by Aaron Elkins
There was a polite interval, apparently to permit the director to continue if he wished, which he didn't, and then Audrey filled her water glass and looked at Gideon. "Is this a serious academic work, Gideon?"
Oh boy; not a question he'd been looking forward to answering. His throat began to get a little dry and he too filled his glass from one of the carafes. "Well, not exactly, no, Audrey. It's intended for a popular audience, but I do mean to treat the subject in a serious, scholarly way." Well, in as serious and scholarly a way as Lester would let him get away with.
"And what, may I ask," said Émile Grize, "is the title of this popular yet scholarly book?" As it often was with Émile, it was a toss-up as to whether or not he meant to be sarcastic.
"Wrong Turns, Dead Ends, and Popular Misconceptions in the Study of Humankind," Gideon said, figuring he was better off ignoring for the moment the less scholarly-sounding Bones to Pick part. Even so, it didn't do much to tone down the general air of mistrust. (Thank God he had held out against Lester's Bungles, Blunders and Bloopers.) Still, what could he expect? How happy could they be about dusting off a farce that had made them a public laughing stock only a few years earlier? The Tayac hoopla had even made it to the Jay Leno show for four nights running, surely a first for the field of Middle Paleolithic decorative technology.
"I do mean this to be as serious and scholarly a piece of work as I can make it," he said truthfully. "I've been over this with my publisher a hundred times. I'm not interested in cheap laughs or in making our field look as if it's full of charlatans and fools. Scientists have made mistakes plenty of times, sure, and sometimes—but not very often—they've been plain dishonest—villains, even."
Pru's hand flew to her heart. She gasped. "Good God, sir, surely you jest."
"And I don't intend to cover any of that up," Gideon went on. "But the story of almost every hoax and every mistake has a scientist as hero too, and it's the heroes that I mean to concentrate on."
The eminent Michel Montfort had had little to say since Gideon's arrival, preferring instead to sit staring out the window in one of his well-remembered, scowling silences, tapping his fingernails on the table, making inroads into the chocolate brioches, and presumably thinking great thoughts. Now his snuffling bass broke in again.
"And who is the 'hero' in the saga of the Old Man of Tayac?"
Gideon hesitated. "You are, sir."
Montfort was visibly startled. "I am! Thank you very much, no! You can leave me out of your damned book."
"But you are." Gideon leaned earnestly toward him. "Professor Montfort, in my view the whole structure of anthropology—of any science—depends on the moral integrity of individual scientists who put the extension of knowledge ahead of any personal stake, however great, in the outcome of research. And you did that."
Gideon's forehead was suddenly warm. What he'd said had come across as painfully stuffy and pretentious, even to him, but it had come from the heart; Montfort was the hero of the story. Decades earlier, he had been one of the first to propound the idea of the essential humanity of the Neanderthals—their sensitivity, their intelligence, their cultural development. He had written eloquently and spoken—less eloquently but just as fervently—on the subject for two decades, presenting papers at one conference after another, eventually becoming its acknowledged spokesman. Ely Carpenter, taking up archaeology late in life, had been his student, a protégé—although younger by only a few years—who whole-heartedly embraced his views and in whose subsequent success his mentor had taken enormous pride.
When Carpenter, by that time the director of the institute, had come up with those four perforated bones, Montfort had been ecstatic too. He had trumpeted the find as the long-hoped-for confirmation of his own theories and had stood shoulder to shoulder with Carpenter, zestfully fending off the doubters and the attackers.
But when evidence began mounting that the bones had actually been pilfered from a nearby museum, then doctored and 'planted' in the Tayac abri, the scholarly abuse (and scholars were in a class of their own when it came to abuse) rained down on Carpenter, on Montfort, and even on the blameless institute. It must have felt to Montfort as if his life's work had been made ludicrous, and yet, in the best tradition of science, he had calmly, objectively re-examined the now-discredited bones on his own and had eventually published the definitive paper, a landmark piece of scientific detective work showing exactly how the bones had been treated to make them look authentic. He had stoutly continued to maintain that Carpenter was the victim, not the perpetrator, but at the same time he had unshrinkingly established for good and all that he and his protégé had been in the wrong, gullible dupes at best; his enemies had been right all the while. And that, as far as Gideon was concerned, was enough to make him a hero.
