by Aaron Elkins
Well, not really. He had noticed before how careless pathologists could be, even knowledgeable and enthusiastic ones like Merrill (not that he’d ever known one quite as enthusiastic as Merrill). It was lack of interest in the long bones, he’d concluded years ago. There were all sorts of things to engage pathologist’s interest in the head, the trunk, and the internal organs, and they were scrupulously examined. The outlying bones were duller stuff, it appeared, and so they often escaped attention.
"I see." Bagshawe nodded again, clearly not convinced. "Well, then, back to the good professor’s report." He puffed at his pipe and read aloud very slowly. " ‘Fresh radial and ulnar fractures’ "—Gideon almost expected him to begin pushing a bulky forefinger from word to word— " ‘which appear to be antemortem…’ " He put the report on the desk and looked thoughtfully at Gideon.
"Now, what I can’t help wondering is, how can you know that? How can you be sure the arm was broken before he died? That’s what I ask myself. How do you know he wasn’t killed, then pushed off a cliff into the sea so he broke those bones in the fall? Or that they didn’t break weeks afterward, when he washed up against a pier or a rock? That’s what I’d like to know." Through a rising veil of smoke, he peered keenly at Gideon.
"I don’t know. Naturally, it’s an inferential conclusion."
"Ah, inferential conclusions," Bagshawe said sadly. "Now, speaking for myself, I admire inferential conclusions tremendously. However, courts of law don’t always share my admiration."
Gideon laughed. "I’ve noticed the same thing myself." He had, as a matter of fact, spent some harrowing moments of his own on the stand as an expert witness. ("Now, Doctor Oliver, do you really mean to imply that you can, ah, ‘infer’ from a single, tiny bone, a finger bone…")
"Really, Inspector," Merrill said stuffily, taking offense on Gideon’s behalf, "I can assure you that if Gideon Oliver says those fractures were antemortem, they were. You may rely on his opinion without reservation."
Low in his throat, Bagshawe made a good-humored sound. "Well, I’ll just tell them you said that, Doctor, and I’m sure we won’t have any problem." He turned smiling to Gideon. "Still…"
"All right," Gideon said, "I have three reasons for thinking the bones were broken before death." Lists of three, he had found, as had many a professor before him, were almost mystically persuasive, especially if counted on the fingers.
"One"—he ticked it off with his forefinger—"there are no other fractures, aside from the bone and cartilage in the throat, and no signs of the kind of injuries that bouncing down a cliff face or being tossed against a pier might produce. Two"—two fingers rapped Bagshawe’s desk—"the existence of an antemortem nightstick fracture fits in with the probable facts, because it explains how someone might have stood in front of a husky, healthy Randy Alexander and strangled him. And three"—both of the other men watched Gideon’s hand to see him tick it off, which it did—"three, the upper and lower segments of the broken bones overlap in exactly the way they would be expected to if jerked out of position by a spasm of the flexor digitorum profundis, the flexor pollicis longus, and the pronator quadratus."
He might have said "forearm muscles," but he had shifted into a sort of pedantic high gear for the moment, and he let it pass. "Had he been dead already, the muscles would have lacked tonus, and they wouldn’t have pulled the bones out of place." Gideon paused to catch his breath.
"Excellent," Merrill said. "Clear thinking."
Bagshawe pulled ruminatively at his pipe and said, "Umm, umm."
"Of course," Gideon went on, "we can’t absolutely exclude the possibility that the bones could have been broken later and somehow gotten shifted into those positions, but it’s pretty unlikely. I think the fractures occurred before death—just before death—and the arm must have swelled quickly and been wedged into position inside his sleeve. He was wearing a leather jacket, wasn’t he?"
"Yes, a leather jacket," Bagshawe murmured. "Well, well, that tells us quite a lot about our victim. Now all we need to do is to find out about our murderer."
"For starters," Gideon said, "we know that he was lefthanded—like Randy."
"Why, that’s right," Merrill interjected. "The fractures. I see. Of course."
"Well, I don’t see," Bagshawe rumbled.
"The nightstick fractures," Gideon said. "They were in his right arm. And if he threw up his right hand to protect his head, then almost certainly he was warding off a blow delivered with his assailant’s left hand."
