by Aaron Elkins
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…"
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 a
nd 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.