"Permit me to offer a small but significant semantic correction, Gideon," Émile said into the silence. "I submit that what you're describing is nothing more than simple scholarly disinterestedness—commendable, certainly, but hardly heroic. Now, speaking as a—"
Trained paleopathologist, Gideon thought.
"—trained scientist," Émile said, "I have to assume that disinterestedness is the foundation on which we—that is, all of us who call ourselves scientists—guide all of our actions. To accord it 'heroic' status is to make the error of implying that it is singular rather than customary and expected. I mean no disrespect, Michel."
But Montfort had been visibly moved by Gideon's speech. He slowly massaged his forehead, one hand at each temple, and grunted something about the desirability of leaving sleeping dogs to themselves, but said that if Gideon cared to interview him about Tayac he would make himself available. That turned the tide. There was a little grumbling, but in the end, much to Gideon's relief, everyone came around and agreed to talk to him.
Once the schedule was settled, the subject turned immediately and surprisingly to the new skeleton from the abri. They had been following the story all week, they said. It had been well-covered from the start in Sud Ouest, the local newspaper, and even more so when Inspector Joly was brought in, and this morning there had been an interview with Prefect of Police Marielle in which Gideon was mentioned by name. Questions flew: Did he know whose body it was? Was it true that the individual had been shot, murdered? Had he completed his analysis? Could he tell how long the body had been there? Did the police have a suspect? Was—
No, he said, he didn't know whose body it was; and yes, he had been shot to death; and no, his analysis wasn't complete, he'd be going to the St.-Cyprien morgue that afternoon to clean the bones and examine them further; and yes—He paused. "Wait, hold it, why is everyone so interested in this?"
"And why wouldn't we be interested?" Beaupierre asked; the first time he'd been heard from since introducing Gideon. "A murdered man found in one of our own rockshelters."
"Your own—? I don't—you mean those were your test trenches?"
"Certainly," Beaupierre said, laughing. "I dug them myself. They were sunk more than thirty years ago, one of the institute's early endeavors. You'll find the site in the archaeological record as PN-119. Unfortunately, it held nothing of interest."
Maybe not, Gideon thought, but the coincidences—the kind of coincidences that Joly liked so much—were beginning to pile up. First it turns out that the murdered man might have been a former institute employee, and now it seems that the body was buried in an old institute site. And what about that trowel, don't forget about that.
There was something going on behind the scenes here, but what?
"Unless, of course," Pru said to the director, "you accidentally overlooked a body buried in the middle of the floor."
But the unswervingly literal-minded Jacques Beaupierre was the wrong man for such banter. Confounded, he stared at her. "Are you joking?"
"Yes, Jacques."
Beaupierre didn't get it. "I'm sure I would never have overlooked such a thing."
"You didn't overlook anything, Jacques," Gideon assured him. "He wasn't bu
ried there until much later, in the backfill from the trenches. He's only been there three years or so."
There was a sudden shift in mood around him, nothing so obvious as darting eyes or pregnant glances, but a sort of ripple, a fraction of a second that was out of kilter, as if a movie film had skittered over a torn sprocket hole. The discontinuity wasn't lost on Gideon, but what did it mean? Three years ago—that was when the commotion over the Old Man of Tayac had erupted. Was there a connection there?
Pru cleared her throat. "We had no idea it was so recent."
"The newspaper implied it'd been there for decades," Audrey said.