"Ah, I see," said Bagshawe. "Yes, that could be. Unless, of course, the assailant delivered a back-handed blow— with his right arm. Or unless Alexander was attacked from behind, say, and just happened to twist to his own left to look around when he heard someone behind him. Then, of course, it would be his own left hand that was flung up in any event, would it not?"
"No, Inspector," Merrill said. "I’ll have to support Professor Oliver on this. I do see your point, but I’d say that nine out of ten times—I speak from my own experience, you understand—a nightstick fracture of the right arm indicates a left-handed attacker, and vice versa."
"Well," Bagshawe muttered, "I expect you’re right. Still, in my opinion, it’s a bit premature to rule out other possibilities." He cocked his head slowly to one side. "Something’s just occurred to me…Do you suppose there’s any merit in this? Since he was wearing a leather jacket, I wonder if there might not be some sign of the weapon on his sleeve: an imbedded fragment of wood or metal, perhaps, or an indentation that shows the shape of the object. What do you think?"
"It’s been in the water for weeks," Gideon said. "Would there be anything after all that time?"
"Probably not," Bagshawe said with a sigh. "Still, I think I’ll suggest the forensic lads have a look. No stone unturned, you know. Well, well." He put his pipe down and stood up. "Thank you, Professor, it’s been most enlightening. I’ll go up to the excavation this afternoon and tell them about poor Alexander. Until then, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep all this to yourself."
Gideon nodded and got up, too, and was afforded the novel sensation of seeing his own sizable hand engulfed in an even larger one.
"May I send you back?" Bagshawe asked.
"No, no," Merrill said, jumping up. "My pleasure."
"Fine," Bagshawe said. "Fine. Oh, Professor, while you’re here…I understand from Sergeant Fryer that Mr. Alexander made an appointment to tell you something but that he never kept it. Would you mind going over the particulars once more?"
Head down, arms folded, leaning against his desk, he listened closely while Gideon described the incident. "And," he said, "did anyone overhear him make this appointment with you?"
"I don’t think so. We were out in the open, and no one was around. Well, Nate Marcus saw us talking—he came looking for Randy—but he couldn’t have heard what we were saying. At least I don’t think so."
"And what was his reaction.?"
"None, as far as I remember. Or, on second thought, maybe he seemed a little irritated. He asked if it was a private discussion."
"Ah. And did anyone else overhear you?"
Gideon thought for a moment. "We walked by the trench together. I suppose that any of the three of them— Sandra, Barry, Leon—could have seen us, or maybe heard us. But we were just chatting at that point. Randy waited until we were out of sight before he got serious."
"As if he didn’t want anyone else to hear?"
"That was the impression I got."
"And Professor Frawley? Where was he during all this?"
"We left him in the shed. He couldn’t have heard us."
"Ah," Bagshawe said again, with more relish. "So of them all, only Professor Marcus might have overheard, and he seemed…irritated, I believe you said?"
"Wait a minute, Inspector. Nate sounds irritated most of the time. You’re not implying that he killed Randy to keep him from telling me something, are you?"
"Implying?" Bagshawe pointed incredulously to himself with the stem of hi
s pipe. "Me? No, no, just collecting data. Implications come later. As in anthropology, no doubt." He smiled. "By the way, you wouldn’t happen to remember if Professor Marcus is left-handed, I suppose?"
Was he? Were any of them? Gideon couldn’t remember.
"No matter," Bagshawe said kindly. "I’ll just have to look into it myself."
"Look, Inspector Bagshawe, I’m not trying to protect Nate. I don’t think for a minute he did it, but whoever did, I’m as interested in seeing him caught as you are. I guess I feel, well…"
Responsible was what he felt, like it or not. And guilty. He had self-righteously put Randy off with conditions that were no more than ploys to keep himself out of the Stonebarrow mess, and now Randy was dead, killed that very day, it appeared.
"Well, personally involved," he concluded weakly. "But are you saying that Nate is a serious suspect?"
Bagshawe stopped in the process of relighting his pipe. He took it from his mouth, tipped his big head, and grinned, showing square, complacent teeth. "Now what sort of copper would I be if I answered that?"
