpful."

"You'll mention The Green Dragon in your article, will you?” Clapper reached to the back of his desk and picked up several advertising brochures. “Here, have some of these for your mates. We serve breakfast, lunch, tea, and dinner, with bar meals any time."

"Thank you. Very much obliged.” Gareth pocketed his notebook and the brochures, draped his camera over his shoulder, dodged the reception desk, and went out the door.

Watkins was standing at the curb looking over at the dig. Which, Gareth saw, was rapidly developing beneath the spades of twenty students. Already they had peeled back the turf and were cutting trenches into the dark soil. Sweeney, in a leather jacket and scarf, looked like a World War I air ace separated from his Sopwith Camel.

Matilda was walking back and forth, hale and hearty—not that her London assailant was likely to have another go at her whilst she was with the students. She'd survived the five days between Forrest's office and Corcester without Gareth hovering protectively over her. Her mishap in the tube station had probably been an accident. Still Gareth had walked her to the door of her room last night and made sure no one was inside. She'd thanked him politely. If she was frightened she was hiding it well.

"Morning, S...” said Watkins, the truncated “sir” making a sibilant.

"Good morning, Constable.” And under his breath, “Clapper was telling me that Linda Burkett was seen with Reynolds."

"Several days before she died, that was,” Watkins replied. “Reynolds was at home with his wife at the time of the murder, near as we could estimate."

"What about a local girl named Emma Price?"

Watkins frowned slightly. “What about her?

"She was having it off with a fellow named Nick, at the traveler's camp. She said he'd bewitched her or some sort of rot."

"That weren't witchery, that were biology, if you take my meaning, Ins ... Mr. March. Some of the lads were nattering about devil-worship, true, but I reckon Nick and his mates were having them on. Finding Linda's body up on Durslow Edge in February gave everyone a turn, like. That's all."

Gareth was perfectly willing to believe that was all.... His shoulders prickled and he glanced round. Clapper was standing in his window, his massive frame wavering like a manta ray in the old glass. He smiled and nodded. Gareth smiled and nodded back again, then pulled out his notebook and scrawled a few random words in it. “Thank you, Constable. It must be very interesting to walk a beat in a town with a Roman heritage."

"Oh—er—that it is,” said Watkins, and with a roll of his eyes toward the window ambled away up the sidewalk.

Mind your step,
Gareth admonished himself. One person seeing him with Watkins was all right, but he didn't want anyone else to.

He crossed the street and skirted the cottages and the bowling green. As he crossed the second street a few raindrops plopped softly on his head. Some of the students glanced up in annoyance. Sweeney produced a furled umbrella and flourished it at the sky. Gareth felt no more raindrops.

The three trenches, dark gashes in the damp green grass, were already revealing muddy shapes. Except for the occasional “Ewww” when someone encountered a not-very-ancient relic of cow, the students were working quietly and efficiently.

Manfred stood over his group with transit and plumb bob, making sure the trench was exactly six feet wide and its sides were a proper ninety degrees. Jason was in the trench with his group, taking the shovels from their hands and doing the tricky bits himself. Caterina hunkered down, troweling a large flat stone. At least, Gareth told himself, she and her lover had the decency not to bring their extra-curricular activities to work with them. Lads that age tended to be frivolous and girls foolish, silly little Emma Price being a case in point.

Gareth could hardly blame these lads for moments of inattention, though, when the charms of the girls were displayed a treat by snug blue jeans. Ashley, the girl with the typical American unisex name, was using a small pick to clear a stone wall a few paces away from the others. Yesterday she'd reminded Gareth of a kitten. He'd felt like offering her a saucer of milk.

Bryan eyed Ashley's progress and said something encouraging, then walked on, checking that each member of his group was doing his or her assigned task. Jennifer put a camera back in its case, set it down with the other equipment, and picked up a sketch pad. Sweeney tucked his umbrella beneath his arm like a swagger stick and moved from group to group. “Objects are all to the good, children, but we need surfaces—surfaces, now, a light touch...."

Speaking of jiggery-pokery, there was Matilda. No, that wasn't fair. Gareth had no proof that Matilda was a charlatan. Or that she wasn't. He ranged up beside her and saw that she was comparing what looked like old photographs of the area with its current appearance.

"Miller's expedition in the thirties,” she explained. “The remains of some medieval buildings were still here then. I imagine they've gone to build the walls of chip shops and garages. Along here.” Her forefinger sketched lines and angles over the turf.

Gareth didn't know whether she was extrapolating from the photos or whether she was “seeing” the after-image of a building. He didn't ask, any more than he'd asked her last night about her vision, or hallucination, or whatever it had been. He hadn't seen or heard anything. The air had been still and cold, the night so quiet it had rung in his ears. Matilda had stood looking intently at nothing.

"That trench over there, the deep one's overgrown,” he said. “That's from the Miller expedition?"

"Yes, although those scars along its edge are much more recent, like the potholes I was pointing out yesterday. In fact.... “Matilda climbed down into the weedy ravine that cut through the northern embankment of the fort, Gareth at her heels. “I wouldn't be at all surprised if those statues came from that hole there. It's fairly recent—smaller weeds, and the bank has collapsed into it. A pretty good tunnel was driven in here, into the foundations of what used to be a substantial building, judging by the stone and pottery debris.” She poked the dirt with the toe of her rubber wellie boot, turning up a few scraps of stone.