Gideon shook his head. "No, nowhere near that. Right around three years, that's all." Well, two to five, to be honest, but he'd clearly struck a chord of some kind with three, and if ever there was a time to do what Joly had asked him to, this was it. "You know, I was talking to the inspector this morning, and he wanted me to check something with you. He seems to think he might know who those bones belonged to: a man by the name of Jean Bousquet. I understand he worked here."
It was Audrey who answered after a barely perceptible general pause. "Bousquet? Yes, he was a temporary laborer, a hard man to get along with. It was a mistake to hire him—I don't think anyone here would argue with that—but temporary help isn't easy to find. It's hard, dirty work; they have to dig on their knees, or even on their bellies, half the time."
Pru laughed. "What, and we don't?"
"…really be Bousquet?" Beaupierre mumbled, coming in from his private wavelength. "But I don't see how, ah, mm…" And off he went again.
This time Gideon stayed with him. "You don't see what, Jacques?"
Beaupierre absently ran his fingers over his scalp, assuring himself that the few dozen heavily sprayed strands of hair that he combed over the top were still in place. "Well, only that it would mean that he must have returned from Corsica afterwards, and why would he—"
"From Corsica?" Gideon exclaimed. "He went to Corsica? Do you mean, after he disappeared from here?"
"After he left, yes."
"But how do you know that?"
"Why, because he telephoned us. It was a few weeks afterward."
"Maybe even longer than that," Pru said.
"It was a month, perhaps even more," said Montfort.
"Are you sure?" Gideon asked.
"Certainly I'm sure," Montfort told him. "I spoke to him myself. He was after a reference, a character reference." Montfort was one of those rare individuals who could successfully bring off a "harrumph," and he did so now, adding: "Which, I need hardly say, he was unsuccessful in procuring."
"I see," Gideon said thoughtfully. "Huh."
"I'm not tracking here, Gideon," Pru said. "Why is this important?"
"Well, it means he didn't really 'disappear' after all; he just took off for Corsica. So there goes our reason for assuming those were his bones in the cave."
"I see," Pru said with a shrug. "Yeah, I guess that's so."
Others nodded noncommittally. That would seem to have been that, and yet something queer was in the air. Something…
"The idea," said Jacques, continuing roughly from where he'd left off, "that that man would have the nerve to come back to Les Eyzies after all the—"
Audrey cut in. "I don't know about you, but I'm all in favor of changing the subject. Do we really want to burden Gideon with old gossip, Jacques?"
"Quite right," Beaupierre agreed, busying himself with his coffee. "No we don't, quite right."
"I understand," Gideon said, increasingly certain that he didn't. Corsica or no Corsica, he couldn't get away from the feeling—the conviction—that those bones were Bousquet's and that most of the other people in the room thought so too. "It's only that Inspector Joly mentioned that he'd had some kind of unpleasantness here, with one of his co-workers. I was wondering what that was about." This was hardly the smooth and subtle approach he was supposed to be taking, but he had hold of something and he didn't want to let go until he had at least some idea of what it was.
"Oh, well," said Beaupierre, "that's a long story—"
"A long story and a pointless one," Montfort muttered bluntly. Beaupierre might be the director, but it was clear where the fount of moral authority lay.
"Perhaps so," Beaupierre responded. "I only thought—that is—well, won't the police be prowling about soon in any case, asking their questions? But then again, of course, mm, it might be best, after all…" He subsided, fumbling with the heavy black temples of his glasses.
"If the police want to ask us about our views on Jean Bousquet's relationships with others, I'm sure we'll all answer as honestly as we can," Audrey said, "but for the time being, I think we'd all agree—I hope we'd all agree—that it would be premature—premature and unfair—for us to engage in speculation?"
The others did agree, but it seemed to Gideon there was something furtive, even shamefaced, in their nods.
"Besides," Pru said, "if nothing else, it'd put Gideon in an uncomfortable position."
