Murder In The Queen's armes

FIVE

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…

He looked in the tiny telephone book and, standing at the window, dialed the number for the county police. Inspector Bagshawe of Scotland Yard, he was told, was handling that particular case, but the inspector was gone for the day. Would he mind speaking with Sergeant Fryer?

Gideon told Sergeant Fryer as much as he remembered of his conversation with Randy, feeling more ridiculous by the second. The sergeant was courteous but not overly animated, and appeared to lose all interest when Gideon explained that it had to do with an alleged Mycenaean settlement in 1700 b.c.

"Ah," he said in his northern accent, "you’re an anthropologist yourself, are you, sir?"

"Yes."

"Oh, aye," Sergeant Fryer said, as if that explained it.

When he asked Gideon how long he would be in Char-mouth and where he could be reached afterward, Gideon could tell that he did so more out of politeness than relevance.

If he had any duty in the matter, he had now performed it, yet he still felt unsettled and on edge. He picked up the telephone book again, turned to "Hotels and Guest Houses," and began dialing. He got Nate on the third try, at the Cormorant.

"Nate, I was just calling to see if there was any news."

"News? What kind of news?"

"About Randy Alexander."

"Randy?" Nate said in a sort of disgusted disbelief. "Who knows where the schmuck is? I’ve had it with him."

"You’re not worried? The paper seemed to think he might be dead."

"Oh, come on… the Times? They jump on everything they can to make the dig look screwed up. I told you, they’ve got some kind of vendetta against me."

"Well, what do you think happened to him?"

"I think he just got bored and took off again. Probably rented a motorcycle somewhere and went tooling around the country."

" Again, did you say?" He felt as if someone had lifted a weight from his shoulders.

"That’s what I said. He once did it for two months, never mind two weeks, in Missouri-had to make up a whole semester, not that he gave a damn. And then he did it for two or three days during our first week here. But this does it. He’s through. He can go find somebody else to bug. Hey, how’d you like a nice new graduate student?"

"No thanks. Nate, that same day he disappeared-"

"Took off," Nate said peevishly.

"He made an appointment with me for five o’clock that day. He said he wanted to tell me something he didn’t seem to feel comfortable talking to you about. Do you know what that was about?"

"No, what was it about?"

"That’s what I’m asking you."

"How should I know?"

"Okay, never mind. I guess I was worried about nothing."

"You sure were, buddy. Listen, Gid, this guy isn’t one of your typical graduate students. He’s a drifter, a bum. He’s just playing around in school. You know what he really wanted to be? A pitcher. The guy spent six years in the minors. He was a southpaw, supposed to have a great fast ball, until he wore his arm out. Then he was a drummer in a rock band. Then he claims he was a mercenary in Africa-"

"And now he wants to be an archaeologist?"

"Don’t ask me, man. You know what he does back home? He rides with one of these so-called outlaw gangs-all middle-aged nerds, like him. You should see his chopper-it’s about twenty feet long; you practically have to lay on your back to ride it."

"Is he making it at Gelden?"

"Well, he’s not really that dumb," Nate allowed grudgingly. "He can read and write, more or less, and he’s loaded; his old man’s Alexander Toilet Tissue-not that the old guy isn’t always yelling about cutting him off. Anyway, that’s enough to get into Gelden-in fact, never mind the read-and-write bit. I voted against admitting the guy in the first place, but I got overruled. But this time I’m kicking his ass out of the department. The dean can stick him in classical lit if he want to. Look, why are we talking about him? What’s the big deal?"

"Well, he just seemed so anxious to talk to me."

"I’m telling you the guy likes to put people on. He really made an idiot out of Jack Frawley once; he even tried to do it to me. Forget him, will you? Hey, you’re gonna be there Thursday, aren’t you? Ten o’clock?"

"That’s why I’m here. Nate, are you still feeling good about this? Are you sure you don’t want me to have a private look before the board meets? I could come up tomorrow."

"You kidding, you want to ruin the suspense? No, you be there at ten, and bring your calipers and stuff. I’m gonna make you famous."

Gideon hung up, not as relieved as he might have been. For one thing, his concern over Nate’s coming disaster had been freshened, even though the man was so damn confident. Could there have been a Mycenaean migration? Could Nate refute the accumulated wisdom of the specialists? Gideon shook his head, wishing he knew more about Bronze Age anthropology. All he’d be able to do Thursday would be a conventional skeletal examination and analysis; someone else would have to do the interpretation. Deep down, he wasn’t sorry. He didn’t want to be the one to tell Nate he’d made a fool of himself.