THE resolutely amicable Andy Hinshore served Julie and Gideon a plentiful late lunch of roast chicken and fried potatoes while Gideon gave Julie a nongraphic summary of his morning’s experiences at the mortuary, having decided that Bagshawe’s proscription did not apply in her case.
He was just concluding when the telephone in the reception hall rang. After a few seconds they heard Hinshore shouting into it. "I’m sorry, I didn’t understand you…. Could you speak a little slower? Sir…?"
The conversation continued in this vein, and then, as Gideon was pouring more tea from the pot on the table, Hinshore’s voice caught his attention more sharply.
"Skeleton detective, did you say? Did you say skeleton detective? Sir, this is a hotel…."
"Oh-oh," Gideon said, the pot poised above Julie’s cup, "maybe we should make a break for it before Andy figures out who that’s for."
Julie smiled wryly at him, a what-have-I-gotten-myself-into grin. "Gideon, dear, is this the way it’s always going to be? Are you really in this much demand? When do you find time to teach?"
"Honestly, I only work on a few cases a year. I don’t usually get calls every day."
"Except in Charmouth, England, incognito."
"A puzzlement." He went ahead and poured the tea just as Hinshore came in, frowning.
"Professor, I’ve got a bloke on the telephone; some kind of foreigner. Seems to want to speak with you. If you want me to—"
"No, Andy, I’ll take it, thanks. Did he say who he is?"
Hinshore spread his hands. "I think he said his name’s Ebb."
Ebb. No one he knew. "I promise," he said to Julie, "no new cases." He tossed back a quick gulp of tea and went to the telephone. As he picked it up, he heard Hinshore’s awed whisper to Julie: "They call him the skeleton detective?"
"Hello," Gideon said into the receiver. "This is Gideon Oliver."
"Hello, Gideon! This is Ebb!" The voice was elderly, excited, happy.
"Ebb?"
"Ebb, Ebb. How many Ebb’s do you know?"
"Abe!" Gideon shouted. "Abe Goldstein!"
"Finally, the dawn breaks. That’s not what I said? Abe?"
"Abe…where are you calling from?"
"London. I just got here. I’m coming right away to Charmouth." The old man’s thin voice was so recognizable, so full of its familiar, creaky zip and sparkle, that Gideon couldn’t understand how he'd been even momentarily confused.
"I’ll come and get you. I can be there in a few hours."
"Come and get me? What am I, breakable? I can’t take a train? I love a train ride."
"Okay, let me check on the schedules, find out which station you leave from. Give me your number and I’ll call you right back."
There was a cheerfully exasperated sigh over the telephone. "Listen to him. I can’t find this out myself? I leave from Waterloo, but, for your information, there’s no train station in Charmouth. The nearest one is Axminster, a few miles away, you know where? I’ll be on the…" Gideon heard paper rattle. "The train that gets in at five-fifty-eight."
"Fine, I’ll book you a room here and I’ll meet you at the station."
"That I’ll accept with pleasure."
"Abe, is everything all right? This is kind of a surprise, isn’t it?"
"With me, all right? Of course, why shouldn’t it be all right? No, I’m coming because of this thing with Nathan. You know I’m on the Horizon board of directors? So I’m coming, but unofficially, just to talk a little with him. Maybe I can help him see straight. The man knows how to run a dig, believe me, but he doesn’t know when to stop talking. Still, it’s ridiculous what’s happening. Who wants an inquiry? Listen, have you been up there yet, to Stonebarrow?"
"Yes. Things are pretty messy."
"Messy? What messy?"
"Well, it’s not just the inquiry. One of the students has been murdered—"
"Murdered? God in heaven, you’re telling me that—" Abe’s voice was drowned in a squeal of telephonic pip-pip-pips. "Gideon, I got no more coins for this telephone. They make you crazy the way they eat up the money in front of your eyes. I’ll see you at five-fifty-eight. Give my love to Julie—"
The line pipped again, gave one imperious, terminal cluck, and went dead.
TEN
GIDEON and Julie had the afternoon to themselves, and they spent it walking east over the deserted, rocky beach from Charmouth toward Golden Cap, along the base of the blue lias cliffs. It was the kind of time they had dreamed of when they planned the trip: mesmerized into a tranquil stupor by the sound of the surf, they wandered aimlessly along the shore in the thin November sunlight, talking now of one subject, now of another—all of it desultory and haphazard, and lost as soon as the next thundering wave washed their minds clean. Now and then they kissed gently or simply embraced without a word. They held hands most of the time and paused frequently to look at the sea, or so that one of them could show the other some small, perfect spiral of a petrified sea creature embedded in the rocks at their feet.