But Gideon was already in an uncomfortable position. When he'd raised the subject of Jean Bousquet with them, he'd done it under the impression that Joly's "unpleasantness with a fellow-worker" had referred to a problem Bousquet had had with another laborer. But now a less palatable idea had slowly taken root: Bousquet's dispute had been with one of them. Why else were they banding together to prevent any discussion of it in front of him?
It was an extremely strong impression; something he felt bound to pass on to Joly, and it went against his instincts. Asking questions openly, getting open answers, and passing them along was one thing. Catching them off-guard and surreptitiously gauging their reactions was another, and it felt too damn close to informing on his friends. Not, of course, that he thought for a moment that one of these people—one of his fellow-anthropologists, after all—was guilty of murdering the unfortunate Bousquet (if it was Bousquet). Still, it made him feel like a rat.
To his surprise he found that he'd emptied his water glass, and he refilled it while he framed his words. "I'd like to set something straight. The basic reason I'm here is to work on my book, to fill in the gaps in my understanding of the Tayac affair. I hope everybody understands that. On the other hand, I am also helping Inspector Joly with those remains."
When he glanced up from the glass, he found them looking at him somewhat uncomprehendingly.
"What I'm trying to tell you is that I just want you to know that—well, that I am working with him…"
"Which means," Émile said, the egrets jiggling, "that anything we say may be used against us?"
"Not used against you, no—"
"But passed on to the stalwart inspector."
"Well… yes," Gideon said miserably. "If it's relevant. I think I have to."
"That's completely as it should be, Gideon," said Beaupierre. "It's only that, mm…"
Audrey picked up the ball. "It's only that we'd all be better served if we stayed away from gossip and stuck to facts. Is there anything we can do to assist that doesn't involve speculation, Gideon? I know we'd all like to help."
Gideon wished he were more sure of that himself, but in any case it was the chance he was looking for, and before anyone could disagree he said: "Yes, there is. You could tell me what Bousquet looked like."
They did, but nothing they said was useful. Brown eyes, brown hair, balding at the crown. An average guy, nothing special, not particularly tall, or short, or fat, or thin.
It fit the body in the cave, all right, but so did every other average white guy in France. "Does anybody remember his having any sort of serious infection?" he asked after a moment, thinking of the inflammation he'd found on the left ulna. "Skin ulcers that wouldn't heal, maybe?"
"Skin ulcers where?" asked Beaupierre.
"No, it works better if you tell me."
"No, no skin ulcers," Beaupierre said.
Then why did you ask where? thought Gideon. But of course with Beaupierre, you couldn't necessarily assume
he had anything logical in mind when he spoke. Or anything at all.
Thoughtfully, Audrey lifted a hand. "Do you mean an infection that he had while he was here, or are you also interested in earlier ones?"
"Either," Gideon said. He wasn't sure how old the bone inflammation was.
"Well, he had t.b. when he was a boy, I know that. He told me about it once. He got it in West Africa—his father was a well-driller when Jean was in his teens, and the family lived in Mali for a while. Afterward, he had to spend some time at a government sanatorium in Menton."
"Do you mean skeletal t.b.?" Gideon asked with interest. He hadn't spotted any signs of it in his earlier examination—whatever the inflammation on the ulna was, it wasn't tubercular—but then he hadn't been looking for it, and the bones hadn't been cleaned yet, and if it had been a slight case he might easily have missed it. In the morgue, with good lighting and cleaned bones, it would be different.
"No, I don't think so," she said uncertainly. "The other kind, that affects the lungs."
"Pulmonary tuberculosis," Émile said professorially. "Consumption, in the vernacular. That will be no help to you, Gideon. As a trained paleopathologist I'm well aware—as I'm sure you are—that it leaves no evidence whatever on the bones."
"Actually it does sometimes," Gideon said. He knew he was stepping on Émile's ultra-sensitive toes, but science was science. "It turns out there are some characteristic skeletal lesions that show up about half the time. It's a new finding. There was a paper in the AJPA a few years ago. You might have missed it."