Something else was bothering him. Despite everything Nate had said, Gideon still had an unsettling sense of foreboding about the fate of Randy Alexander. And it wasn’t simply the unkept appointment; it was the very atmosphere of Stonebarrow Fell-an unhealthy stew of tension, dislike, pretense…

He stood up and stretched. He was getting a little paranoid himself. Time to get his mind on other things and go on down to say hello to the archaeologists in the lounge; did he really know an Arkle, Barkle, or Carbuncle?

When he pushed open the Dutch door of the Tudor room, it was the slender, well-dressed man who rose, smiling.

"Unless I’m very much mistaken," he said in an urbane, slightly nasal drawl, "here is the eminent Professor Oliver now." That would be the sexy Englishman. He even talked like Sherlock Holmes.

The figure in the other chair turned and rose as well. "Hello, Gideon," he said, his voice gloppy with the postnasal drip that had plagued him ever since Gideon had known him. "How are you?"

"Hi, Paul. It’s good to see you."

This was not strictly true. It wasn’t that he disliked Paul Arbuckle. In fact, he rather liked him in short doses. He’d never heard Paul say a malicious or envious word about a colleague-no common virtue in academe-and he sometimes revealed an exacting intelligence. But there was a dull, dogged, enervating persistence about him. Paul was the kind of researcher who would not let go of an idea until he had smothered it to death, but he seemed to Gideon always to have hold of the wrong idea, always to be drudging away at some arcane, dry-as-dust minutiae, while all the provocative, exciting patterns eluded him.

Although he was an archaeologist, he was, like Gideon, an earnest student of Pleistocene man (indeed, if he had other interests, he’d yet to mention them), but the two had never gotten to know one another very well. At anthropological gatherings they usually managed a scholarly, reasonably agreeable conversation of twenty or thirty minutes, which sufficed until the next year’s meeting. But when two Americans meet socially on foreign soil, a different level of cordiality is called for, and Gideon’s heart sank at the prospect of the serious, plodding Arbuckle horning in on his Dorset evenings with Julie. Having a sexy, interesting Englishman around didn’t seem so hot either.

Nevertheless, Gideon smiled and offered his hand. "What brings you to Charmouth?"

"Business, naturally," said Paul (naturally), and frowned behind round, rimless spectacles. As many people do, he looked like what he was, with his thick glasses, his rumpled clothes, and his innocuous, vaguely porcine face (Porky-the-pig-like, really). "I don’t know whether you heard, but I’m not at Michigan anymore. I’ve been director of field archaeology for the Horizon Foundation since July. I’ve been running a terrific dig in France, but I’ve had to put it aside and come here on…business."

He indicated the other man. "And this is Frederick Robyn, secretary of the Wessex Antiquarian Society."

When they had all sat down facing the fire, the Englishman said, "I wonder if you know why we are both in Charmouth."

"I suppose you’re here to conduct the Stonebarrow Fell inquiry Thursday."

Arbuckle looked extremely surprised, Robyn mildly so. It was Robyn who spoke, raising a cool eyebrow. "And how do you happen to know that?"

"There was an article about it in the Times. "

Robyn’s suavity faltered. "The Times! Good Lord!"

Gideon laughed in spite of himself. "The West Dorset Times, Mr. Robyn, not the London Times. "

"Still, it’s unfortunate that the press should have it at all. Publicity can do no one any good." He shook his handsome head. "I suppose it was Marcus himself who told them. The man is unable to restrain himself." He looked at Gideon and smiled. "But of course it’s precisely that which has necessitated this entire unhappy process."

At that point Andy Hinshore scurried in with a sherry for Robyn and a lager for Arbuckle. "Oh, hello Dr. Oliver," he said. "Sorry, I didn’t know you were here. Can I get you something?"

"A Scotch and soda would be nice, thanks."

As he left, Arbuckle said to Gideon, "This article on Stonebarrow Fell… what was the gist of it?"

Gideon had barely begun when Hinshore returned with his drink on a tray. "Perhaps you’d move that thing, sir? I wouldn’t want to knock it off the table, God forbid."

Gideon looked down at the ammonite he’d absentmindedly placed on the table near his chair, and put it in his pocket. "It’s just a fossil from the beach, Andy."