"Someone digging here would have been hidden from the farm and from the town,” Gareth said. “Do you suppose they knew what they were after?"

"Whoever stole the statuary dug several pits in the area of the temple, the legion headquarters, and the commander's home, places where he could reasonably expect to find valuable items. Corcester town council offers a very nice map of the fort, the Miller excavation reports are available at the library, and metal detectors work just as well for the dishonest."

"So we're not necessarily looking for someone with specialized knowledge?"

"No, just someone with a bit of luck and no conscience. The statuary must have been buried just outside the temple, perhaps by a third or fourth century thief who never returned for his loot. According to the catalog listing it was found bundled into a cooking pot."

"This is the temple, then?” Gareth nodded toward the stone scraps. They might just as well have been Tahitian seashells to him.

"Yes. This is where Miller found the tessellated floor of what was probably the Celtic temenos. The Romans might have built their own temple—to Mars, or Augustus, or some other deity—on top of its ruins, backed up to the perimeter wall. That would be one way of keeping the local people from returning to Epona's shrine."

Gareth thought of the Catholic pilgrims continuing to come to St. Winifred's shrine at Holywell despite the Reformation. He eyed the scraped and scrambled burrow in the slope of the embankment. Matilda had decided on the point of origin of the statuary by scientific deduction. He could have done that himself if he'd had the proper background. “And if the statuary came from the temple then it was deliberately abandoned and not treasure trove, if I take Reynolds's point correctly."

"Reynolds is straining at a gnat, trying to avoid having to sell his finds to the Crown. The statuary might just as well have come from the legion commander's home, but a much later home than the one I saw last night. That was from the earliest period, about 80 Anno Domini—not that they were measuring time Anno Domini, of course.... “She cut herself off. “Well now, I can't prove anything more than Reynolds can."

Gareth didn't reply. Matilda smiled, privately, and turned just as Sweeney scrambled down the slope. “Howard, I was telling Gareth that this is probably where the statuary came from."

"Wouldn't be the least surprised,” Sweeney responded. “The beggar—Reynolds—has no documentation, though. No case."

"Perhaps every valuable artifact has already been removed from the site,” suggested Gareth, and added, “valuable to collectors, that is."

"Not necessarily,” Sweeney answered. “Remember Snettisham?"

Gareth didn't. Matilda moved in before he could say so. “A cache of gold torcs, Celtic necklaces, was turned up by a plow in 1948. Everyone said, how nice, but since it's a plowed field there won't be anything else there. More torcs kept turning up, though, and in 1990 the British Museum did a formal area excavation. They found an incredible hoard of gold still hidden. The ancient gold traders must have used the field as a safety deposit box."

"Ah.” Gareth pulled out his notebook.

"Of course, with Matilda here,” said Sweeney, “I suppose we could try and sniff out the valuables.” He laughed—only joking.

If Matilda really could sniff out gold, Gareth thought, a thief would be more likely to use her than to kill her.

"Snettisham is in Norfolk,” Sweeney went on. “So is Icklingham, whose owners lost some statuary much the same way as Reynolds. And Thetford. The Romano-British hoard at Hoxne is in Suffolk. Iceni country, all of it. The Iceni sat astride the ancient gold route, and as a result were one of the richest of the Celtic tribes. When their king, Prasutagus, died in 60 A.D., he willed half his wealth to the Romans, hoping they'd leave his family alone. Greedy beggars the Romans were, though, wanted it all. So they took it. Their mistake was to insult Prasutagus's queen, Boudicca."

Ashley had said something about Boudicca last night. Gareth scribbled gamely in his notebook. “What does a tribe in Norfolk have to do with Cornovium? We're in far western England here."

"The gold route ran clear across the country,” answered Matilda. “Celtic gold came from Ireland. The only known Roman gold mines in Britain are in Wales. Are you familiar with them, Gareth?"

"The mines at Pumpsaint? No, I'm not.” He shouldn't have mentioned the corpse-candles last night. That's when she'd caught him out. He'd worked hard to erase the Welsh lilt from his voice, the upward inflection at the ends of sentences and the softness in the vowels. His mates in Manchester might have called him “Taffy,” but he'd earned his transfer, and his mates in London called him “Inspector."

"The ships landed in Anglesey,” Matilda said, “and pack trains brought the gold through Wales and across what is now England to the country of the Iceni, from where it was shipped to the continent. Along the way it was worked into objects, beautiful objects, not only torcs but other works of art."

"Worth a packet, I suppose,” said Gareth.

"To us, yes,” Sweeney said. “However, the Celts saw gold as divine and the artifacts made from it as religious votives. To them, the Romans’ lust for gold as wealth was sacrilegious. There's an outdated concept—sacrilege."

"What we had here,” said Matilda, “was a serious failure to communicate."

Gareth shut his notebook. “Just what did the Romans do to Boudicca and her daughters?"