"Gideon, is that Stonebarrow Fell up there?" Julie said suddenly.
"Where?"
"Up there, where you’ve been staring for the last five minutes."
"Have I? Yes, I guess Stonebarrow would be up there, just about straight above us."
She squeezed his hand. "Don’t think unpleasant thoughts; it’s too lovely here." She moved closer to him and made a little motion with her shoulders. He was barely conscious of it, and couldn’t have described it, but he knew what it meant: Hug me.
He put his arm around her and squeezed. "I’m not thinking unpleasant thoughts."
"Yes, you are. You’re worried about poor Nate Marcus and what’s going to happen to him tomorrow."
He smiled. "Yes, you’re right. Pretty close, anyway. Okay, no more unpleasant thoughts." He squeezed her once more, and they began to walk again, with his arm over her shoulder and his fingers resting lightly on the cool nape of her neck.
Pretty close, but not quite on the mark. What he was thinking about was Randy Alexander. If—just if— Alexander had been flung from the top of Stonebarrow Fell, he would have landed immediately in front of where they were. And immediately in front of them was a semicircular basin of cloudy, stagnant-looking sea water, about two hundred feet in diameter, formed by a great, curving reef that spread seaward from the base of the cliff. In it was a lot of algae and some floating debris. As Gideon watched, the tide, which had been flooding for some hours, began to retreat, flowing out of the lagoon and taking with it a large, rotten log, presumably to be carried out to sea.
As he walked, he looked more closely at the basin. It seemed to be fifteen or twenty feet deep at its center. More than deep enough. Kneeling, he touched his fingers to the water. Warm, far warmer than the ocean, as was to be expected.
He flicked the water from his fingers and stood up. He had solved Merrill’s little mystery. Assuming that Alexander’s bo
dy had fallen from Stonebarrow Fell, it would have landed smack in the middle of this stagnant, warm pond, in which decomposition would have proceeded far more quickly than in the colder open sea. The body might easily have lain there in the lagoon for two weeks before being floated—just like the log, already fifty feet offshore—out into the Atlantic, to be beached by the current at Seaton… looking just like one of Merrill’s typical four-weekers.
IMMIGRANT pushcart peddler metamorphosed into world-renowned anthropologist was the way one of television’s more literate interviewers had once introduced Professor Abraham Irving Goldstein, and the phrase, literally true, was as good a nutshell description of Abe as Gideon knew. In 1924, a seventeen-year-old freshly arrived from Russia, speaking nothing but Yiddish, he was hawking thread and ribbons from a pushcart on Brooklyn’s Pitkin Avenue. A decade later he had his Ph.D. from Columbia and was embarking on a career that would make him one of the world’s foremost cultural anthropologists, first at Columbia, then at the University of Wisconsin—where he’d been Gideon’s professor, and Nate Marcus’s as well—and finally at the University of Washington.
Through it all he’d managed to keep his immigrant pushcart peddler’s speech patterns. Whether these still came naturally sixty years later, or were part of his "delightful panoply of studied eccentricities" (as the same interviewer had called them) was a moot question. Abe himself professed innocence. ("Accent? What kind accent?")
Gideon hadn’t seen him for a few months now, and he watched with a trace of anxiety as the deep-blue train from London drew smoothly to the platform at Axminster. His old friend and mentor, now long-retired, was getting along in years, to the point at which one always wondered whether even a short space of time might not produce some sad and irreversible change, some awful omen of approaching decrepitude.
He needn’t have worried. In the lit interior of the car that stopped directly in front of him he saw Abe get to his feet, sprightly and cheerful, ruffle the hair of a patently enchanted five-year-old boy in the seat opposite, and deliver a courtly bow to a blond, pretty woman, obviously the boy’s mother. When he shuffled down the aisle with his bag, Gideon could see that his eyes had all their usual sparkle, or maybe just a little more than usual; that would be the pretty young mother.