Hinshore shook his compact head vigorously. "Oh, no, I know the way you scientists are with your fossils. Indeed I do. Last month I almost put a mug of beer down on one of Professor Arbuckle’s, and I thought he was going to skin me alive." Chuckling, he put the glass in front of Gideon.

Paul Arbuckle was at times the most literal-minded of men. "Oh," he said, with a wondering, mildly aggrieved air, "I don’t think I was going to skin you alive."

"Well," Hinshore said affably, "you could have fooled me."

"You were here last month, Paul?" Gideon asked. "Has this thing with Nate been going on as long as that?"

"Oh, it had nothing to do with the inquiry; just a routine field audit. I visit all our sites quarterly."

"I hadn’t realized you’d been here before, either," Robyn said with interest. "How did things look to you then?"

"Everything was fine. Marcus hadn’t made any of his strange statements yet-or only a few-and the dig itself was absolutely ship-shape. You know what a fine technician he is."

"More’s the pity," Robyn said absently, his eyes on the fire blazing in a metal box in the grand but inefficient Tudor fireplace of vaulted stone. Gideon stole a look at his watch. Not that he was worried, but where the hell was Julie anyway?

Hinshore had remained in the room, listening with open interest. "Oh!" he said suddenly, producing a newspaper from under his arm. "I heard you ask about the Times article on Stonebarrow Fell. I keep copies of the paper in the sitting room." He held out the folded paper.

Robyn stretched out an elegant hand. "Thank you. And…Andy, is it?…I don’t think we need anything else."

"Oh-" Hinshore said, his sallow cheeks flushing. "Yes, excuse me. Sorry."

When he had left, Robyn spread the newspaper on the table before him, and he and Arbuckle leaned over it. Robyn was the faster reader of the two, and while he waited for his colleague to finish, he lit a cigarette and puffed languidly, gazing thoughtfully into the fire.

When Arbuckle finally finished, he looked up slowly. "Where did they get all that information? How could they find out about the letter?"

"The irrepressible Professor Marcus, I suspect," Robyn said, "although how he found out I haven’t the foggiest notion. In any case, the article is certainly accurate enough, isn’t it?"

"Not exactly," Gideon said, putting down his glass. "It implied that I was here as part of your inquiry, and I’m not."

Robyn tapped his cigarette into an ashtray. "I meant as far as the important aspects are concerned."

Gideon, not notably slow to take offense when warranted, wondered if it were warranted now. He looked up sharply, but Robyn’s expression was coolly benign.

"Of course," the Englishman went on, "knowing you were coming, they would naturally assume your visit was connected to our inquiry. Don’t you think so?"

"I suppose so." Gideon sipped his Scotch. "The question is, how did they know I was coming at all? I barely knew myself."

"I’m sure I have no idea."

"Well, I sure didn’t know you were coming," Arbuckle said. He placed his glass on the table and looked doubtfully at Gideon. "Why are you here?"

Gideon shook his head and laughed. "Everybody’s suspicious of me. Honestly, it’s not very mysterious. Mostly because I’m trying to take a peaceful, inconspicuous English honeymoon. As for Stonebarrow Fell, I’d heard that Nate was having difficulties, and I thought I might lend a little moral support, so I went up to see him."

"A sympathetic compatriot in a strange land?" Robyn asked. "That sort of thing?"

"That’s about it. And when I was there, Nate asked me if I’d come back when he takes the wraps off that find of his. I’d like to do that, if it’s all right with you. I might be of some help."

Gideon caught a small negative shake of Robyn’s head and saw him form the words "Well, I…," but Arbuckle spoke up more loudly.

"I think that’d be great, " he said sincerely. "You’re an old friend of his, aren’t you? Maybe you could talk some sense into him. Don’t you think so, Frederick?"

"Yes," said Robyn, deciding after all not to demur, "I suppose so."

"I’ve already tried to talk some sense into him," Gideon said, "I wasn’t too successful."

"But it isn’t too late," Arbuckle said, leaning forward with his typical earnest gravity. "Gideon, this isn’t an inquiry in the usual sense. No one’s disputing any facts. It’s my responsibility, and Frederick’s, to simply talk with Marcus and get him to…well, to grow up and start acting like the first-rate professional he is." He pulled at his beer, set it down, and frowned with myopic ardor. "However, if he won’t do that, we will certainly relieve him and close down the dig. But I just can’t believe it’ll come to that!"

"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."